He'd picked the restaurant—a place on the Kingswell side of Main Street called The Oarsman. Brick walls, dim lighting, long wooden tables designed for groups. Rowing photos on the walls going back decades. The kind of place where both programs had history, and where the burgers were good enough that nobody argued about the choice.
We took over the back room. Twenty-something rowers filling two long tables pushed together. The noise was immediate—silverware, laughter, three conversations happening at once. Tyler was doing an impression of Hale's megaphone voice that had Evan doubled over. Remy was explaining stroke pacing to one of the Kingswell guys using salt shakers as visual aids, and the Kingswell guy looked like he was actually learning something. Derek and Jace were at the far end, debating something about race-day logistics with the easy back-and-forth of two people who'd figured out how to respect each other.
Ethan was there too—not eating, just moving through the room with his phone out, grabbing footage for the documentary. He had that quiet focus he got behind a camera, invisible in a way that made people forget he was recording. A wide shot of both tables. A close-up of Tyler mid-impression. Remy's saltshaker formation. He caught me looking and gave a small nod then angled away toward the Riverside end of the table.
Hale and Eldridge sat at opposite ends. Hale had his beer and a burger. Eldridge had his wine and a steak. The gap between them was three feet of table and about thirty years of different ideas about what rowing was for.
Halfway through dinner, Eldridge excused himself. Stepped outside with his phone. Through the window I could see him pacing the sidewalk, nodding at whatever the person on the other end was saying.
"Always on the phone," Collins muttered, grabbing another roll from the basket.
I watched Eldridge through the glass for a second too long, then turned back to my plate.
Liam was across from me and four seats down. We'd gotten good at this geometry. The exact distance required to be in the same room without being in each other's orbit. But I kept catching his eye—brief, accidental, a quarter second that carried the weight of everything we couldn't say.
"Pass the ketchup?"
I handed it to Collins without thinking. The dinner was moving around me—then Braden leaned across the table.
"Nice time today, Harrington. Sixteen fifty-eight." He said it flat, acknowledging the number without congratulating it. "Hale's been pushing hard for more race-pace work. Sounds like he's getting his way over Eldridge."
"The coaching approach is a joint decision," I said.
"Is it?" He took a sip of his soda. "Because you and Moore are getting all the resources while the rest of us train around your schedule."
"That's not—"
"I'm just saying. Some of us earned our seats through the program. Not through family connections and coaches who play favorites."
Before I could respond, Marcus cut in from two seats over without looking up from his phone.
"Lockwood, you rowed a nineteen forty today. Alex rowed a sixteen fifty-eight. That's a two-minute gap." He pocketed his phone. "Maybe focus on closing that before you start critiquing the coaching structure."
Braden's face went red.
"Nobody asked you, Caldwell."
"Nobody had to." Marcus took a bite of his burger. Calm. Almost bored. "I'm just tired of listening to you bitch about other people's boats when yours is minutes off the pace."
Braden stared at him. Then stood. "Big training day tomorrow." He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. On his way past me, he leaned down. Close enough that only I could hear.
"Be careful, Harrington. People are always watching."
Then he was gone. The door swung shut. The noise of the restaurant rushed back in. Tyler was still doing impressions at the other end of the table. Most of the room hadn't even noticed.
Marcus slid into the chair next to me. His expression had changed—the lazy amusement gone, replaced by something I hadn't seen from him in weeks.
"He's a prick. Always has been. His dad's the same way," Marcus said.
"I know."
We sat there for a second. Around us, the dinner continued.
"You know what I remember?"
"What?" I asked suspiciously.
"Summer before seventh grade. Your dad made us do that sailing camp at the yacht club."
