Page 104 of The Ruthless Rivalry

Then I spot her—Ophelia. She’s glaring, but not at me. No, she’s fixated on the jacket Bishop casually tossed over my shoulders. The black fabric is sleek, with a bold white stripe running down the arms, and the school’s logo—a proud eagle—is embroidered on the front. It’s unmistakably his.

Her eyes burn into the jacket with barely concealed rage, and the realization hits me all at once: it’s not me she’s angry at, well not directly this time. It’s the fact that Bishop’s jacket is on me.

Is that why everyone else is staring too?

He steps forward, offering his hand with a smirk. I can’t ignore the red wristband wrapped around his wrist, the same one I’d seen the other night. Does he ever take it off?

I climb into the boat without his help, maneuvering myself in with a bit of awkwardness, but my pride won’t let me take his offered hand. As I settle in, I glance over to see Bishop watchingme with an amused expression, clearly finding my stubbornness more entertaining than anything.

“Alright, everyone,” Coach Barkley’s voice booms across the shoreline after everyone settles in on their own boats. “Today, we’re going to be practicing some basic water rescue techniques. Each pair will take a boat out to the designated buoy, retrieve the object and head back.”

Everyone’s paired off, and I’m stuck with Bishop. And I hate how effortlessly he made climbing into our boat look, his movements smooth and practiced. He stepped in without hesitation and took the seat directly behind me, not so much as rocking it, making it look like second nature. And then—of course—he scooted in closer than necessary, his knees brushing up against my back as he tugged me toward him just slightly, under the pretense of adjusting our balance. I let out a sharp breath, pretending to be annoyed, but my body doesn’t quite get the message. We’re practically touching now, and the space between us feels way too small. He’s fine. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here, half-worried I’ll tip the boat just by breathing too hard.

I hate the water. Always have. The idea of being out on it, especially when I can’t swim, makes my stomach churn. If I fall in, I might as well start drowning right there. I know how to survive on land, but this—this is a whole different kind of hell.

“You will be in charge of deciding who gets to row, and you can switch off if desired at each checkpoint,” Atlas chimes in, his usual enthusiasm ringing through the air. “There are three objects to grab in total. First team back wins.”

I feel my face go pale. Me? In charge of rowing? That was Bishop’s thing; he was on the rowing team. And now, not only am I stuck with him, but he’ll be watching my every move. This is a disaster waiting to happen. There’s no way I’m going to look graceful or competent.

But then I remember—Bishop’s on the rowing team. He’s practically made for this. I should be stressed, but instead, I feel a strange sense of relief. If anyone can make this look easy, it’s him. I have no doubt he’ll take charge and get us back on dry land fast.

The bastard. This is exactly what he loves: being bossy, taking charge, and making everyone else feel like they don’t know what they’re doing. And now, he gets to do it with me. Perfect.

“On your mark…get set…go!” Atlas calls, just as Coach Barkley blows his whistle, the sound cutting through the air.

Bishop’s already ahead as the whistle barely finishes. His strong arms move in perfect synchronization, the oars slicing through the water with barely any effort. The boat glides forward, cutting through the surface like it’s nothing.

I can’t help but notice how effortlessly he handles it. His biceps flex with each stroke, the muscles of his arms working with fluid precision. It’s…actually really attractive. And if I weren’t so uncomfortable being this far out on the water, or stuck in this stupid boat withhim, I might even be able to focus more on it. There’s something about how natural and confident he is, how in control of everything.

But then, the nausea hits. I focus on the oars instead, determined not to think about his muscular arms and that attractive knowing look on his face.

It’s hard to ignore how smooth he makes it look though. The way he leans into each stroke, every muscle of his body working with practiced ease. He’s practically flying through the water, while I’m still trying not to tip us over. I can feel the boat rocking slightly with my every move, and my stomach twists at the thought of falling into the cold, unforgiving water.

And still, Bishop doesn’t hassle me. He just keeps rowing, his strokes steady, effortless, as if he knows exactly how this is going to play out. His calmness just makes everything worse. Theguy thrives on control, and he’s in his element. Meanwhile, I’m barely hanging on.

It doesn’t take long before we reach the first buoy. I focus on it, reaching out to grab the object left for us to retrieve. I easily untie it and place it inside our vessel.

As I twist to drop it into the boat, I feel it rock more than it should. My heart skips a beat, but I catch myself just in time. And that’s when I notice.

Bishop’s not rowing anymore. He’s just sitting there. Not even holding the oars. He’s resting them against the side of the boat, looking completely unfazed. His arms are crossed casually over his chest, his eyes focused on the horizon like we’re just out for a leisurely ride.

“What are you doing? Go!” I snap, panic creeping into my voice as I realize everyone else is starting to catch up.

Bishop tilts his head, a lazy grin playing at the corner of his mouth. “I’m exhausted,” he says, stretching his arms dramatically. “You take the lead on the rowing.”

I blink at him, stunned. “You’re literally on the rowing team. Why would I—”

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Something about knowingly being in a boat with a thief just makes me feel... unmotivated.”

I stare at him, jaw tightening. “You seriously dragged me into this, set us up to be partners, just to be petty?”

He feigns innocence, holding up his hands. “Whoa—‘petty’ is such a strong word. I prefer... consequence-driven.”

My stomach twists, a growl of frustration rising up my throat. I don’t know what’s worse—his smugness, or the fact that he’s clearly enjoying this.

I stare at him, stunned, as the other boats draw closer. The other students are catching up fast, their boats gaining on ours. I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the way my stomach churns. “Youcan’t just sit there,” I mutter, frustration bubbling over. “We’re going to lose if you don’t help!”

I glance back at him, then the other boats, then him, my patience wearing thin. “Do you seriously not care if we win?” I ask, but he just shrugs.

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