Knowing I'd chosen to be there anyway.
The thought should have terrified me.
And it did.
But underneath the terror—underneath everything—was something quieter. Steadier. The feeling of a wall that had been holding for twenty years developing its first real crack. Not collapsing. Not yet. But no longer solid either.
Something was shifting. Something that couldn't be unshifted.
I didn't want it to stop.
Chapter 17: Liam
Four doubles at the starting line. Water cold and dark beneath us. October wind cutting across the river.
I leaned forward. Blade squared. Grip tightened on the handles.
Alex behind me in bow. I could hear his breathing. Feel the weight of him in the boat. The way our bodies had already found the same rhythm without trying—catches syncing before the first stroke, like muscle memory that existed before we'd earned it.
"You ready to win this?" Alex asked.
"It's the only thing I'm ready for."
And it was true, the last week had been chaos, but today was all about the boat. It didn't matter who I chose, who I hurt, and who I was.
"Ready..." Hale's voice echoed through his megaphone.
Last night, I broke down in front of Noah and told him everything. Cried like I hadn't since I was a kid. And I felt lighter now, not fixed, just lighter.
I had to stop fighting what I couldn't control. What was going to happen… was going to happen. That was it.
One thing I knew I could control was this race. I was ready to show everyone, not only was I good in a single. But I could dominate in a double too… a double with Alex.
"Row!"
We exploded off the line.
Ten strokes to build. My legs drove hard—full compression, full extension, every fiber in my quads firing. Blade entering clean. The shell surged forward beneath us.
Marcus and Thompson were right there in the lane beside us. Both strong rowers. Both pushing. Marcus's face set in that competitive grimace he always wore.
"Settle!" I called.
We dropped into race pace. Thirty-two strokes per minute.
And just like that—we found it.
Alex and me.
The boat came alive.
My blade caught the water at the exact microsecond as Alex's. Our slides moved in perfect mirror. The shell responded like it was an extension of our bodies—not fiberglass and carbon fiber but something living, something that wanted to fly.
The river was cold against my calves where spray kicked up. Wind bit at my face. Quads starting to burn.
Five hundred meters down.
Marcus's boat stayed even with us. The churn of their oars. The grunt of effort.
