Behind us, Evan was wide-eyed, taking everything in. First time crossing to Kingswell—kid looked like he was walking intobattle instead of training. Meanwhile, I'd not only been here before, I'd broken in and hooked up in a basement storage closet.
"Is their boathouse really nicer than ours?" he asked.
Jace glanced back. "Everything's nicer than ours. I'm pretty sure our launch boat has a hole in it that Coach just stuffs a rag into."
A few guys laughed. The nervous energy in the group shifted.
My stomach had been tight since I woke up. Couldn't eat breakfast. Just coffee that sat wrong in my gut.
Emily. After this practice. After whatever the hell this morning turned into.
One thing at a time.
The bridge ended. Kingswell's campus opened up ahead. Even in the dark you could feel the difference. Like everything here had been paid for generations ago and only the most important people went here.
It wasn't for us.
"Enemy territory," someone muttered behind me.
"You got that right," I said.
If we were in enemy territory, then I was sleeping with the enemy.
Tyler nudged my shoulder. "You good?"
I didn't respond.
The boathouse came into view, it's lights glowing warm through the windows. Bigger than ours. Cleaner that ours. Sparkling like diamonds.
We pushed through the doors.
Kingswell rowers were already there, clustered near the boats. All blue. Matching warmups, matching gear, everything coordinated and clean. They looked like a team photo waiting to happen.
We looked like a collection of guys who'd grabbed whatever burgundy we owned and called it good. Some of the warmups were three years old. Mine had a bleach stain on the sleeve I'd stopped trying to hide.
The Kingswell guys glanced over. Not hostile. Just... assessing. A few smirks as they sized us up.
Where is he?
My jaw tightened.
The Kingswell boathouse was twice the size of ours. High ceilings with steel beams running across them, tall windows down one side that let in enough light to see every detail of the place. The lower bay opened straight onto the water through roll-up doors wide enough to carry an eight through without turning sideways.
Shells lined the racks in rows—Empachers, Filippis, boats that cost more than my mom's car. Each one gleaming under the overhead lights, organized by class, labeled with brass tags. The floor was clean enough to eat off. No puddles, no stray oar handles leaning against walls, no duct tape holding anything together.
An erg room sat off to one side through a glass partition—Concept2s in a neat grid, all facing the same direction. Weight room beyond that.
"Jesus," Tyler said, looking around in awe.
Jace's voice cut through. "We're here to work."
Then my eyes found him.
There.
Alex.
Near the far wall. Talking to Derek. Kingswell blue fitted perfectly across his shoulders. Hair still damp like he'd showered before coming. Gesturing about something technical, focused, completely in his element.
