***
Practice ended an hour later.
The team hauled boats back to the racks in silence. I helped lift the eight overhead and slid it into place without saying a word to anyone.
Derek caught my arm as I turned to leave.
“Hey. Walk with me.”
It wasn’t a request.
We walked away from the boathouse, along the path that followed the river south toward the old stone bridge. Neither of us spoke for a while.
Finally, Derek said, “You want to talk about what happened out there?”
“Nothing happened. I was off.”
“You’ve been off since Saturday.”
I didn’t answer.
We reached the bridge and stopped. Derek leaned against the stone railing, looking out over the water. I stood beside him, arms crossed, waiting for the lecture.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, Derek said, “You know I had a breakdown sophomore year.”
I looked at him.
He was staring at the river, expression unreadable. Calm on the surface, but something flickered beneath it.
“What?”
“Spring season. Right before IRAs.” Derek’s voice was measured, almost detached. “Lost my dad that February. Heart attack. No warning.”
My chest tightened.
“I didn’t know that.”
Derek shrugged. “Eldridge wanted me to take time off. I refused. Told him I was fine, that rowing would help me deal with it.”
He paused.
“I wasn’t fine.”
The wind picked up, rustling through the trees behind us.
“I held it together through winter training. Made it through the first few regattas. Then we got to Grand Finals at IRAs, and I just—“ He stopped. Breathed out slowly. “Couldn’t do it. Sat in the boat at the starting line and felt like I was drowning. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.”
I didn’t say anything. Just listened.
“We false-started,” Derek continued. “Twice. Because of me. Third time, I got the blade in the water, but I was so far gone I pulled us off-set within ten strokes. We finished dead last.”
He turned to look at me then.
“Eldridge benched me. Told me I needed to get my head straight before I came back.”
I tried to picture Derek like that—falling apart, losing control—and couldn’t.
