But we were smoother. Cleaner. Every stroke more efficient.
"Five hundred down!" Hale's voice from the launch. "Stay long!"
My lungs starting to scream and the burn in my legs intensifying with every drive.
Behind me, Alex's breathing was steady. His catches timed perfectly with mine.
We weren't talking, because we didn't need to, our bodies communicated through feeling and movement.
It was like the admission, the apology, the kiss in the boathouse brought us back. We were in and we both wanted to win this. There wasn't a trace of whatever mess we rowed the other morning.
One thousand meters. Halfway.
Still even with Marcus.
The other two boats had fallen back—half a length behind already. But Marcus and Thompson were right there. Refusing to break.
My vision started to narrow. Everything reducing to sensation.
The catch—blade entering the water at the perfect angle.
The drive—legs pushing, back swinging, arms pulling through.
The recovery—body sliding forward, blade feathering over the surface.
Again. Again. Again.
Twelve hundred meters.
Alex shifted slightly behind me. Leaned into the next stroke just a fraction harder.
I matched him without thinking.
Fucking perfect.
Our rating climbed. Thirty-three. Thirty-four.
Marcus responded. His boat inching forward.
Fuck that.
Eight hundred meters to go.
This was where races broke. Where you either had it or you didn't.
My whole body was on fire. Muscles screaming. Lungs shredding. That specific 2K burn where every breath feels like your last.
But I wasn't done… and neither was Alex.
I could feel it in the way the boat moved beneath us. In the way our rhythm hadn't wavered a fraction. In the way his blade still hit the water at the exact same moment as mine, stroke after stroke after stroke.
"Ready to do this, golden boy?"
The words came out rough. Breathless.
Behind me I could feel Alex light up—this was our moment.
"Power ten," I called. "On this one. Now!"
