Page 34 of The Bleak Beginning

Coach Barkley’s figure grows larger as we approach. I can make out the scowl on his face, the stopwatch clutched tightly in his meaty fist. We’re close now, so close to finishing this grueling practice run.

“Last push!” I shout, my voice hoarse from exertion. “Give it everything you got!”

“Move those arms, ladies! My grandmother rows faster than you lot.” Coach Barkley’s voice carries over the water.

I resist the urge to clench my teeth. Classic Barkley motivation. A mix of criticism and encouragement. Instead, I focus on the rhythm, the synchronicity of our movements.Left, right, left, right. The boat glides forward with each pull, a testament to our unity.

The burn in my muscles intensifies as I dig deeper, pushing through the pain. Sweat stings my eyes, but I don’t dare break form to wipe it away. The dock is in sight now, our finish line tantalizingly close.

“Ten more strokes,” I call out, my voice barely audible over the splash of oars and our collective labored breathing. “Make ‘em count!”

I can feel the team’s energy surge at my words. We’re in perfect sync now, eight bodies moving as one. The boat seems to lift out of the water, skimming the surface with newfound speed.

The rhythmic sound of our oars dipping and pulling through the water echoes around us.

“Five…four…three…”

With a final, desperate surge, we cross the invisible line. The boat glides to a stop as we collapse over our oars, chests heaving.

“Well,” Coach Barkley’s voice is gruff. “That wasn’t completely terrible.”

Coming from him, that’s practically a glowing endorsement. I lift my head, sweat dripping down my face and arms. My body has craved the rush and release of endorphins ever since Prescott's arrival at Altair.

“But,” he continues, his weathered face stern, “if you want to have a shot at regionals, you’ll need to shave at least ten seconds off that time.”

A collective groan rises from the boat. Ten seconds might as well be an eternity in rowing.

“Don’t get cocky. You heard him,” I say. “Let’s go again.”

Reith, as usual, is the only one brave enough to voice his dismay.

“Come on, five minutes,” he whines, slumping over his oar. “My arms feel like overcooked noodles.”

“Anyone else feel the same?” I ask, arching a brow at the group.

No answer.

“I’ll take that as a no,” I say, smirking at Reith. “Alright, everyone. Back to starting positions.”

The team reluctantly straightens, gripping their oars with renewed determination. I can see the strain on their faces, sweat glistening in the setting sun. The gentle lapping of water against our boat is the only sound for a moment.

“Reith. We’ll meet you on the other side. Take a lap on foot.”

His jaw drops. “What? You can’t be serious.”

“Consider it motivation for next time you think about questioning me.”

With a dramatic groan, Reith heaves himself out of the boat, splashing into the shallows. I hear hushed snickers as he trudges toward the shore, grumbling under his breath.

“Oh, and Reith?” I grin before we take off again. “Noodles won’t win us any trophies.”

Reith may be the only one willing to go against me on the team, and although it made me have some respect for him, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t go without punishment for it. I had a reputation to uphold as a Legacy. We weren’t weak.

No mercy.

“Ready?” I call out to the rest of my team. “And…row!”

The oars slice through the water in perfect unison, propelling us forward with surprising speed for being a team member down. The cool evening breeze whips through my hair as weglide across the water’s glassy surface again. In the distance, I can make out Reith’s figure jogging along the shore.

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