Five days of careful. Five days of performance. Five days of being three feet apart in public and a million miles apart.
Something had to give.
I just didn't know it would be tomorrow.
Chapter 5: Alex
Saturday. End of week one.
We were in Hale's office at the Riverside boathouse was barely an office, it was more like a storage closet someone had shoved a desk into. The walls were covered with race results, training schedules, and motivational quotes written in Sharpie on poster board.
Eldridge looked out of place in it. His polo pressed, his watch catching the fluorescent light, sitting in a folding chair like a man who'd been asked to dine at a food truck. Hale sat behind his desk with his coffee mug and the expression of someone who didn't care whether anyone was comfortable.
Liam and I sat across from them. Close enough that our shoulders almost touched. Close enough that I could smell the sweat on his skin from this morning's row.
I kept my hands in my lap. Still.
"Week one's done, so let's talk about where you are," Hale said.
He pulled a sheet from the stack on his desk. Numbers. Splits. Times from every session this week, logged in Hale's cramped handwriting.
"Monday's 5K simulation: seventeen forty-two. Wednesday you brought that down to seventeen thirty-one. This morning's race-pace pieces were the cleanest I've seen from any double in this program in five years." He looked up. "You're fast. You know that. But more importantly, you're consistent. And consistency is what wins at the Charles."
Eldridge leaned forward. "The Charles isn't a sprint. It's three miles of sustained effort with turns, bridge clearances, and traffic from sixty other boats in your event. The crews that win aren't always the fastest on flat water—they're the ones who hold form under pressure." He looked between us. "You two hold form."
I nodded trying not to smile.
"We've been contacted," Hale said.
Liam shifted beside me.
"A major scout from the U23 national development staff. They saw the invitational footage. They want to see you at the Charles in person."
The room went quiet.
U23. The Olympic pipeline. And they wanted to seeus. This was everything Liam wanted and I was pretty sure it was what I wanted too. But I was more excited for Liam. I could feel him next to me.
"This is the kind of visibility that can change trajectories," Eldridge said. He was looking at me when he said it, and I could hear my father's voice underneath his—the Harrington name means something at the Charles.
"Don't waste it," Hale said.
"We won't," Liam said. His voice was steady but his knee was bouncing. I could feel the vibration through the floor.
"Week two starts Monday," Hale said. "I want to increase the race-pace work. Longer pieces. Full course simulations with turn practice." He glanced at Eldridge. "We'll discuss the specifics."
"Technical refinement should be the priority Their raw speed is there. What they need is—"
"What they need is to race," Hale said. "They can refine technique in the off-season. Right now, we need them ready for three miles of chaos."
Eldridge's eyes went flat. He didn't argue—not here, not in front of us. But the disagreement was visible. Two coaching philosophies. Two programs. Two sides of the river, even if we were in the same room.
"That's all. Get some rest this weekend. Monday we go harder," Hale said.
We stood. Shook hands. Walked out of the office and down the narrow stairs to the main bay.
The boathouse was empty. Friday morning—the teams had finished practice an hour ago. The combined session had ended, boats racked, ergs wiped down. Everyone had filtered out while we were in the meeting. The bay was quiet. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the sound of the river through the walls.
We stood there. Side by side. Alone.
