Five—six—seven—eight—a seat. Then two.
They fought. God, they fought. Their stroke seat was grimacing, teeth bared, pulling like his life depended on it. The cadence call from their bow man getting louder, more frantic.
Nine—ten—eleven—twelve—
But the gap was opening. Inch by inch. Seat by seat.
Thirteen—fourteen—fifteen—
Dartmouth's rhythm broke. Not by much. But enough. A tiny splash on the catch—the first imperfection I'd seen from them all race. Their hull wobbled. Their speed dropped.
Sixteen—seventeen—eighteen—nineteen—twenty.
Open water.
Dartmouth was done. Not stopped—still rowing, still fighting—but they were behind us and they knew it. I could hear their stroke rate climbing, panic setting in. Too late.
But Princeton was still ahead.
1200 meters.
The gap to Princeton had closed during our push on Dartmouth—the surge carrying us forward, eating into their lead. Maybe three-quarters of a length now. Maybe less.
"I see them," Alex said behind me. Reading my mind. "Three-quarter length."
"Yeah."
"Blood in the water," Alex said.
"Ready ten?" I said.
"Kick it. Go."
The rating went up. 36. 38. Higher than we should've been able to sustain. Higher than any double should go at the twelve-hundred-meter mark with eight hundred left to race.
But we weren't any double.
The gap to Princeton closed. Stroke by stroke. Seat by seat.
My lungs were shredding. My vision was starting to narrow at the edges, everything tunneling down to the space between my oar handles and the water ahead.
1400 meters.
We pulled even with Princeton.
Their stroke seat—the big guy, the shaved head—turned and saw us. His face went through three things in half a second: surprise, fury, then something harder. Resolve.
He didn't fold. He kicked.
Princeton surged. Their rating spiked to match ours—38, 39—their bow man screaming now, a raw, desperate sound that carried across the water. The big stroke seat's face had gone purple. Veins standing out in his neck like ropes.
They pulled a half-seat ahead.
No.
My legs were dying. The lactic acid had turned my quads to concrete. Every drive was a war between what my body could give and what the race demanded. The oar handle was so slick I could barely grip it.
"They're fighting!" Alex shouted. No composure left. Just raw. "Don't let them have it!"
