“Don’t strain yourself. It’s clear we have a lot of work to do. But go. Get to your little boat. God forbid there be any empty trophy space in these hallowed halls. Come back next week, and we’ll get to work digging something—anything—out of that lockbox you call a heart.”
I nearly told him to bugger off, that this was all unorthodox and completely out of bounds. (Not to mention, there was the small matter of my handwriting.) I found myself nodding instead.
“Fine,” I said. “Next week.”
***
Looks like a storm is brewing, I texted Harper the next morning. The Narraganset Bay Regatta was only hours away.Is your “Orion Mercer is the greatest (and sexiest) 2 Seat in all the Land” sign waterproof?
She texted back.Sign? For what? Is something happening today Ishould know about?
I grinned.I’ll capsize the shell from sheer heartbreak if my woman isn’t there to cheer me on. Even if no one is allowed to know she’s my woman.
The rolling dots of Harper’s reply came and went, came and went. Finally:
“Your woman” again…
My bird? My babe? My doll?
My sign is ready, she texted.“Orion Mercer is a butthead.”
I laughed.I gotta run. Coach will have my nuts if I’m late.
I’m so glad you feel comfortable sharing that with me. Break a leg. An arm?
Both. See you soon. Xo
More rolling dots then,<3
That warm, nervy feeling came back, and I heaved a breath.
This is a good thing. The best thing. Don’t fuck it up.
At CHA’s parking lot, on the way to the docks, I fell into step with Xander Ford. We clasped hands, and I nodded at the turbulent waters bearded in whitecaps on the Bay.
“Should make for interesting races, eh?” I said. “But hey, check out the crowd.”
From this distance, the bleachers were full of colorful blobs—our fans and those from around New England, there to cheer on their team, each represented by a banner in their school colors. Our own black and gold dominated, and a huge sign had been strung up that readLET’S GO LIONS!
Xander nodded absently, likely nerves. His first regatta with the Academy. I chucked him on the shoulder. “Let’s give ’em a bloodygood show.”
And we did just that.
Our nemesis, New Haven Prep—who’d whipped our arses last year—narrowly gave us what-for a second time. But Xander Ford turned out to be our secret weapon.
Out on the water, in our black-and-gold unisuits, our coxswain, Dean, shouted at us through his headset. His face was twisted in a snarl, not at all the happy fellow we were used to.
“Come on, fucking pull! Let’s go, wind it up!”
We pulled like bastards to Xander’s stroke seat pace. He rowed as if he had a personal beef with the entire state of Connecticut. Our shell and New Haven’s were neck and neck for a bit on the choppy water, and the sky looked as if it were going to break open and smite us. But somehow, we pulled ahead and crossed the finish line by a meter.
Cheers erupted from the stands, and a different kind of joy found me because I knew one of those voices was specifically for me, even if no one else did.
My hands were curved into claws, stiff from gripping my oar, and my chest was on fire from sucking in cold air as I slumped in happy exhaustion. Kai Thornton, three seat, turned around to share in the win, while Rhett Calloway, behind me at bow, scowled. Stroke seat had been his until Coach Daniels had switched him and Xander.
“Come on, Rhett,” I said with a tired laugh. “We won no matter where you plant your arse.”
He muttered darkly under his breath, and I shivered as we climbed out into the waist-deep water.
