But I knew my answer.
I won't do it.
Derek dropped onto the bench next to me. Close enough that our knees almost touched. He smelled like menthol and the particular brand of tape adhesive that meant he'd already prepped his hands.
"You good?"
"Yeah."
"You look stressed."
"I'm fine."
He studied me for a moment. That quiet, observant thing Derek did—not pushing, just making sure I knew someone was paying attention. His eyes tracked across my face like he was reading a race course, noting where the current ran rough.
"Alright. Well, you and Moore are going to kill it out there. Everyone's talking about your pairing."
My stomach tightened. "Great."
"I'm serious. The coaches have been hyping it all week. This is the race." He grinned—wide and easy. "No pressure."
"None at all."
He clapped my shoulder once. His palm was warm and solid and I had the absurd thought that Derek was one of the few people whose touch didn't make me calculate risk.
Across the room—Tyler on a bench with his hand still braced. Healing from the party fight. He wore his Riverside warmup even though he couldn't row, the burgundy faded at the seams, a rip near the zipper he'd fixed with a safety pin. He caught my eye and nodded. Couldn't race but he'd shown up anyway. That was Tyler—the kind of loyalty that didn't need to be earned because it was given freely. Something Kingswell talked about but Riverside actually practiced.
Marcus on the other side with Mason and a few Kingswell guys. Arms crossed. Jaw tight. Not participating in the energy. The careful performance of indifference that I recognized because I'd spent twenty years perfecting the same expression. Still bitter about the joint program—or maybe bitter about something more specific. About losing his claim on me. About the fact that I'd chosen Liam's side of the room without realizing I'd done it.
"Alright, let's go!" someone shouted. "Warm-up in ten!"
The room started clearing out. Guys grabbing gear, filing toward the bay in pairs and small groups. The sounds shifted—lockers closing, shoes squeaking on concrete, the distant metallic clatter of oars being pulled from racks. Derek clapped my shoulder once more and left.
The noise faded like a tide going out.
I stayed on the bench. Tying my shoes even though they were already tied. Just needing another minute with the quiet. The locker room settling around me—dripping faucet somewhere, the hum of the overhead lights, my own breathing too shallow in my chest.
Footsteps. Light. Deliberate.
I looked up.
Remy. Hands in the pockets of his Riverside warmup and his expression unreadable. He was compact and still,carrying himself with the particular authority of someone who commanded eight rowers from the smallest seat in the boat.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey."
We looked at each other. The space between us charged with something I couldn't name.
"You need something?" I asked.
"Not really. Just wanted to say—it's none of my business. Whatever's going on with you and Liam."
My chest seized. The air in the locker room suddenly too warm, too close. I kept my expression neutral—years of practice, muscle memory—but something must have shown because Remy's eyes narrowed just slightly. Reading me. The way he read a crew's breathing patterns from the cox seat.
"But Liam's good people. He's got a good heart. And I've got his back." A pause. "So don't break it."
The words landed heavier than they should have. Because Remy wasn't just talking about a rowing partnership. And the fact that he'd come to say it quietly when no one else was around, meant he'd decided I was worth the risk of saying it at all.
