“Anyone involved in another altercation—verbal or physical—is off the team immediately. Scholarships will be revoked. Season over. I don’t care if you’re a freshman or a senior or the fastest rower in program history.”
His eyes swept over all of us and landed on me.
“You represent Riverside State University every time you wear these colors. And if you can’t do that with integrity, you don’t deserve to wear them at all.”
Then silence. Deadly, suffocating silence. Hale looked down and let it burn in all of us.
Fuck.
“Get your boats. We’ve got work to do.”
We moved out to the dock in near silence. The usual pre-practice banter was gone and everyone was in their heads, processing.
I grabbed my oars, checked the rigging on one of the singles. After dominating the singles race on Saturday, I figured Hale would keep me there. You know… build on the momentum.
“Moore.”
I turned. Remy was standing a few feet away, hands in his hoodie pockets.
“Hey,” I said.
“Can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
We stepped to the side, away from the others. Remy looked nervous, which was unusual for him. He was usually one of the most laid-back guys on the team.
“I never got to say it properly. But thank you for Saturday night.”
I shrugged. “You don’t have to—”
“No, I do.” His voice was firm. “Marcus—what he said—that shit’s not new to me. I’ve heard it before. Dealt with it before. But you didn’t hesitate.”
“Anyone would’ve—”
“No.” He cut me off. “They wouldn’t have. A lot of people stand by and let it happen. They hear that shit and they look away because it’s easier.”
He held out his hand, and I clasped it.
“I’ve got your back too. Whatever you need. I mean that,” Remy said.
Something in my chest loosened. Yeah, the fight had consequences. Yeah, people got hurt. But some things were worth fighting for.
“Thanks, man,” I said.
We held the handshake for an extra second, then he nodded and walked back toward the others.
I stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of it. Hale was right—I’d fucked up. But I’d also done the right thing.
I just had to figure out how to do both.
Coach Hale came out onto the dock with his clipboard and a megaphone.
“Listen up,” he called. “Boat assignments.”
Here we go. I was expecting to hear my name called for a single.
“Before we get started,” Hale continued, “quick reminder—we’ve got the Head of the Charles in eight weeks. That’s our target. Everything we do between now and then is building toward that race.”
