Ethan stood up beside me, and we just looked at each other for a moment. He knew. Maybe not everything, but enough. And he was telling me it was okay. That whenever I was ready, he’d be there.
But I wasn’t ready. I might never be ready.
Before I could respond, footsteps crunched on the gravel behind us.
“Alex.”
I froze.
My father stood there in his best khakis, a Kingswell windbreaker, and sunglasses on his head—expression unreadable. Ethan tensed beside me, probably preparing for the worst.
But my father just looked at me and said, “Can we talk? Alone.”
Ethan glanced at me, a silent question. I nodded.
“I’ll be right inside,” he said, then walked away.
I stood up, put my arms in my jacket and buttoned up.
“Walk with me,” my father said.
I nodded and followed him as we headed down the river walk. The wind had finally died down, but the sky was still gray and the air still cold. It was silent for a while as we walked but soon the pressure in my chest became too much.
“You’re disappointed,” I said finally, my voice hollow.
“No,” he said.
Shocked, I turned to look at him. “What?”
“I’m not disappointed.” He was staring at the river as he walked. “This is what needed to happen.”
My stomach dropped. “I don’t understand.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“When I was a freshman at Kingswell, I had a chance at the Henley quad. Do you know how rare that is?”
I shook my head slightly.
I knew he’d gone to Henley, but it was when he was a junior. Henley was the Royal Regatta in England. The most prestigious rowing event in the world outside the Olympics where only the best collegiate rowers in the country got invited to compete.
“Robert Lockwood was a junior that year.” My father said the name with controlled distaste. “Braden’s father. We were competing for the same seat. He was good. But I was better.”
I stayed quiet.
“That should have been enough. But it wasn’t.” His voice was measured, clinical. “I needed to prove I was better. Every practice became about beating him. Every erg piece was a personal war. I stopped rowing for myself and started rowing against him.”
He paused for a moment, took a deep breath and continued.
“I over-trained. Pushed too hard. Three weeks before the Henley selection, I injured my back because I was trying to beat Lockwood’s split times instead of focusing on my own technique.”
He turned to look at me, his eyes cold. “Lockwood made the boat. I didn’t. And you know what I learned later?”
I shook my head.
“He barely thought about me. While I was destroying myself over our rivalry, he was just rowing. Focused on his own performance. I made him matter more than my own goals, and it cost me that year.”
My chest tightened.
