"I'm taking it up with you," he said.
"Why? Because a Lockwood can't handle his own problems?"
Braden's eyes flashed. Direct hit. The family nerve—thirty years of his father telling him the Harringtons thought they were better. I knew exactly where to press because I'd grown up watching our fathers do it to each other.
"Watch your mouth, Harrington."
"You came out here looking for a fight. Don't be surprised when you get one."
"Your boy went off on me. Ranting about my comments, grabbing me by my jacket—" Braden's voice was tight, controlled, but the anger was leaking through.
Not good. Liam went after him. That's not what we planned.
"Maybe you should keep your mouth shut then," I said. It wasn't me, it was the alcohol talking.
Anger flared in his eyes. "You guys have got some secret going on and I'm going to find out what it is."
My stomach dropped.
Liam slipped. How much had he said? My drunk brain was already filling in the worst version—Liam raging in the parking lot, mouth running faster than his brain, cracking open the door on the texts, the photo, everything we were hiding.
"I don't know what he said to you."
"But you know what this is about." He stepped forward. Our chests almost touching. "The way he saidus.Stay away fromus.That's not how you talk about a doubles partner."
"It's exactly how you talk about a doubles partner. Not that you'd know what a good double partner is about, you guys can't break 18 minutes on the course."
His body tensed. For a second I thought he'd swing. Part of me wanted him to. The vodka was making me reckless—stripping away the careful, measured Harrington restraint and leaving behind something uglier. Something that knew how to use thirty years of family warfare as a weapon.
"He touches me again," Braden said, low, "I go to the coaches."
"And tell them what? That you got rattled by a Riverside kid half your net worth?"
"That a rower from the other program assaulted me. That's enough."
"Go ahead. Run to Eldridge. Run to your father. That's what Lockwoods do, right? Can't win on the water so you try to win in the boardroom."
Braden's hand came up—not a punch, a shove. Both palms against my chest. I stumbled back into the lawn chair. It scraped across the porch and my cup went flying—vodka splattering across the old wood.
I was up before I'd decided to be. In his face. Close enough to see the vein in his temple.
"Don't fucking touch me."
"Then don't talk about my family."
"You started this."
"Moore started this." Braden held my gaze. Neither of us blinking.
We stood there. Breathing hard. The party muffled behind the door. The November air freezing the sweat on my neck.
"Stay away from Moore," I said. "And stay away from me."
"Gladly." He shoved past me—shoulder first, hard enough to knock me sideways—and went inside. The door banged shut.
I stood there. Hands shaking. Heart hammering. The overturned lawn chair behind me. Vodka soaking into the porch boards.
How much did Liam say?
