Split: 1:46.
My quads were burning now. Heart rate climbing past 170. Lactic acid building in my legs—that familiar fire that meant I was pushing past smart training into something reckless.
Thirty minutes done. Fifteen to go.
My thoughts slipped to Saturday night.
Liam.
The image surfaced before I could stop it: his hands on my head, pulling me closer. The weight of him in my mouth. The taste of him. The sounds he'd made when I took him deeper.
Heat spread through my chest and lower.
Split: 1:43.
I was supposed to be at 1:52.
Tomorrow was the first joint practice—five-thirty in the morning.
I'd see him for the first time since his bed.
Could I control myself around him?
The more honest question: did I even want to?
The questions cycled, relentless, syncing with the stroke rate.
How was I supposed to stand next to him, row near him, exist in the same space without everyone seeing exactly what I was feeling? My blade catches would give me away. The way I moved around him.
Everyone would know.
Split: 1:41.
Dangerous. This was dangerous pace for steady state—the kind of effort that would leave me hollow for tomorrow's practice. The rational part of my brain knew that. The rest of me didn't care.
My form was starting to slip. Back rounding slightly at the catch. Yanking the handle instead of smoothly loading the drive. Technical flaws that Coach Eldridge would have identified in seconds—muscling through instead of maintaining efficiency.
Thirty-five minutes. Ten to go.
Breathing ragged. Heart rate 178. Way too high for this type of piece.
I was tired. Not just physically.
Tired of pretending. Tired of managing my expression, editing every gesture, carrying secrets in my body day after day. The performance of being Alex Harrington—controlled, composed, the golden boy who never cracked—was becoming more exhausting than any erg piece.
How much longer could I sustain this?
The answer settled in my chest like something I'd known for a while: not much longer.
But I didn't know what came after, or how to stop performing without everything collapsing. My father. My team. My place at Kingswell. Everything built on a foundation of carefully maintained fiction.
Split: 1:40.
My form was really breaking down now. Lower back complaining. Shoulders hunching forward. The flywheel spinning too fast for the recovery rate.
"That's not training pace."
A voice cut through my spiral. I looked up.
