Page 121 of Breaking Point

"Yeah," I said. "He is."

Noah nodded. Something in his expression softened—relief, maybe. Like he'd been waiting a long time for me to be able to say that.

"Good," he said. "Then figure the rest out."

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Then again. And again. The staccato burst of the team group chat going off.

I reached over. Grabbed the phone. Scrolled past the noise—Tyler's all-caps reactions, Derek's play-by-play, Remy's single thumbs-up emoji that somehow said more than anyone else's paragraphs.

Then I saw it. Pinned at the top. From Coach Hale, sent twenty minutes ago.

Coach Hale — RSU Men's Crew

Team — following yesterday's invitational results, the coaching staff from both programs have made a decision. We're entering a several Kingswell-Riverside boats in the Head of the Charles on October 29th. Namely, our double with Moore and Harrington. Intensive training begins tomorrow, 5:30 AM, Kingswell boathouse. Three weeks out from race day. Thisis the biggest stage we've been offered as a program. Details to follow.

I read it twice.

The Head of the Charles. Three miles on the Charles River in Boston. Biggest head race in the country. Thousands of spectators on the bridges and the banks. National media. D1 scouts, U23 scouts, Olympic development scouts.

Me and Alex. In a double. Three weeks of intensive training.

Starting tomorrow morning.

"What?" Noah asked. He'd seen my face.

I turned the phone around and showed him.

He read it. His eyebrows climbed. Then he looked at me with that expression—the one that was half sympathy, half the look of someone who couldn't believe the universe had this kind of timing.

"Head of the Charles," he said.

"Yeah."

"You and Alex. Three weeks."

"Yeah."

"Every morning in a boat together."

"Yeah."

"After spending last night in his bed."

"I'm aware, Noah."

"Are you guys dating?"

"Noah."

He held up his hands. But he was smiling. "I'm just saying. The universe has a sense of humor."

Two hours ago, in Alex's bed, we'd made a deal. Secret. Careful. One day at a time.

And they'd just made us the most visible double in the Northeast.

Every practice filmed. Every race broadcast. Every glance across a boathouse visible to anyone with a camera and aninternet connection. Three weeks of arriving together, leaving together, our bodies moving in sync while the whole rowing world watched and wondered what made us so good.

I knew the answer.

And so would everyone else, if we weren't careful.

The problem was—in that boat, with him behind me, with the water underneath us and the rhythm pulling the truth out of my body stroke by stroke—I'd never once been careful.

Tomorrow. 5:30 AM.

The biggest stage of our lives.

And a secret that was getting harder to keep with every stroke.