In my boathouse. On my water. In boats that might include me.
Working together. Training together. Forced into proximity every single day for three weeks.
And I—
I wouldn’t be able to control myself.
The thought hit like a physical blow.
I wouldn’t be able to stand next to him without remembering the closet. Wouldn’t be able to watch him row without thinking about his body pressed against mine. Wouldn’t be able to hear his voice without wanting to pull him somewhere private and demand to know why he’d gone silent.
What had happened in that closet couldn’t happen in public.
Could it?
What would happen if I just... stopped hiding?
My chest went tight. Breath coming short, but not in the panic way—in a different way. Almost like anticipation.
Because maybe this was exactly what we needed.
A few days to prepare. To figure out what I was going to say. To decide if I was finally brave enough to stop pretending.
“—Head of the Charles is in six weeks,“ someone was saying. Derek, maybe. “We need to finalize our boats.”
“Which is precisely why we’re implementing this now.” Eldridge’s tone never changed. “We test combinations and identify what functions for the next three weeks. Then we train on our own for three weeks to prep for the head race.”
Three weeks. We’d be training together. Being close to him every single day, either pretending nothing had happened or—
Or what?
“Consider this a training experiment,” Eldridge continued. “We’re not establishing permanent mixed boats. We’re exploring all viable options for race-ready crews. Post-Head Races, we reassess.”
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. Monday morning. Liam would be here Monday morning.
And I had no idea what I was going to do. No idea what I was going to say. No idea if he’d even look at me or if he’d keep pretending I didn’t exist.
No idea if the closet had meant the same thing to him that it meant to me.
Maybe this was good. Forced proximity would eliminate the choice—we’d have to acknowledge it, figure out what the hell we were doing. And I’d finally have to find the courage to ask him what it meant.
Eldridge picked up his clipboard. “First joint session is Monday morning. Five-thirty. Be prepared.” He paused at the door. “For today: two pieces. Twenty minutes steady-state at rate 20, then five minutes rest, followed by a 2k test piece.”
He walked out. Discussion dismissed.
The boathouse erupted again. Everyone talking at once, complaining, speculating. Some guys looked excited. Most looked pissed.
But gradually, the noise died down. Guys filtered toward the erg machines, grumbling but compliant. This was the routine. This was what we did.
The first few guys strapped in. The sound started—that distinctive whir of flywheels spinning up, the chain rattling on the return, the rhythmic thunk of the seat sliding on its track. One machine. Then two. Then five.
Within minutes, the boathouse filled with the mechanical symphony of eighteen rowers pulling in their own rhythms. The air grew warmer. Thicker. Heavy with the smell of sweat and effort.
I just stood there.
Monday. Five-thirty. Liam.
Four days away. Four days to spiral. Four days to decide what I was going to say, how I was going to act, whether I’d finally be honest or keep hiding.
