A ripple went through the team. The Head of the Charles was the biggest head race in the country.
“Which means,” Hale said, “I’m running seat racing for the next week. Testing different combinations, seeing who works well together, who’s got the chemistry. Lineups aren’t set. Nothing’s permanent yet. Today’s about gathering data.”
He tapped his clipboard. “So whatever boat I put you in—single, double, four, eight—I want full effort. Show me what you’ve got. Questions?”
No one said anything.
“Good. Tyler—you’re on erg duty until that hand heals.”
Tyler nodded, resigned.
“Evan and Jackson—pair.”
They moved to grab their boat.
“Thompson and Moore—double.”
My stomach dropped.
What?
Thompson—a quiet senior I barely knew—looked over at me and nodded. I stared at Coach Hale.
“Coach,” I said, raising my hand slightly. “I thought I’d be staying in the single?”
Hale didn’t even look up from his clipboard. “Boat assignments aren’t a democracy, Moore.”
“But I won the singles race on Saturday. I thought—“
“We’ll talk after practice.” His voice was firm. “Get in your boat.”
My jaw tightened, I wanted to argue, to protest, to demand an explanation, but the look on Hale’s face told me that would be a bad idea. I grabbed my oars and walked toward where Thompson was already getting the double out of the slings.
What the hell is happening?
Thompson was steady. Methodical. The kind of rower who did everything by the book—perfect technique, perfect ratio, no wasted energy.
Which meant rowing with him was frustrating as hell.
I was used to the single. Used to controlling everything—the speed, the rhythm, the power. I could feel the boat respond to every adjustment I made, could push harder whenever I wanted.
In a double, I had to match Thompson. Had to sync with his rhythm instead of setting my own. And Thompson’s rhythm was slower, more controlled than mine.
***
The morning air was cold enough to see our breath. Mist rose off the river and the water was dark and still. Thompson and I carried the double down to the dock—the hull sleek and narrowbetween us, lighter than a single but twice as unforgiving if we couldn’t sync.
Thompson looked like he’d just stepped out of a rowing manual. Light brown hair cut neat and short, clean-shaven, RSU gear that actually fit properly instead of the worn-out shit most of us wore.
We set the scull in the water, the boat rocking slightly as we stepped in and found our riggers. Thompson settled into bow seat. I slid into stroke, the familiar creak of the seat under me, the rough texture of the oar handle against my palms.
We pushed off the dock.
“Ready all,” Coach Hale’s voice came over the megaphone from the launch. “Row.”
The first few strokes felt wrong. I was rushing, pulling too hard, throwing off our balance. The boat lurched, uneven.
“Moore. Match my slide. You’re ahead,” Thompson said.
