We moved. Nobody argued, nobody dragged their feet. The tone in his voice made it clear: this wasn’t going to be fun.
The bay was cold, the big overhead doors still closed. We gathered on the wooden benches, about twenty of us, plus Coach Hale standing in front of the whiteboard with his arms crossed.
His expression was stone.
I’d seen Coach Hale angry before. I’d seen him disappointed. But this was different. This was the kind of cold fury that made your stomach clench.
He let the silence hang for a long moment. Long enough that guys started shifting uncomfortably.
“Saturday,” he said finally, his voice even and measured, “you proved you could beat Kingswell on the water.”
Pride flickered in my chest. We had. We’d dominated that scrimmage.
“Saturday,” Hale continued, “you rowed with discipline, with power, with precision. You represented this program exactly the way you should.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Saturday night,” he said, and his voice went harder, “you proved you’re still children.”
The words landed like a slap.
“Tyler.” Hale looked at him. “Show everyone your hand.”
Tyler held up the splint.
“Sprained finger. Four weeks minimum before he can grip an oar. Possibly longer.” Hale’s jaw was tight. “Look at Evan, Jackson, and Liam. That doesn’t include three of your teammates that won’t be back until Spring.”
He turned to face all of us. The blood drained from my face—this was my fault.
“And that’s just our team. Kingswell had three athletes injured. Rodriguez—broken nose. One of their freshmen—sprained wrist. Another with a concussion.”
My chest felt tight. A concussion?
“You had a perfect victory,” Hale said. “Clean. Earned. The kind of win that makes programs proud. The kind of win that scouts remember.”
His voice dropped lower.
“And you threw it away for a frat brawl.”
Nobody spoke or moved.
“Do you know what I did yesterday?” Hale asked. “I called Coach Eldridge at Kingswell. And I apologized. I apologized for my team’s behavior after we beat them fair and square.”
The weight of that hung in the air.
“I’ve been coaching for twenty years,” Hale said. “I’ve had Olympic rowers. National champions. Athletes who went on to represent this country. And yesterday, I had to apologize because my team—my athletes—couldn’t control themselves for one night.”
He paced, hands clasped behind his back.
“You made our win meaningless. You embarrassed this program. You embarrassed me. And worst of all, you injured yourselves and your opponents over words.”
I felt the guilt settle in my gut like a stone. Marcus had deserved it, because he called Remy a faggot, and had been a racist piece of shit. Someone had to stand up.
But looking at Tyler’s hand, at Evan’s face, at the empty spots where guys should be sitting—maybe there had been another way.
“Here’s what happens next,” Hale said, his voice firm. “Zero tolerance. I don’t care what’s said. I don’t care who starts it. You walk away. Every single time. Or you walk away from this team.”
He let that sink in.
