Time to make the golden boy bleed.
Chapter 16: Alex
I stood on the Kingswell dock in my team jacket, trying to stay warm. The water looked gray under the cloudy sky, wind cutting right through me. The water was choppy—it was going to be a tough day.
Across the river, Riverside’s bleachers were already filling up—mismatched hoodies, homemade signs, someone’s speaker blasting music loud enough to rattle across the water.
Our side was quieter. More composed.
Parents in coordinated fleece, alumni with coffee cups and tight smiles. Everyone looked perfectly prepared just in case Ethan flipped his camera on him. Wouldn’t want to end up on some social media feed looking imperfect.
I barely slept last night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Liam’s face from last night. The way he’d looked at me when he showed me that video—two shells cutting through water, unsanctioned, reckless, damning. The way his voice had gone flat when I reached for him.
Don’t touch me.
And then he walked away. Shoulders tight, hood up, like I was something dangerous he needed distance from.
We’ll deal with the video at some point.
That’s what I’d said. Like it was a minor inconvenience. Like someone out there didn’t have footage that could end both our careers.
I didn’t know who sent it. I didn’t know what they wanted. And the not-knowing was killing me.
“Hey.” Marcus appeared beside me, already in his racing uni, Collins trailing behind “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Seriously.” He squinted at me. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Enough.”
“Don’t bullshit me.” He crossed his arms, watching the Riverside dock across the water. “Remember, it’s just one race.”
I stared across the grey water, lost in my own mind.
“Did you freeze?” Marcus asked.
I turned to Marcus, I could see his nipples standing up through the thin fabric of his uni. “I’m fine.”
He nodded toward the lineup board near the boathouse entrance. “Did you see? You’re last.”
“What?”
“Singles. You and Moore. Last race of the day.”
My stomach dropped. Last meant hours of waiting. Hours of watching. Hours of my brain spiraling through every worst-case scenario while that video hung over me like a guillotine.
“Great,” I said.
“Dude. You gotta relax. You’re acting like you’re on trial for murder.”
Before I could respond, a whistle cut through the air. The first race was lining up.
Freshman eights.
I moved closer to the water’s edge, watching as the two shells glided into position. Kingswell’s boat was pristine—navy and gold catching what little light broke through the clouds. Riverside’s was worn, the burgundy paint faded in places, but their freshman squad looked hungry. Lean and coiled and ready.
