Derek stood a few feet away, towel slung over his shoulder, expression casual but eyes sharp.
How long had he been watching?
I eased off the stroke rate. Let my breathing settle. "Just prepping for tomorrow."
Derek's gaze flicked to the monitor. The splits. The heart rate. The duration.
His jaw shifted.
"That's punishment pace," he said.
I wiped sweat from my face with my shirt. Didn't respond.
Derek watched me for a moment.
Forty minutes. Five to go. I should finish.
"Your back's rounding and you're yanking the handle instead of loading it," he said.
I pulled another stroke. Tried to correct—lengthen through the spine, smooth application of pressure through the drive. My body knew how to do this, and had done it ten thousand times before.
My mind was somewhere else.
"You know what I said still stands," he said.
I looked at him. His expression was steady. Patient. The same look he'd given me on the bridge that afternoon when he'd told me about his father, about falling apart, about asking for help.
You don't have to be perfect. Just honest.
"Being honest isn't easy," I said.
He smirked. "One step at a time, Harrington. I'm here if you need me."
He squeezed my shoulder and walked toward the locker room.
I finished the last five minutes alone.
By the time I unstrapped and stood, my legs were shaking. Not just from exertion—from the adrenaline crash, the emotional exhaustion, the weight of forty-five minutes spent trying to out-row the feelings that lived inside me.
Final split: 1:46 average. Heart rate max: 182.
Way too fast and way too hard, but I deserved it. I grabbed my water bottle and drained it.
The locker room was empty. Steam from Derek's shower still clung to the air, warm and thick against the cool seeping through the windows.
I stopped in front of the mirror above the sinks.
My reflection stared back—hair damp with sweat, face flushed, Kingswell blue clinging to my shoulders. I pulled the shirt over my head and dropped it on the bench.
The mirror showed what years of rowing had built: lean muscle across my shoulders and back, defined chest, the cut of my obliques disappearing into my waistband. Not bulky. Efficient. A body designed for enduring pain.
I looked good. I knew I looked good.
The irony was suffocating—I'd spent years sculpting something that performed exactly as expected, and the only time it had felt likeminewas Saturday night. Liam's hands on this skin. His eyes on my body—not on Alex Harrington, legacy athlete, Kingswell golden boy—but onme. Wanting me.
I stripped off the rest and left my clothes in a smelly heap by the bench.
I walked into the shower room, turned on the water, and stepped under the spray.
