Absolute silence.
"What did you say to me?"
"I said you don't have that authority." Eldridge didn't back down. "I'm the head coach. Training decisions are mine. Competition lineups are mine. And I will not pull an athlete from a race because his father is uncomfortable with who he's rowing with."
"I fund this program—"
"And I run it." Firm. Final. "If you want to take this to the board, that's your right. But until they tell me otherwise, the joint program continues."
Footsteps. My father stepping towards the door.
I moved fast. Down the hallway, around the corner into the locker room. Pressed myself against the wall just inside the door, heart hammering.
"This conversation isn't over," my father said.
The door slammed.
I stood there. Pressed against the wall. Unable to move.
My father knew Liam and I had rowed together. The coaches wanted us to race the invitational. The thought of competing alongside Liam in front of everyone—donors, scouts, my father—was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
I held my breath until I heard the main door open and close. Counted to ten. Twenty. Made sure he was really gone.
Then I let myself breathe.
My hands were shaking.
I walked deeper into the locker room on autopilot. Set my bag on the bench. Stared at it.
Eldridge stood up to him.
The thought kept circling.
My father had threatened everything—his job, the funding, the program. He wielded the Harrington name like the weapon it was.
And Eldridge had saidno.
Just...no.
I'd spent my entire life watching people fold to my father. Board members. Business partners. Coaches at my prep school. My mother.
Me.
Everyone folded. That was the rule I'd built my life around—that his power was absolute, his authority unquestionable, his disappointment a force that could destroy anything it touched.
But Eldridge hadn't folded. He'd stood there and refused, even knowing what it might cost him.
If Eldridge could say no to my father—if someone could actually stand up to him and survive—
The thought was dangerous. Terrifying.
Because it meant maybe his power wasn't absolute.
And if it wasn't absolute, then maybe I'd been building my cage out of material that wasn't as strong as I'd believed.
I pulled off my damp practice gear slowly. The locker room was too quiet—just my own breathing and water dripping somewhere in the pipes.
The shower was brief. Just hot enough to loosen the knots in my shoulders. Not nearly enough to fix anything else.
