I pushed harder. Not because of him. Because of the person behind me who had chosen this—chosen me—over every expectation and every legacy and every cold, measured voice that saidcontrol yourself, Alexander.
"Power's up," Alex said. Surprised. "What was that?"
"Nothing. Just felt good."
"Keep feeling it."
Anderson Bridge. Forty-two hundred meters. Ethan's bridge. Somewhere up there, a camera was recording. Seeing whatever the lens saw.
Six hundred meters to go.
The Princeton double that had launched two intervals ahead was right there. We'd been gaining on them for the last thousand meters without realizing it—the detour through the rough water had burned time but somehow hadn't killed our speed. We'd rowed angry through the chop. Rowed scared. Rowed honest. And the boat had responded by going faster, not slower. Like the crisis had unlocked something the clean water couldn't.
"They're spiking," Alex said. Princeton's rate climbing, their form deteriorating—blades getting sloppy, their boat checking on every third stroke. Spending everything to hold a pace their bodies couldn't sustain.
"I see it."
"When?"
Patience. The thing I'd learned the hard way. The thing the old Liam couldn't do—wait, read, trust the plan instead of swinging first.
Four hundred meters to the finish. The markers visible ahead.
"Now," I said.
"Power ten. On you. Go."
"ONE."
The drive went through my legs like something detonating. The boat surged.
"TWO."
Alex matching. Perfect. The hull lifting.
"THREE—FOUR—FIVE—"
Princeton's stern getting closer. Their wake visible. Their stroke seat looking over his shoulder—the glance that meant he knew we were coming.
"SIX—SEVEN—"
My lungs were gone. Past fire. Into the white place where pain became noise and the only thing left was the will to keep pulling.
"EIGHT—NINE—"
We pulled even. Their bow next to ours. Their rowers gasping. The water between the hulls narrow and churning.
"TEN."
We cleared them. Open water.
"HOLD IT." Alex's voice—raw, shredded, every ounce of composure gone. Nothing left but the athlete and the will. "TWO HUNDRED METERS. HOLD IT."
Two hundred meters. Forty seconds at race pace. An eternity when your body was begging you to stop.
I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Because behind me, the person I loved was still rowing. Still matching my stroke. Still choosing me with every catch and every drive. And if he could hold it, I could hold it.
The finish marker.
