Not Dad. I'd never called him Dad—not since I was old enough to understand that the word implied a warmth that didn't exist in our house.
I stepped inside. Dropped my bag. Answered.
"Hello."
"Alexander. I wanted to check in. How's training?" His voice was… different.
"It's going well."
"Good. That's good. I watched the invitational footage. Eldridge sent it to the alumni group."
My grip tightened on the phone.
"You and Moore—that was impressive rowing. The second half of that race, the way you closed the gap and took the lead... I've watched it three times."
I didn't say anything. Couldn't. Because my father had never—not once in twenty years—watched something I'd done three times.
"You earned that win, Alexander. I want you to know that."
The words hit me somewhere I wasn't prepared for. Not my chest, not my stomach. Deeper. The place where a kid still lived who used to stand on the dock after junior regattas, scanning the crowd for his father's face, finding it, and seeing nothing but assessment.
"Thank you," I said. My voice came out rough.
"I hear the Charles entry is official. Featured double."
"Yes. Moore and I."
"That's a significant opportunity. National stage. Scouts. The kind of visibility that can define a career." He paused. "I'll be there."
Of course he was.
"The Harrington name has history at that race. Your grandfather rowed it in '78. I rowed it in '96. But I'll tell you something—neither of us placed in our event." Another pause. "You could be the first."
Something warm spread through my chest and I hated it. Hated how good it felt. Hated that after twenty years of performing for this man, a few sentences of genuine pride could crack me open like I was twelve again.
"I'll do my best," I said.
"I know you will." He took a long pause. "You looked happy out there. In the footage."
My throat closed.
Happy.My father had noticed I looked happy. My father, who viewed emotion as weakness and passion as unprofessionalism, had watched me row and seen happiness and was telling me about it like it mattered.
Was this real? Was this a play? Was Thomas Harrington capable of saying his son looked happy and meaning it without an agenda?
I didn't know. And not knowing was worse than any threat he could have made. Because threats I could defend against. This—this warmth, this approval—I had no armor for.
"Thanks, Father," I said.
"We'll talk soon."
He hung up.
What was that?
I sat on the edge of my bed. Phone in my hand. The screen going dark.
I took a deep breath to try and cool the anxiety in my chest.
