She was there.
Third row from the bottom, wedged between two students in oversized RSU hoodies. My mom. Dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, work jacket still on—the faded navy one from the hospital cafeteria, the one with the coffee stain on the sleeve she could never get out.
She’d driven three hours to be here. For a scrimmage. I didn’t even tell he about it.
How did she know?
She saw me looking and raised her hand in a small wave. Tired eyes and a proud smile that hit me somewhere deep in my chest.
She’s here.
My throat went tight.
This is why.
Not Alex. Not whatever tangled mess lived in my chest when I looked at him. This. My mom working doubles so I could be here. The small house back home with the leaky faucet she couldn’t afford to fix. The textbooks I bought used and the gas money I scraped together from summer shifts.
I wasn’t rowing for some rich boy who chose Kingswell over me.
I was rowing to get us out. To be something. To make every sacrifice she’d ever made mean something.
Hate him or want him.
Remy was wrong. I didn’t need to choose either.
I just had to beat him.
I gave my mom a small nod—I see you, I got this—and turned back toward the dock. My single waited at the water’s edge, burgundy and white. I crouched beside it, running my hands along the gunwales, feeling the familiar shape of it.
Two thousand meters. That’s all.
The officials called for singles to launch. I lifted my boat overhead, carried it to the water, and set it down with practiced ease. The river lapped against the hull.
I stepped in. Settled into the seat. Pushed off.
The world narrowed.
I rowed toward the start line with long, easy strokes, warming up my legs, finding my rhythm. The Riverside bleachers were a blur of burgundy on my left. Kingswell’s pristine crowd sat silent and watchful on the right.
And ahead of me—Alex.
He was already in position, blades squared, body still. I pulled up beside him, close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest. Close enough to see the way his jaw was set, the tension in his forearms, the slight tremor in his hands on the oars.
He looked over at me.
I looked back.
Neither of us spoke. There was nothing left to say. Everything that mattered was about to happen on the water.
The official’s launch motored into position. A megaphone crackled.
“Lanes are set. Single sculls, this is your final.”
I squared my blades. Rolled my shoulders. Let out a slow breath.
The Riverside bleachers had gone quiet. So had Kingswell’s. The wind died for a moment, like even the river was holding its breath.
I could hear my own heartbeat. Could feel the boat shifting beneath me, alive and waiting.
