"That's Anderson Bridge," I said. Pointing. "Ethan's going to be up there with his camera."
"And that one?"
"Weeks Bridge. Where the course narrows. The turn everyone's afraid of."
He stared at the river. The water that could change his life.
"It's big," he said.
"Yeah. It is."
The bus pulled up to the hotel. Glass doors. A lobby visible through the windows, marble floors, leather furniture, and fancy lighting.
Hale stood at the front. "Listen up. Rooms are assigned—check the list at the front desk. Gear stays on the bus until tomorrow. Dinner is at seven. Restaurant across the street. Be there."
The aisle filled with bodies and bags. The bus emptying in the disorganized rush of thirty athletes who'd been sitting for three hours.
I grabbed my bag. Stood. Liam stood behind me in the aisle. Close. The bus nearly empty now.
We stepped off into Boston. The air was different from Ashford—sharper, colder, carrying the sounds of a city that never went quiet. Traffic. A siren somewhere distant. The hum of a million lives stacked on top of each other.
Liam stepped off behind me. We stood on the sidewalk. Bags over our shoulders. The hotel above us. The Charles River somewhere beyond the buildings.
"We're here," I said.
He looked at me. I looked at him. And in that moment, I knew everything was going to be okay. I wasn't sure why, it was a feeling. It was me and Liam, still together, after everything we'd been through. We made it here.
Tomorrow we'd race on the Charles. And somewhere in this city, scouts were waiting and my father was watching and the anonymous texter was doing whatever anonymous texters did when their targets left town.
But right now it was just us. On a sidewalk. In a city where nobody knew our story.
And that felt like freedom.
Chapter 24: Liam
The restaurant was called Trattoria del Corso.
Dark wood paneling, white tablecloths, candles in heavy glass holders that threw soft light across the ceiling. The kind of place that assumed everyone at the table had a credit card with no limit.
The team filled a long table in the back—both programs, thirty bodies crammed into a space built for twenty-five. Tyler at one end, already loud. Jace and Derek at the other, anchoring things the way captains did. Remy between Ethan and Collins, his small frame nearly invisible between their shoulders. Marcus across from Mason, scrolling his phone between courses.
I sat down. Alex sat beside me. Same as the bus. The pattern we'd been building all day—proximity that wasn't forced, proximity that was chosen.
The menu was leather-bound. Heavy.
I opened it and the numbers hit me like a wall.
Chicken parm—$28. Salmon — $32. The pasta dishes started at $24 and climbed. Even the salads were $16. I scanned for thecheapest thing. Side of bread. Side of soup. Maybe if I ordered a water and a side I could—
"We'll both have the rigatoni," Alex said. Smooth. Casual. The waiter had appeared and Alex was already ordering, his voice carrying that effortless authority he used with service staff—polite without being warm, the Harrington autopilot. "And two waters. Thanks."
The waiter disappeared. I looked at Alex.
He wasn't looking at me. He was studying the wine list like it contained information vital to national security. Giving me the space to decide how to feel about what he'd just done.
The instinct was there—the hot, tight thing behind my ribs that flared every time someone with money tried to smooth over the gap. The reflex that saidI can order for myself, I don't need your charity, I'm not your project.
But that wasn't what this was.
