We wouldn't.
What we had wasn't just chemistry on the water.
It was real.
And we were done hiding from it.
Chapter 23: Liam
Lane five.
The worst lane. The lane coaches put boats they don't expect to win. The lane that caught the most wind, the worst chop, the psychological disadvantage of being on the outside looking in.
Alex and I sat in our double, bow pointed toward the start line.
To our left: Princeton in lane one. Dartmouth in two. BU in three. Northeastern in four. All of them watching us.
The Kingswell-Riverside double. The experiment. The showcase for a joint program that half the people watching thought was a mistake.
I could feel eyes on us from both banks. Donors. Alumni. Coaches. Both teams. A camera crew set up near the finish line—two guys with a long lens on a tripod and a woman holding a boom mic, the local sports network logo on their jackets. Another photographer in the officials' launch, already tracking us through a telephoto.
And Ethan somewhere on the Kingswell dock with his phone steady, doing his media thing.
Everyone waiting to see if this worked. Ifweworked.
And all of it being recorded. Every stroke. Every expression. Every moment that would exist beyond this river, on someone's screen, in someone's article, available for anyone to watch and rewatch and read into.
My skin prickled. That old instinct—the one that knew what cameras could do. What footage could show if someone looked closely enough.
Just row. Nothing else matters on the water.
October sun low and sharp. Perfect rowing weather—the kind of day where every stroke would be visible, every mistake impossible to hide.
The water was smooth, dark, and waiting.
In lane one, Princeton's stroke seat was a big guy—shaved head, neck like a tree trunk, veins already standing out in his forearms as he gripped the oars. Their boat sat low and heavy in the water. Power crew. The kind of pair that won ugly—brute force, high rate, grind you into the river until you broke.
Dartmouth in lane two looked different. Lighter. Their catch was already twitching—tiny adjustments, blade angles being tested. Technical crew. The kind that rowed clean and waited for you to make a mistake.
Alex sat in bow behind me. I couldn't see him, but I felt him there—the shift of weight when he adjusted his grip, the rhythm of his breathing, the heat of his presence that had been driving me insane for almost two years.
"Ready?" I asked. Quiet. Just for him.
"Yeah."
My hands were steady on the oars. Calluses pressing into the handle where the old blisters had hardened over. Heart rate elevated but controlled. Breathing even.
Everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours—Emily, the parking lot, my mom, the locker room, that kiss—all of it faded into background noise.
Right now there was just this.
The boat. The water. Alex behind me.
And 2000 meters to prove we were everything they said we weren't.
My mom's voice, still echoing from last night:You started because you loved it. Because it made you feel free.
The starter's voice crackled over the loudspeaker. "Crews ready—"
