Then Remy appeared. Cox box headset still dented into his coils, clipboard tucked under one arm. He stopped in front of me, looked up and his eyes were doing that calculating thing. Reading me like he read a race.
"That wasn't a scrimmage piece. That was a statement." Remy winked.
"Thanks, man." I couldn't help but smile.
"Don't thank me. Just do it again when it counts." He glanced past me at Alex and back to me. He nodded and walked off.
"Alright, bring it in!" Hale's whistle cut through the noise. "Boats up, equipment away. I want a clean bay in fifteen minutes."
The dock started to clear. Guys peeling off in pairs to grab their shells, voices fading as they moved toward the racks. Tyler gave me one more shove on the shoulder before jogging off.
And then it was just us.
Our eyes met for half a second.
His face was flushed. Hair plastered to his forehead. A vein still visible in his neck from the effort. And his eyes—dark, open, unguarded in a way he never let himself be on land.
Something passed between us. Not a word. Not a nod. Just the shared knowledge that what had happened out there wasn't rowing. Wasn't technique or timing or anything coaches could put on a clipboard.
It was us.
Then he reached for the gunwale and the moment broke.
We carried the double into the boathouse together. My hands on one end, his on the other. The shell between us like a barrier and a connection at once.
Both teams converged in the main bay. Riverside buzzing. Kingswell subdued.
"Nice race, Moore." Marcus's voice cut through the chatter. Arms crossed near the boat racks. "Home field advantage."
The bay got quieter.
"It's the same river Marcus and we're all using the same equipment," I said.
"Yeah, but you practice on this garbage every day. Kind of gives you an advantage."
Tyler stepped forward. "Are you seriously blaming the equipment?"
"I'm stating facts."
"The fact is you lost." Tyler was moving toward him. "Maybe it wasn't the boats. Maybe it was the rower."
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Watch it."
They were face to face now. The teams dividing—Riverside toward Tyler, Kingswell shifting toward Marcus.
I stepped between them.
"Enough."
Both stopped.
"Tyler, back off." Then to Marcus: "And you need to stop talking shit. You lost because we rowed better. That's it."
Marcus's face went hard.
"We're all here to get better," I said. Looking between them. Between the teams. "That's the whole point. So either we do that, or we spend the next week pissing on each other and accomplish nothing."
Silence.
