Somewhere in the roar—the crowd on both banks, on their feet now, the sound building into something physical—I heard Tyler again. Not words this time. Just a scream. Pure.
And from somewhere else, clear and cutting through everything like it was designed to—Remy's voice. The cox voice. The one that commanded boats.
"NOW, MOORE! FUCKINGNOW!"
Something broke open in me.
Not my body. Something else. Some last reserve I didn't know I had—buried under months of denial, under the weight of pretending I didn't want what I wanted, under the exhaustion of performing someone I wasn't.
I stopped performing.
I just rowed.
"Power ten!" I shouted. "Last one! Everything!"
One—Alex and I moved as one body. Not two rowers in a boat. One organism.
Two—the hull lifted.
Three—Princeton's half-seat evaporated.
Four—level again. Their stroke seat's eyes met mine for one terrible, electric second.
Five—he was still pulling. Still fighting. I could hear him groaning on every drive, this animal sound that came from somewhere past exhaustion.
Six—but we were moving faster. Not by much. By millimeters.
Seven—our bow crept ahead.
Eight—a quarter-seat.
Nine—their stroke rate was faltering. 38 to 37. The tiniest crack. He was seizing up. I could see it in his catch—the blade entering a fraction late, his legs losing the snap.
Ten—half a length.
And somewhere in the noise—the officials' launch alongside us, the photographer's shutter going off in rapid bursts—capturing this. Making it permanent. Whatever was happening in this boat right now wasn't just a race anymore. It was a story. The scholarship kid and the legacy kid, rivals from opposite banks, rowing like one body in lane five.
I couldn't think about that. Couldn't think about what the footage would show—two guys who moved together like they shared a nervous system. Who finished each other's calls. Whose bodies knew each other in a way that went beyond training.
Just row.
1600 meters. 400 to go.
Princeton was falling back. Dartmouth somewhere behind them. Everyone behind us.
But we didn't ease up. Didn't settle. Because Princeton's stroke seat was still pulling—slower now, uglier, but still pulling. Still refusing to quit. And if we gave him an inch, he'd take it.
300 meters.
My vision was almost gone—just a tunnel of light with the finish line flags at the center. I couldn't feel my hands anymore. Couldn't feel anything except the burn in my legs and the boat under me still running, still flying, still impossibly light despite the fact that both of us were dying inside it.
200 meters.
Alex's blade. My blade. The same sound. The same angle. The same water.
100 meters.
The crowd was deafening. Both banks. A wall of noise that I felt in my chest more than heard with my ears.
