Practice hadn’t gotten any better as the week dragged on and today it felt like rowing through concrete.
Mist hung low over the water, turning everything gray and soft-edged. The river looked like glass until our blades cut through it, leaving dark ripples that spread and disappeared.
“Switch,” Coach Eldridge called from the launch. “Harrington, take stroke seat. Morgan, move to three.”
I climbed out of the boat, legs heavy, and switched positions with Jake Morgan. Fourth lineup change in thirty minutes. Nothing was clicking.
“Set it up,” Eldridge said.
We pushed off the dock. I settled into the stroke seat—the rhythm setter, the one everyone followed—and felt immediately wrong.
“Ready all? Row,” I said.
We took the first stroke together, but I was already half a beat ahead, rushing the slide. The boat lurched and water slapped against the hull, loud in the morning quiet.
“Easy,” Derek said from bow seat. Calm. Steady. Everything I wasn’t.
I forced myself to slow down, count the rhythm in my head. One, two, three, four.
But my body wouldn’t listen.
I caught too early. The blade dove deep, pulling the boat off-set. Behind me, someone swore as their oar clipped the water at the wrong angle. The boat rocked, unbalanced, our wake spreading uneven behind us.
“Hold,” Eldridge’s voice cut across the water. Flat. Disappointed.
We stopped rowing and the boat drifted, momentum dying. Around us, the river kept moving like nothing had happened.
“Harrington, what’s going on?”
I stared at the oar handle in my hands. White knuckles. Shaking slightly.
Great question, Coach. Let me think.
Lost to Liam. Check. Lost Ethan. Check. Got my face rearranged in a fight I didn’t even want because Marcus decided being a homophobic asshole was more important than the team. Check.
And now I was sitting there, bruised and barely holding it together, while everyone waited for me to explain why the perfect golden boy had finally cracked.
“Nothing, Coach. I’ll fix it.”
“Fix it faster. You’re setting the pace for seven other guys. If you’re off, everyone’s off.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Ready all. Row.”
I tried again.
My timing was fractured, my rhythm shot. Every stroke felt like forcing puzzle pieces that didn’t fit, and the boat swayed beneath us, unbalanced, inefficient.
We rowed another thousand meters before Eldridge pulled us in.
“Line change,” he said. “Harrington, sit this one out. Shaw, take stroke.”
Humiliation burned through my chest.
I climbed out of the boat without meeting anyone’s eyes and sat on the dock while Derek took my seat. Watched them push off and the boat settle immediately into clean, synchronized rhythm.
Better without me.
