My legs drove hard, arms pulling through clean and fast. The first ten strokes were pure power—both of us attacking the water like our lives depended on it. Each of us trying to get a lead on the other.
That was me and Liam, both trying to get ahead of what was destined.
I kept my eyes locked forward, focusing on my technique. Long reach. Clean catch. Drive through the legs. My blade sliced through the water with surgical precision. The chop didn’t matter, I wasn’t crabbing a bit. I had this.
But Liam was right there.
I could feel him in my peripheral vision, could hear the churn of his oar strokes, all raw power. But his usual aggression was gone. He had something else. I could feel it. Some secret weapon that was not Liam. I could feel his ease beside me.
We stayed dead even through the first twenty strokes, both waiting for the other to break.
The Kingswell bleachers erupted. I could hear my name being called, could feel the weight of every expectation pressing down on me.
Stay clean. Stay technical. Let him burn out.
But Liam wasn’t burning out.
At the two-hundred-meter mark, he was still right beside me. At three hundred, he hadn’t faded. My lungs started to burn, my legs screaming, but I couldn’t let up. I couldn’t let him see any weakness.
Were we really going to be full power for the whole run?
Our splits must have been insane. That was the thing about me and Liam. We pushed each other, we made each other better, if only we could—
Then I felt my blade catch wrong—just slightly—throwing off my rhythm for half a stroke.
Focus, Alex.
It was all Liam needed.
He took it and surged ahead by a quarter seat.
No.
I dug deeper and pulled myself back even. My technique was cleaner, more efficient—I could win this on discipline alone.
But then I made the mistake of glancing over.
Liam’s face was a mask of concentration. Jaw clenched. Eyes blazing. Every stroke looked like he was trying to rip the river apart with his bare hands. But it was more than that. He was being technical and each stroke wild but controlled.
He looked alive in a way I’d never be. Free in a way I’d never feel.
And something in my chest cracked.
The five-hundred-meter mark flashed by. We were still even, but I could feel it—the way my strokes were starting to get ragged, the way my breathing was going shallow and panicked.
Focus. Stay clean!
But I couldn’t find it. It was like Liam’s focus, his control, his power was making me feel weak. He was sapping my energy. That centered, mechanical place I usually lived in was gone, replaced by something raw and desperate that felt too much like wanting and not enough like winning.
I thought of the way Braden rowed when he saw me coming up on him earlier in the week. But it was happening to me now. And the more I lost focus and worried I was losing it—the faster it went away.
Liam pulled ahead by half a seat.
The halfway point was coming up fast.
And I was losing.
Chapter 3: Liam
