The power.
I’d beaten Liam before. I could do it again.
But when I reached for it, there was nothing there.
Just cold. Just the video hanging over me like a blade. Just the memory of his voice—Don’t touch me—and him walking away. And for a moment, I felt what he must of felt when we ended it that summer at Brackett Lake.
I closed my eyes, letting the cold wind cut across my face.
A few hours to go.
And I couldn’t afford to crack.
Chapter 17: Liam
Seven seats.
Seven goddamn seats.
The freshman eight had cremated Kingswell, and the Riverside bleachers were still vibrating from the eruption. I stood near the boathouse, arms crossed, watching our guys climb out of their shell like conquering heroes. Remy was down there, slapping backs, and grinning like he’d won the lottery.
Then someone grabbed Remy by the waist.
“No, no, no—” Remy’s protest cut off as three guys hoisted him up.
The whole crew converged, laughing, chanting his name.
“REMY! REMY! REMY!”
They launched him off the dock.
He hit the water with a spectacular splash, came up sputtering and cursing, but he was laughing.
The whole team crew roared.
That’s the tradition—win big, throw your coxswain in. Remy climbed back onto the dock, soaked and victorious, still running his mouth.
This was what it looked like when the underdogs bit back.
The day had been a war.
Back and forth, race after race, neither side pulling away clean. Kingswell took the doubles—Marcus and Collins grinding out a tight win over Ortiz and Sheffield. We answered with the JV four. They clawed back in the varsity pairs, Derek Shaw rowing like a machine.
Then we took the fours.
Tit for tat. Blow for blow.
And now it all came down to us.
The varsity singles. Me and Alex. Last race of the day.
I rolled my shoulders, trying to loosen the tension that had been building since this morning. The wind had picked up, cutting across the water in sharp gusts. Gray sky. Choppy river. The kind of conditions that punished mistakes.
Good. Let it be ugly. I don’t need pretty. I just need to win.
Hale appeared beside me, coffee cup in hand. He watched the officials setting up the start line, his expression calm, unreadable.
“How you feeling, Moore?”
