My stomach tightened. Words I’d heard my whole life. Usually from my father. Usually with an emphasis that meant: don’t screw up and don’t embarrass me.
I hadn’t embarrassed anyone... yet. I wasn’t even sure how anyone found out about the race. But it could all be chalked up as rumor... hopefully. Still, the thought of my father hearing even a hint of it made my shoulders stiffen.
Eldridge moved down the bench, gaze sweeping over us. “Preseason assessments will begin tomorrow with a 2k erg. Then we will begin technical assessments.”
The first two weeks always felt like being dissected—ergs, drills, small-boat trials—every second watched, every flaw noted, and all of it feeding into whether I stood a chance at being placed in a four this year. Which I needed to be in to race at Henley—my father wouldn't have it any other way. Single and double sculling was kind of looked down upon by the elite. It was all about the fours and eights.
But I kind of liked a double. I hated how my mind flicked back to Brackett Lake—to that one clean run with Liam, enough that my body remembered exactly how it felt to move with him.
“One thing will be different this year,” Eldridge continued.
A few heads lifted.
“I’ve spoken with Coach Hale at Riverside.”
The air sharpened and Marcus looked sideways at me.
“We have agreed to open the year with a scrimmage this weekend. Consider it an opportunity to evaluate your readiness.”
A murmur rippled through the room. Even the upperclassmen didn’t bother to hide their surprise. Eldridge lifted a hand. Silence returned.
“Riverside is not to be underestimated. They have made substantial gains over the last year. You will prepare accordingly.”
Marcus muttered under his breath, just loud enough for me: “Your second race of the year.”
I slammed my knee into his without looking at him. Eldridge’s gaze flicked to me for a fraction of a second—sharp as a blade. I sat straighter.
Steadier.
Pretending my heart wasn’t already racing.
The season had barely begun and I was already in trouble.
Chapter 3: Liam
I stomped back into the dorm, soaked through with river water and sweat, every inch of me felt like it was vibrating. The door banged louder than I meant it to when I pushed it open.
Noah jolted up in his bed like a startled cat.
His hair was a dark, curly mess—flattened on one side, sticking up on the other—and he blinked at me, confused.
“Dude,” he rasped, voice still half asleep, “who pissed in your protein shake?”
I smiled, dropping my gym bag by the door. “Morning.”
Riverside dorms weren’t anything fancy—old brick building, narrow hallways. Inside, our room was the usual: cinderblock walls painted “depression grey,” two wooden beds shoved against opposite sides, two worn desks, and one dirty, drafty window.
Our dorm looked like two halves of different planets.
Noah’s side was clean. He had neat piles of debate notes and philosophy books on his desk with a color-coded weekly planner pinned to the corkboard. Above his bed, he had several plants that he kept alive.
My side was... not that. Just a pile of crew gear and an unmade bed.
Noah pushed his glasses up his nose and sat cross-legged on the bed. He was wiry, just under average height, with sharp features softened by the kindest eyes I’d ever met. But underneath that calm surface, he carried this fast-twitch, razor-sharp energy—gentle with people, lethal in any argument.
We’d been assigned as roommates freshman year, and despite being total opposites, we became fast friends.
“We said no early-season rage sessions,” he said. “What happened?”
