Just him.
The sound of oars hitting water broke through. Other boats coming alongside. Voices calling out—congratulations, disbelief, noise rushing back in like someone had turned the volume up on the world.
We paddled toward the dock. My arms felt like they were made of sand.
Coach Eldridge was standing there. Clipboard on the ground next to him—not in his hand, not tucked under his arm. On the ground. Like he'd dropped it and forgotten.
"I've never seen anything like that," he said as we approached. His voice was different from the usual clinical precision. "In twenty years of coaching. Never."
Coach Hale was next to him. Grinning so wide it changed the shape of his face. "That's what I'm talking about. That's what this program is about."
We docked. Started climbing out. My legs nearly buckled when I stood—quads seizing, that post-2K tremor where your muscles don't trust solid ground anymore.
And then I saw him.
Alex's father. Standing apart from the crowd. Arms crossed. Face unreadable in that specific way that wasn't neutral at all—it was controlled. Calculating. The same expression he probably wore in boardrooms when a deal went sideways.
Our eyes met for a second.
He gave a small nod. The kind that acknowledged a result without approving of anything. Without conceding anything.
Then he turned and walked away. Unhurried. Like he'd seen what he came to see.
I looked at Alex.
His jaw had gone tight. I watched the muscle work under his skin—the clench, the release, the clench again. His shoulders rigid. His hands, still gripping the gunwale, white at the knuckles.
Then something in him let go. Not everything. But enough.
"Fuck him," Alex said quietly. Just for me. "We did it anyway."
Before we could de-rig the boat, the Riverside team swarmed us.
Tyler first—still nursing his wrapped hand but using the good one to pound my back hard enough to rattle my teeth. Jace right behind him, grabbing my shoulders, shaking me. Remy with that quiet grin that said more than anyone else's shouting. And Noah pushing through the crowd.
Everyone from Riverside was there celebrating but the Kingswell guys were nowhere to be found. Except for Ethan, who had his camera up, capturing everything with that steady focus he brought to all his work.
"That was insane!" Tyler was yelling. "You absolute—"
"—destroyed them!" Jace's voice cracking with it.
And then—
Hands. Too many hands. Grabbing us. Lifting.
"What are you—" Alex started. I heard the alarm in his voice—the instinct to resist, to maintain control.
"Tradition!" someone yelled.
They carried us toward the edge of the dock. Both of us. Over their heads like we weighed nothing, which we definitely didn't.
"Wait—" I tried.
Too late.
The water hit me like a fist. Cold. October-river cold—the kind that seized your lungs and stopped your brain for a full second. I went under completely, still in full gear, the shock of it so total that everything else just—stopped.
I came up gasping. Sputtering. Water streaming down my face, tasting like river silt and cold metal.
