Half a seat ahead.
I could feel it—the shift. The way Alex’s rhythm stuttered just slightly, the way his blade caught wrong in the chop. He was breaking.
And it felt good.
My legs drove harder, my breath coming in sharp bursts, but everything was under control.
This was it.
This was what I’d trained for. No doubts. No fear. Just the water and the finish line and the certainty that I was going to destroy him.
I thought of my mom in the bleachers watching every stroke. I thought of Emily in the crowd, cheering my name. Noah would be losing his mind, I knew it—probably screaming so loud his voice would be gone tomorrow.
They were all here for me, all believing in me, and I wasn’t going to let them down.
I pulled ahead another quarter seat. Then half.
The seven-hundred-meter mark flashed by and I could feel Alex starting to unravel beside me. His strokes were getting choppy, desperate. He was trying to stay clean, stay technical, but panic was bleeding through.
Good.
Let him feel it. Let him know what it’s like to lose to someone he thought he was better than.I found another gear and surged forward. One full seat ahead now.
My technique was perfect—better than it had ever been. Every catch was clean, every drive powerful but controlled.
This wasn’t just raw aggression. This was skill. This was discipline.
This was everything Coach Hale had drilled into me, every morning on the erg, every brutal practice when my legs wanted to quit but I didn’t let them.
I thought back to those sessions when I’d tried to row like Alex. Smooth. Technical. Efficient. I’d watched videos of him, studied his form, tried to steal that polished precision he made look effortless.
And then—Brackett Lake flashed through my mind. The two of us in that USP Hudson double, moving together like we were one body. The way we’d found that perfect rhythm without even trying.
Flying.
I wouldn’t be this good without him.The thought hit me like a punch to the gut.
No.
I pushed it away immediately, drove my legs harder, and pulled through with more force.
No. This is my work. My discipline. My pain.
Coach Hale’s voice rang in my head, clear as day:Trust your work, Moore. Trust what you’ve built.
Yes. That’s right. My work. I earned this. This had nothing to do with him.
I pulled ahead another seat. Two seats now. Maybe three.
The Riverside bleachers were going absolutely insane. I could hear them in the distance, even over my own gasping breaths, and water churning around me. Air horns. Screaming. The whole crowd on their feet.
And I wasn’t even done yet.
The thousand-meter mark flew by. Halfway. Just one thousand meters left.
Alex was falling apart behind me. I could feel it even without looking, and sense the desperation in his strokes, the way his perfect composure was shattering stroke by stroke.
I gritted my teeth and drove harder.
