Too late now, jackass. You ruined everything. Royally.
In the clubhouse, the crews put on our racing gear: black, long-sleeved unisuits with gold trim and our last names printed across the back. I expected Tucker to give me hell, but both he and Rhett were surprisingly relaxed. Almost friendly.
Coach Daniels gathered us around as he took a knee.
“The water’s going to be shit; I’m not going to lie,” he said. “Like a big pot of boiling stew that’ll freeze your nuts off.”
“This is already one helluva pep talk, Coach,” Dean said, and everyone laughed.
Despite the poor weather conditions, morale was high. Our two thousand meter had been under seven minutes the other day; even Coach was smiling.
He gave advice to our fours, pairs, and to Cassian Thorne, who rowed single, then turned to my eight-man crew. “You’ve been working hard, and I have no doubt we’re going to give New Haven Prep a different Royal Pride crew to contend with this season. What do you say?”
He put his hand in the center, and we all followed suit.
“Royal Pride on three,” Tucker bellowed. “One, two, three!”
“Royal Pride!”
The circle broke up to a lot of backslapping and shit-talking of our Connecticut opponents. Even Tucker gave me an encouraging nod.
Outside in the cold, the crews from the various schools around the Eastern Seaboard—some coming all the way from Massachusetts—were on the dock, stretching and pinwheeling their arms. Our nemesis, New Haven Prep, wore green and yellow. They looked smug and confident; no doubt last season’s victories were dancing in their heads. I found my competitive edge that only came out when rowing. With my team, I was no longer an isolated individual, separated by my intellect or anything else. On the water, in that shell, I belonged.
Dean slapped both hands on my shoulders. “You good, stroke seat?”
“Losing builds character,” I said. “They’ll thank us later.”
A slow smile spread over his lips. “We’re going to win. Oh, shit, we aresogoing to win.”
I grinned, but then my bravado slipped when I caught site of the Royal Pride dance team. The girls were huddled near the bleachers that were packed with spectators bundled against the oncoming storm. My gaze went to Emery automatically. When she was around, nothing and no one else registered.
She stood with her team in black leggings and a black sweater with a gold lion on the front. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, and her arms were crossed against the cold. Our eyes met—an instantaneous exchange of electricity that went straight to the center of me. Her expression tightened, as if she’d flinched, and then she looked away.
I expected nothing less. It was for the best. It was what I wanted; I’d told her that myself. But that didn’t stop my chest from feeling as if it had caved in.
I averted my eyes and fought to regain my focus.
The crews—eight in all, each with their own eights, fours, pairs, and singles—lined up in rows on the dock, our hands clasped behind our backs. The president of the Narragansett Bay Row Association made a speech, welcoming the other teams to our waters and encouraging us all to have a clean race. The singles, pairs, and fours were up first, right in front of the bleachers.
We watched from the dock, cheering our guys on. Our pairs came in second, our four-man took a disappointing fifth, but our single, Cassian Thorne, pulled off a win. Then it was our turn to race. Every eight-man crew boarded schooners that would take us to the starting line so that we’d finish the two thousand meter race in front of the bleachers.
At another smaller dock around the Bend, eight shells were tethered, and officials from the regatta association watched us closely to ensure a clean race. Teams climbed in and readied their oars. Ourshell had an outside lane closest to shore, with New Haven Prep on our port side.
When I rowed bow, my oar had been to my left. As stroke seat, it was to the right. I’d thought it’d be a difficult adjustment, but I found I had more strength and control on the right. I gripped the oar with both hands, my every muscle tensed like a coiled spring ready to release.
The eight-man shells moved to the starting line in choppy water. From the dock, someone raised an air horn.
“We got this, team,” Tucker said from the five seat. “Let’s show those New Haven fucks and everyone else what we’re made of.”
Murmured assents from behind me, while directly in front of me, Dean adjusted his headset and readied his digital metronome. “Nice and easy, guys. We need that clean starting burst. Remember, high twenty right off the horn.”
He shot me a confirming glance, and I nodded. High twenty meant the first strokes would be twenty high-powered bursts to get to maximum speed and establish racing pace.
Our team grew still. Ready. On my port side, the New Haven Prep team did the same, each rower gripping his oar and waiting.
The air horn broke the silence—a match to a fuse deep inside me, flaring into action. I pulled, and the crew—lined up behind me—pulled with me. It was my job to set the pace, matching everytickof Dean’s metronome with my drive so that the sound and the movement became one.
Within minutes, my shoulders, abs, and quads burned, and the cold air stung my lungs. Two thousand meters was going to feel like miles, but I turned off my thinking mind and channeled the energy into my body, synapses firing in obeisance to thattick tick tick.…
