Marcus prodded further. “Tell me you didn’t lose to a Riverside kid.”
I said nothing.
He dragged both hands down his face. “You lost...”
“I smoked him,” I said with a smirk.
“Of—fucking—course you did!” Marcus barked out a laugh, vibrating. “God, Harrington, you couldn’t let a Riverside kid beat you even in a dream. Who was it?”
I shrugged, ignoring his question. “Didn’t plan on it.”
Marcus stopped laughing. “Wait—back up. So you’re telling me you just happened to line up with some random dude at dawn?”
I didn’t answer. He stared at me like I’d given him a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
“What, did he just appear out of the mist like your personal rowing demon?”
Marcus didn’t understand just how accurate he was. I stared straight ahead, pulse thudding. “Yes. Exactly that. My personal rowing demon.”
“I guess it was Moore then,” he said.
Another comment I ignored.
We opened the dining hall’s big oak doors and walked into a roar of warmth and noise.
Kingswell’s dining hall felt more like a historic club than a place to grab breakfast. High ceilings arched above us, crisscrossed with dark wooden beams polished to a shine. Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, scattering across gold-trimmed molding and rows of long, immaculate tables.
The smell hit—espresso, baked bread, warm butter, maple syrup—a rich, comforting fog.
Marcus inhaled. “Ah, privilege. Smells like carbs.”
We grabbed some food then threaded our way through the tables.
Ethan sat at our usual table by the windows, legs crossed at the ankle. A pale grey sweater hugged his frame and his dark blond hair fell in a swoop over his forehead.
“Morning, sinners,” he said.
Marcus collapsed into the seat across from him. “Guess who decided to reenact The Fast and the Furious: Rowing Edition before breakfast.”
Ethan blinked once. “I’m sorry—what?”
Marcus pointed at me. “Alex had a sunrise race with his personal demon.”
Ethan turned his eyes to me. “What are you saying, Marcus? Is this a metaphor?”
“It’s not,” Marcus said.
I gave him a glare sharp enough to peel paint. “Drop it.”
It was just Ethan but the less people knew… the better.
Ethan lifted his hands in surrender. “Oh, I’m not judging. Do I need to schedule a ‘Don’t Get Expelled’ PSA?”
Marcus laughed.
I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck. “It wasn’t a big deal. It was nothing.”
Ethan hummed, sipping his coffee. “Well, try not to start any turf wars until after the fundraising mixer. The committee is already panicking about having two rival crews in one room.”
