"I want to—" he started.
The bay door banged open.
We stepped apart, the distance materializing between us like it had been there all along.
Braden Lockwood walked in with Collins and two other pairs rowers. Braden's brown hair was cropped short—a clean crew cut that made him look more military than prep school, which was probably the point. His eyes found us immediately. Standing a little too close together. Alone.
Something flickered across his face. Not suspicion exactly. Curiosity. The kind of look a person gave when they walked into a room and could tell they'd interrupted something but couldn't figure out what.
"Harrington. Moore." He said both names. "Early birds get the worm huh?"
"Lockwood," I said.
Liam said nothing. His face had already changed—the softness gone, replaced by something hard and closed. The transformation was instant. Seamless. Like watching a door slam shut.
Collins and the other two pairs guys dropped their bags and headed upstairs toward the locker rooms. Braden stayed. Moved to the racks and began inspecting the shells.
"Heard you two got the featured double," he said without looking up. "Three generations of Lockwood rowed the Charles. When I say it matters who represents Kingswell on that stage, I mean it's not a participation trophy." He glanced at Liam. "No offense, Moore. I'm sure Riverside's very proud."
"None taken." Liam's voice was cold. "I didn't ask to row with him. The coaches put us together because we were faster than every other boat at the invitational."
The words landed hard. Braden's jaw tightened.
Liam kept going. "You want the double? Take it up with your coach. But we both know what happened last weekend."
Braden's eyes narrowed. He looked between us—Liam rigid with his arms crossed, me standing apart from him with my face carefully neutral.
"It must be all of that history you two have."
My pulse spiked. My palms went damp. For three terrible seconds I couldn't tell what Braden was talking about. We had no idea if he had seen us kiss last week.
"History." Liam's laugh was short and sharp. "Yeah. I beat him at the scrimmage last month and he's been trying to get even since. That's our history." He turned to me, and his expression was perfect—dismissive, annoyed, the look of a guy stuck with a partner he hadn't chosen. "Right, Harrington?"
I saw what he was doing. Building the wall in front of Braden. Selling the story: two rivals who couldn't stand each other but happened to be fast in a boat. Nothing more. Nothing worth looking at.
It was smart. It was necessary.
And it still stung.
"The only reason you won that race was luck," I said. Let my voice go cold with that Harrington tone. "Don't act like rowing with me is some kind of punishment."
Liam's eyes flashed—surprised, then impressed, then gone. Back behind the wall.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Harrington."
Braden watched us for a beat. Then shook his head. "Sounds like a real partnership."
He went back to his shell.
More bodies now. Tyler and two other Riverside guys coming through the bay door carrying oars up from the gravel path. Further back, Jace Morales, Riverside team captain followed them in. Liam turned to greet his crew.
Derek and a few other guys reappeared from the locker rooms, changed and ready, coffee still in hand.
I stood there with my heart hammering.
What does he know?
The question spiraled. I pressed my thumb into my palm and made myself breathe. Braden was competitive, bitter. His father and my father had a rivalry that stretched back thirty years. This was posturing. Territorial marking. It didn't mean he knew anything.
