Heat spread through my ribs. My body remembered Saturday night before my brain could catch up.
Fuck.
I looked away fast. Forced my breathing steady.
Don't stare. Don't look too long. Don't acknowledge. Act like nothing happened.
"Alright, listen up."
Coach Hale's voice. I turned.
Both coaches stood near the center of the boathouse. Hale and Eldridge. Side by side but not quite together. You could feel the rivalry even in the way they held space—polite, professional, but underneath it a quiet competition that mirrored us.
Eldridge spoke first. "This joint training program is about performance. Testing combinations. Seeing what works when we mix teams."
"Adaptability," Hale added. "You're rivals, but you're here to learn from each other. Push each other."
A few guys shifted. The "learn from each other" line was bullshit and everyone knew it. This was scouting and gathering intel for future races. And to see who broke first when the pressure came down on us.
"We'll be running different boat configurations over the next few weeks," Eldridge continued. "Singles, doubles, fours. Nothing's permanent. Everything's data."
He paused, looking between both teams.
"The program runs for three weeks. At the end of week three, there are two events back-to-back. Saturday evening is the annual alumni mixer—both programs, donors, families. It's already scheduled. You'll be expected to attend and represent your teams."
Hale picked up the thread. "Sunday morning—the day after the mixer—we're hosting the Northeast Regional Invitational. Six schools: us, Kingswell, Boston University, Princetown,Dartmouth, and Northeastern. Multiple doubles from each program competing on our water."
My stomach tightened.
"This scrimmage is the showcase," Eldridge said. "Proof that joint training produces results. Donors and alumni from all six schools will be watching. Media coverage. Scouts. The pairings we test over the next three weeks will determine who rows Sunday."
He let that sit.
"After the scrimmage, we split. Three weeks of independent training to prepare for Head of the Charles in November. But before that happens, you need to prove this program works."
"This is your audition," Hale said. "Show us what you can do together, and you'll earn your seat for Sunday. Show us you can't handle it, and you watch from the bank."
The room went quiet.
This wasn't practice—it was theater. A performance designed to prove the joint program worked, that collaboration produced results worth the political cost of putting rivals in the same boats.
"First up," Hale said, checking his clipboard. "Williams and Chen—double. Rodriguez and Martinez—pair."
He kept reading names. Kingswell and Riverside mixed. Some guys looked excited. Some looked skeptical. Tyler caught my eye from where he stood near the wall, gave me a look that saidgood luck.
"Moore and Harrington—double."
The words landed like a stone in water.
Someone on the Riverside side made a sound—surprise, maybe amusement. I couldn't tell. Couldn't focus past the rushing in my ears.
Alex's face went carefully neutral across the boathouse.
I forced my expression to match and kept my face blank.
The coaches kept reading names but I wasn't listening anymore.
Me and Alex. In a boat. Together.
