Marcus perked up. “Oh, right. The mixer thing. Free food, bad speeches, awkward small talk.”
“Don’t forget the string lights,” Ethan said. “They bought, like, four thousand of them. Someone on student life thinks they’re magical.”
“When is that?” I asked.
“A few weeks,” Ethan said.
Marcus elbowed me. “Riverside’s gonna be there. You’ll get a little time with your personal demon.” Then he made kissing noises.
“Shut up,” I said.
Marcus didn’t know about what happened between me and Liam. All he knew was that I crashed the boat and my father made me work at the marina the rest of the summer—with Liam.
My father was trying to teach me a lesson, but it had an unintended effect. It was the only reason I fell for Liam. It was the only reason we kissed. If none of it ever happened, we would just be regular rivals. Not whatever the fuck this was.
“You good?” Ethan asked.
I had been stabbing my eggs harder than necessary.
“Fine,” I said.
Ethan didn’t push. He just watched me with that gentle, knowing calm of his. He knew more than he ever let on, but I could see it in his eyes.
Breakfast didn’t last long after that.
Ethan floated back to talking about camera lenses and event lighting; Marcus debated the ranking of dining hall pastries like it was a sport; I nodded along, trying not to think of getting kicked off the team.
Marcus stretched with a groan. “Alright, kids. Time to go listen to Eldridge’s annual speech on honor and duty.”
Kingswell’s boathouse sat at the edge of campus, just above the river. As we approached, the building looked like a temple—arched beams, tall windows, polished wood glowing in the light. A massive blue and gold Kingswell Stallion hung above the double doors.
Inside, the air smelled like varnish, river water, and shell wax.
Banners hung from the rafters: NATIONAL CHAMPIONS, LEAGUE TITLES, INVICTUS REGATTA 1987. Every one of them felt like it was staring me down. Especially the ones with my father’s name—Henley Royal Regatta, 1985, Prince Albert Challenge Cup. The quad that made him a legend. The race he expected me to replicate. Every conversation we had seemed to circle back to that single moment of his glory, like my entire rowing career was just a countdown to matching it.
A cluster of rowers had already gathered. Upperclassmen talked in low voices like they ran the place, freshmen tried to look confident, and everyone braced for whatever pressure Coach was about to put on them.
Coach Eldridge stood in front of the whiteboard, hands clasped behind his back. Early fifties, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, expression unreadable. His posture was as rigid as the boathouse beams.
He didn’t need to call for quiet. The room just fell silent around him.
“Gentlemen,” he said, voice smooth and precise, “welcome back.”
We took our seats on the wooden benches. Marcus dropped in beside me. Ethan leaned against the wall beside the camera cart, ready to film any announcements that would later be sliced into the team’s social media highlight reel.
“Kingswell rowing continues its tradition this year: precision, discipline, and consistency. You are expected to uphold the standard set before you.”
He paced, hands clasped behind his back, voice steady like he’d been giving this same speech since before I was born.
“Our program succeeds because our athletes make responsible choices, on and off the water. You respect the sport, respect each other, and respect the expectations of this institution. That is how we maintain our edge.”
I kept my face neutral, but something in my chest pinched.
Responsible choices. Yeah…
Not exactly the phrase you wanted to hear after sprinting a rival at dawn with no coach around.
“You carry the name of Kingswell with you. Our alumni, our donors, our history—they look to you to continue a tradition of excellence. We trust each of you to uphold that standard.”
