"Ready," I said.
"Ready," Alex answered behind me.
I took the first stroke.
Cautious. Careful. Setting the rhythm.
Alex followed.
His timing was slightly off. Just a fraction of a second late on the catch. The boat wobbled—our drives not quite synchronized.
I adjusted. Pulled again, and he matched better this time.
Third stroke. Fourth. Fifth.
And then—
Something clicked.
The hull suddenly glided instead of fought. Our catches locked in at exactly the same moment—blades entering the water with one sound instead of two. The drive pressure matched perfectly, our legs pushing together, our finishes clean and simultaneous.
The rhythm found itself.
My breathing synced with his without thought. His exhale on the drive, his inhale on the recovery—and my body matched it automatically. Not decided. Not forced. Justhappening.
The boat felt alive.
We took another stroke. Then another.
It was easy. Dangerously easy.
I feel Alex behind me and it was perfect, like he knew when I was about to catch before my blade touched water. Our bodies moved together like we'd been doing this for years instead of minutes. The connection was unreal.
When I was with him in a boat, nothing else existed.
"Catch tiny bit early," Alex said behind me.
"Got it."
I adjusted. He was right—I'd been rushing slightly, my eagerness pulling me ahead of the rhythm.
We rowed in silence for another minute. The boat gliding smooth beneath us, and the other boats around us but feeling very far away.
"You always row this light?" Alex's voice. A slight edge. Almost teasing.
"You always this heavy?" I shot back.
A pause. Then: "Yeah."
The sound of his voice made my chest hum.
I glanced toward the coaches' launch, and both Hale and Eldridge were watching. Taking notes. Clocking every stroke.
Shit. What if we're so good they keep us together?
I couldn't make the boat row worse on purpose—couldn't throw the rhythm without it being obvious to anyone who knew what synchronized rowing looked like.
So I kept rowing.
