Yes. I'm sleeping with my doubles partner. Someone is trying to frame us. And I'm terrified.
"It's Harrington," I said instead.
Hale's eyes narrowed. "What about him?"
"He's not—" I stopped. Started again. "He's dealing with something. I don't know the details but it's affecting his focus and when his focus goes, the connection goes."
It was close enough to the truth to feel honest and far enough from it to be safe. Alex was dealing with something. Several somethings. And one of those somethings was me.
"So it's his fault," Hale said.
"I didn't say that."
"You just did." He took a sip of coffee. Studied me over the rim. "Here's what I heard: my partner is distracted, which is why the boat is slow, which means it's not my problem to fix."
"That's not—"
"Because if that's what you're telling me, I've got a different question." He set his coffee on a dock cleat. "Do you want to lead this team someday?"
The question landed harder than the 18:23.
"Yeah," I said. "You know I do."
"Then start acting like it. A leader doesn't come to his coach and sayit's the other guy.A leader figures out what his partner needs and finds a way to get them there." He crossed his arms. "You think Jace ever came to me and said Tyler was having a bad week so the eight was slow? You think Derek ever blamed a rower for the boat not running?"
"That's different."
"How?"
I didn't have an answer. Because it wasn't different. The boat didn't care whose fault it was. The boat only cared whether two people could find each other in the stroke.
"We're eight days out from the Charles, Moore. Eight days." Hale picked up his coffee again. "I believe in what you and Harrington can do. I saw it. I timed it. Sixteen-forty is real. But eighteen twenty-three is also real, and right now eighteen twenty-three is what I've got."
"I'll fix it."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But I will."
Hale studied me for a long beat. "I'll give you till the end of the week. On Friday we'll run another full race simulation. If it doesn't together, I've still got options. Marcus and Collins have been solid. And Braden's been pushing for a shot at the double."
Braden.
Something cold moved through my chest.
The whole point of the texts—rattle Alex, rattle me, break the connection, open up seats. If whoever was sending those messages wanted us out of the double, Hale was describing exactly how to make that happen.
Is that what this is about? Not destroying us—replacing us?
The thought sat in my gut like a stone.
"You won't need them," I said.
"I hope not." Hale uncrossed his arms. "Because what you two have—when it's working—is the best thing I've seen in twenty years of coaching. Don't waste it."
He turned and walked back toward the boathouse. I stood on the dock alone. The river lapping at the pilings. The 18:23 on the clipboard in his hand, getting further away with every step.
The texter wanted us scared. Wanted us distracted. Wanted us rowing like strangers so someone else could take our seats.
