Tyler was staring at me. Remy too—his eyes sharp, taking it all in, he knew what was going on.
"Grab your boats," Eldridge said. "Let's get on the water."
Everyone filtered toward the boats and oars. I walked toward where the doubles were racked, keeping distance between me and Alex even as we moved in the same direction.
He reached the boat first and stood on one side, waiting.
He looked perfect. Of course he did. Kingswell blue fitted across his shoulders, the athletic build underneath obvious even through the warmups.
But I knew what was under those layers now. Had felt the muscles of his stomach under my hands. Had tasted his skin. Had heard him make sounds that perfect Alex Harrington would never make in public.
Our eyes met.
Brief. Loaded. Everything from Saturday night compressed into a glance.
He looked away first.
My chest went tight. The fucked-up part—even now, even having to pretend, some part of me felt right standing this close. Like my body recognized his and wanted to close the distance.
But we couldn't, we had to keep space and continue to sell this lie.
Performing hatred when I could still feel the way he'd looked at me in his dorm room. The ease we'd had before reality crashed back in.
I took the other side of the boat.
"You take bow," I said. Short. Clipped.
"Fine." His tone matched mine.
We lifted the boat down and carried it toward the dock without looking at each other. Our teammates were watching—I could feel the attention like heat on my skin. Liam Moore and Alex Harrington. Enemies since last year. The famous rivalry.
I kept my posture stiff. Defensive. Alex moved with that controlled precision he always had.
We set the boat in the water and grabbed our sculls.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Yeah."
I climbed into the stroke seat—stern of the boat, the position that sets the rhythm. Behind me, toward the bow, Alex settled in.
The boat rocked as he found his balance. Every micro-movement traveled through the hull. The click of oar locks. The scrape of the seat on its track. His breathing, close enough to hear.
I couldn't see him, but I could feel him. Every shift. Every adjustment. The weight of his presence three feet behind me.
God, I just wanted to be alone with him again.
It was one thing to do this alone on the lake at Brackett. But together? In front of everyone?
Focus. Legs, back, arms. Catch, drive, finish.
Don't think about Saturday night. Don't think about the taste of his tongue—stop.
We pushed off from the dock.
The water was cold. I could feel it through the hull, the chill rising through the thin carbon fiber. Pre-dawn light was just starting to bleed into the sky, turning everything grey and soft.
Other boats launched around us. The coaches' launches idled nearby, megaphones ready.
