Then Liam's face hardened.
"Your catches were early at the 500," he said. Loud enough for people nearby to hear.
I blinked, taking a second to understand what he was doing.
"They weren't early," I said, matching his tone. "You were late on the recovery."
"Bullshit. I was right on pace."
"Your pace was off."
We faced each other now. Close enough that it looked like confrontation, far enough that it wasn't threatening.
Anyone watching would see two rowers arguing about technique. Not two people who'd been flying together ten minutes ago.
Liam turned and grabbed the end of the shell. I followed his lead. We lifted the double out of the water without speaking, carried it toward the racks, and set it down carefully.
"Well, well. Perfect little duo out there."
Marcus.
I turned. He was leaning against the dock railing, that entitled smirk I'd seen a thousand times. The one that meant he was about to be a total dick.
Liam went rigid beside me.
"Didn't know you two were so... compatible," Marcus continued.
My jaw tightened. "Rowing, Marcus. You should try it sometime."
"Oh, I do." His smirk widened. "Just not quite so...synchronized."
Liam took a step forward.
"Don't make me hit you again."
Barely above a whisper, and spoken through his teeth—deadly.
Marcus's smirk faltered. His hand went to his jaw—still healing from the party fight.
Then the smirk came back. "Touchy."
"Walk away, Marcus," I said.
He did. Slowly to make it look like his choice.
A few other Kingswell guys were nearby. Watching. The tension thick enough to taste.
I looked at Liam. Fists clenched. Face hard. Everything about him barely controlled anger.
Our eyes met.
Everything from the water—gone. The honesty, the connection, the ease. Replaced by walls and performance and the ugliness of what we had to pretend to be.
Liam turned and walked toward where the Riverside team was gathering, and didn't look back.
I stood there, my chest tight, and hands still cold from the river water.
The whiplash—from flying tothis—settled in my stomach like nausea.
