Sent it and watched the blue delivered checkmark appear.
He didn’t respond, didn’t read it, and I deserved that.
The sun continued to rise, indifferent to my breakdown. Campus would wake up soon. People would continue theirnormal lives, their rowing practices, their parties, their easy existence.
And I would have to figure out how to face mine.
How to face what I’d done.
How to face myself.
I crawled into bed fully clothed, still wearing the jeans and shirt that smelled like smoke and beer and shame. My last thought before sleep took me:
I’ve lost everything. And it’s my own fault.
Chapter 9: Liam
The alarm went off at 5:15 AM, dragging me out of sleep that had actually been pretty decent for once. I rolled over, grabbed my phone, silenced it. Noah groaned from across the room.
“Too early,” he mumbled into his pillow. “Rowing is a crime against humanity.”
“Go back to sleep.”
He fell asleep.
I got up, moved quietly through the dark room. Pulled on shorts, a long-sleeve tech shirt, grabbed my Riverside hoodie. The bruise on my ribs from Saturday night was tender but not too bad. Could’ve been worse.
Could’ve been a lot worse.
I thought about Saturday—the race, the party, the fight, Emily’s dorm afterward. The way she’d looked at me. The way we’d moved together. The “I love you” that had felt real and solid and right.
Everything felt clearer now. Like I’d finally put things in the right order. Beat Alex on the water. Stood up for my teammate. Made things right with Emily.
I felt good. Centered. Ready.
Monday morning practice was going to be easy.
The walk to the boathouse was cold and dark, my breath making clouds in the air. Campus was dead at this hour—just a few lights in dorm windows, the distant sound of a car on the main road.
When I got to the boathouse, most of the team was already there. The usual pre-practice energy—guys grabbing oars, checking rigging, talking shit about who was still hungover from the weekend.
But something felt off.
The vibe was subdued. Tense. People were talking quieter than usual, and when I walked in, a few guys looked at me and then away quickly. Tyler was sitting on a bench near the slings, his right hand wrapped in a splint.
“Shit,” I said, stopping. “Your hand?”
“Sprained finger.” He held it up. “Some Kingswell asshole caught me wrong when I grabbed his shirt.”
My stomach dropped. “Fuck, man. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.” But his voice was flat.
Evan walked past with a black eye that looked painful even from a distance. Jackson had a busted lip. And when I looked around more carefully, I realized at least two or three guys were missing entirely.
The high from Saturday night evaporated.
“Everyone in the bay,” Coach Hale’s voice cut through the space. “Now.”
