He studied me for a second, then his expression shifted.
“You’ve got that look again,” he said.
I didn’t look up. “What look?”
“The one you had last year. Freshman Eight. When we crossed the line three seats behind Kingswell and you stared at their boat like you wanted to burn it down.” He paused. “Except you weren’t looking at the boat. You were looking at their bow seat.”
My hands stopped moving.
“I’m a coxswain, Moore. I see everything. It’s my job.” His voice stayed low, careful. “And I saw the way you watched him during the medal ceremony. The way you couldn’t decide if you wanted to fight him or—“
“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than I meant.
Remy held up his hands. “I’m not here to give you shit. I’m here because you’re about to race against him again, and you’re sitting here like you’re preparing for your own execution.”
Something tight coiled in my chest.
He crouched down so I had to look at him. “Listen. I know what it’s like when someone gets in your head. When you can’t separate wanting to beat them from just... wanting them.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “I don’t—”
“Yeah, you do. And that’s okay.” His expression softened. “But you need to pick one for the next two thousand meters. You can’trow angry and distracted. So choose. Hate him or want him. I don’t care... but commit to one so you can row.”
I stared at him. My throat felt tight. How did he—but I knew how. Remy was gay and out, which came with the ability to spot this shit from a mile away.
“What do I want?” I asked, my voice barely there.
Remy smiled, sad and knowing. “That’s the thing you’re afraid to say out loud. But you don’t have to say it to me. You just have to know it yourself.”
He stood. “Now go kick his ass. Or don’t. But either way, stop letting him live rent-free in your head.”
I watched him walk away, his small frame disappearing between the rows of lockers.
Hate him or want him.
The words sat in my chest like a stone. I rubbed the back of my neck, staring at the scuffed tile floor.
I didn’t want Alex Harrington. I wanted to beat him. There was a difference.
There had to be.
I closed my eyes and pictured it: my blade cutting clean through the water, my shell pulling ahead of his, the look on his face when he realized he couldn’t catch me. That perfect, polished composure cracking as I crossed the line first.
That’s what I wanted.
The win.
Not him. Never him again.
I stood, slamming my locker shut harder than necessary. The metal clang rang through the room.
Two thousand meters.
That’s all this was.
Two thousand meters to prove that whatever happened at Brackett Lake didn’t matter anymore. That he didn’t matter.
I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.
