Level Hands: Bend or Break, Book 4 (17 page)

“Superstitions are stupid.” Their cox was hovering a theoretically safe distance away, clearly hoping to talk his way out of a swim in the lake.

“Says the guy who’s wearing seven-year-old underwear,” Vinnie shouted.

“What?” Rafi looked up from the dock.

“He won his first race coxing a four while wearing tighty whities,” Vinnie explained over the hand Austin was leaping up to clap over his mouth. “So guess what he wears whenever he wants luck for a race?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Vincent. Do you have to tell everyone that story?”

“Yes. It’s adorable. You’re like a little tiny boy with a lucky teddy bear. Except it’s underpants. Little boy underpants.”

Austin made an attempt at a dignified denial.

They tossed him in the lake before he could get a word out.

Standing on the edge of the dock, Denny’s shoulder pressed against his as they shouted to Austin where he was splashing in the lake, Rafi was happy in the warm glow of their laughter.

“Quite fucking around and get the damn boat out of the water.” The shout from the varsity boat waiting to launch interrupted their goofing off.

“JV whores.”

Rafi tensed on the dock. Was Boomer being his usual prick self, or was that the sign he’d been fearing that gossip about Denny’s PrEP status had spread? Mutters picked up in volume behind him.

“Knock it off.” Ted’s snapped-out command shut everyone up. Rafi’s face burned, but he ignored it as his teammates high-fived him again and then helped get their boat out of the water.

Not even Boomer’s bitchy comments could smother his elation.

He had a place here. At last.

Chapter Eight

Rafi had never seen anything like the Head of the Charles.

What must have been every college student on the eastern seaboard had caravanned to Boston for the biggest two-day regatta in the world, and half of them looked like they were sleeping on park benches for the weekend. Lots of bed hair and noticeable body odor, which was maybe just part of that liberal hippie thing that was so different from Midwest liberal—voting Democratic while making sure your lawn was properly maintained.

“Seriously, do they kick everyone over thirty out of the city for the weekend? And does that mean you’re in danger?” he ragged on Cash, and ducked when his friend took a swing at knocking his hat off. “Gettin’ slow, old-timer.”

“Don’t make me chase your ass down. Thirty, ha. You need those legs.”

“Not like I’m rowing this weekend.” It was hard not to be bitter about that, but Denny had explained about the Head of the Charles’s complicated eligibility and lottery system. The Carlisle women had done hot shit last year, and had two boats in the Collegiate Eights race and another two in the Women’s Championship Eights, an open race with international teams, Olympic boats, collegiate teams and club teams. However, the previous year’s poor showing and minimal luck in the lottery meant the Carlisle men only had one boat on the water in the Men’s Collegiate Eights.

Rafi’s performances in the races they’d participated in already—small gatherings though they were—had been solid. But with only one men’s boat in the Head, there was no chance he would have been selected for that eight-man roster.

“Hey. Have you been racing in a fucking boat?”

“Yes.” Cash had never been able to curse before, not as long as Rafi had known him. He’d always claimed that he couldn’t compartmentalize like that between his work with the elementary school kids and his grown-up life.
Looks like he’s figured it out.

Either that or Boston kids were way more potty-mouthed than the ones in Chicago.

“Are you gonna knock it out of the fucking park in the spring?”

The spring season was heavy with races almost every weekend. Rafi knew it was unrealistic to have expected to row on the Charles his first semester on the team, but the anxiety about letting people down rode him hard. If he was on a rowing scholarship, he was meant to be one of the best, wasn’t he? His scholarship renewal depended on the committee members being satisfied with him, and not rowing this weekend was stressing him out.

“Yes, Coach.” That got him a grin and an arm slung around his shoulders.

“That’s all that matters. Proud of you, buddy. What’s our motto?”

He knew exactly what to say. “Go big or go home, Coach.”

“That’s right. Because who are we in charge of?”

The chorus of “Just us!” was loud and proud, as it turned out that their conversation wasn’t quite as low volume as Rafi might have hoped.

But he couldn’t begrudge the eavesdropping. Not when Cash and Denny’s friends were all so damn friendly. Rafi had met Tom and Reese briefly during their visit to Chicago, when they’d flown out to meet and help Denny, and of course he knew Steph. She’d never stopped coming to help out at Friday afternoon soccer games until she and Cash had moved back to Boston last year. But he hadn’t expected them all to show for the Head. Certainly not at the asscrack of dawn, to accompany Rafi and Denny in their quest to grab a viewing spot on the Eliot Bridge, which was apparently prime real estate.

But the previous night the older Carlisle alums had taken him and Denny out for dinner, and they’d all huddled over the race schedule for the weekend, planning out where they could meet up before and after different races. Carlisle alums were rowing in a bunch of races, from Masters to Championship Fours to the 8:00 a.m. Senior Veteran Singles race, whose entrants were all over seventy years old. Rafi couldn’t wait to see that one, even if Denny had whined about getting up that early.

Both he and Denny skipped the margaritas at dinner. Morning workouts didn’t dematerialize in honor of major races, after all. But Rafi had laughed and nodded when Steph opened her bag and showed him the bottle of champagne she was bringing home to chill for celebrating on Sunday, when the college races took place.

As soon as Cash spotted her gesture, though, he’d shouted and reached across the table to clap a hand over Steph’s mouth.

“Jesus, woman, what are you trying to do? Jinx ’em? You might as well call it an l-o-c-k,” he spelled out, voice pitched in a whisper. “Sorry, guys. She means well but she’s not a sports fan.”

“Fine. I’ll drink it all myself, mixed with your loser tears after the little guy steers your team into a mud bank,” Steph replied, chin lifted in a superior look.

Saturday’s dawn run was ridiculous. If he’d thought western Massachusetts was an exhaustingly hilly landscape, that was only because he’d never gone for a run in Boston. He tried begging when they turned corners and found themselves at the foot of the kinds of hills he’d hoped to escape by being closer to the coast, but Denny just laughed and called him a pussy, jogging up slopes like they were prairie flat. Rafi’s thighs burned and his calves ached, sheer competitiveness driving him to chase after Denny.

“I thought Boston didn’t have any hills,” he huffed as they ran.

“Welcome to Somerville,” Denny replied, grinning as he picked up the pace.

After microshowers and shoving food in their faces, they headed out. Tom and Reese were meeting them at the river, and Rafi’s suitemates had promised to connect with them too.

The wind carried the ache of a chill, ruffling the gray water of the river, everything colorless and flat in the cloudy morning light. Nobody drove anywhere near the river on race weekend, and the walk over had kept them warm in their fleece jackets and hooded sweatshirts, but standing still all day would be a shivering challenge.

“Tailwind today. Could be fast,” Rafi commented, eyes on the farthest stretch of the river they could see from their perch on the bridge. With the wind behind them, the rowers would square their blades instead of feathering them, letting the surface work like a sail to pick up more speed on each stroke.

“Overnight temps have been dropping, though. The water’ll be slow.” Denny leaned with his elbows on the railing next to him, their shoulders touching. The tight quarters meant everyone was pressed against their neighbors, but Rafi knew it was more than that for them. The desire to touch each other whenever possible was constant now.

The Senior Veteran Singles weren’t enough of a draw to bring out the full mass of the crowds. They’d easily found a viewing spot on the upstream side of the bridge where the races would pass. The downstream side was reserved for boats returning to the docks where they’d launched.

“How many rowers compete this weekend?” Steph’s voice rose in a question as she pored over the draw list they’d cut out of yesterday’s newspaper.

“Ten thousand?” Rafi wasn’t one hundred percent sure.

“Closer to nine, I think,” Denny corrected. He’d been coming to these races since he was a kid.

“How do they fit them all on the river? It’s gotta be total chaos.” Steph waved her hand at the narrow course of the Charles, especially tight leading up to the three low brick arches of Eliot Bridge, a known challenge where rowers had to negotiate a tight turn and then straighten out in time to make it under.

“This is a Head race,” Denny explained. Rafi turned his head and watched him become Professor Crew. “It’s more of a time trial than the side-by-side races you saw us do. They start the boats every fifteen seconds or so. There’s no way to know who’s winning by watching, although if you see a boat with a higher number in front of one with a lower number, that means they’ve caught up and passed someone, which is a good sign.”

“Here they come,” Cash said, pointing down the river to where a single scull skated toward them like a bug on the surface of the water. They watched the boat approach, which seemed to take a long time. It was strange to see how slow a single scull moved in comparison with the speeds Rafi was used to in an eight-man boat.

“How do they not run into things without a cox? It doesn’t look like they’re turning their heads to look where they’re going.” Steph craned her neck to watch the old man whose boat slid under the bridge.

The age-old challenge of a sport where the rowers were always going backward. Rafi pointed at the nearest sculler. He knew the answer to this one. “Look. They have little mirrors clipped to their hats.”

“And how old are these guys?” she asked.

“At least seventy,” Denny said.

“Holy shit.” Steph’s eyes widened and she leaned over the railing to watch another sculler disappear beneath their feet. Cash grabbed the waist of her jeans and tugged her back. “When I’m seventy, I hope to spend my days on the couch.”

“No way, Tyler. I’ll have us moving till we’re dead.” Cash’s smacking kiss against his girlfriend’s cheek evoked a groan from Denny at the cheesiness. Rafi smiled. He liked seeing Cash all mushy over Steph. It was sweet.

By the time Tom and Reese showed up, Cash and Steph had decided to look for a viewing spot along the banks of the river.

“Standing all day? Not happening,” Steph had announced.

“Text us where you end up,” Denny told them as he and Rafi waved at the foursome heading out.

“Don’t fall in,” Cash shouted as they walked away.

And then it was just the two of them on the bridge together, snuggled up next to each other, commenting on weak strokes or racers who’d managed to overtake the boats in front of them. Eliot was the last bridge on the course, and that meant the rowers’ bodies would be nearing the limits of their endurance. Lungs and legs burning, arms aching, sheer willpower and the burning need not to let their teammates down the only thing keeping them going. This was the point at which rowing became almost entirely mental.

“The only good race pace is a suicide pace,” Denny intoned, quoting one of the motivational posters that hung in their boathouse in front of the first line of rowing machines.

“And today looks like a good day to die.” Rafi finished the quote and they bumped fists, grinning at each other. The wind kicked up and cut through his layers like a blade. “God, is it getting colder?”

“I’ll keep you warm, baby,” Denny teased, slinging an arm around his shoulders. Rafi leaned into the embrace as they waited for the next set of rowers to approach the bridge, one boat swinging wide to pass through the far arch to avoid a collision.

When their phones lit up with
Where are you?
texts from Vinnie, Austin and Bob, they decided to head over to where the Carlisle alums had a tent set up. Cash and Steph had packed blankets that they’d planned on sitting on, but when Rafi and Denny found them on the riverbank, they were huddled under the blanket for warmth. When Denny held a blanket out toward him, hanging from one arm like a matador’s cape, Rafi took the invitation to share it with pleasure.

“Gonna be a long, cold day, huh?” he said in Denny’s ear after they’d hit the grass, cross-legged next to each other, the blanket wrapped tight around their shoulders. He ignored the approving wink and smile Steph was trying to deliver from where she and Cash sat to their right.

Denny’s left hand dropped to Rafi’s thigh, long fingers curling around to rest on Rafi’s inseam.

Rafi squirmed through the rest of the day’s races, sweating from time to time and nearly bursting away from Denny as if piston-driven when Cash asked him if he wanted to come along to pick up sandwiches for lunch. Rafi gave his dick a stern talking to as they walked the neighborhood streets, until they found a sandwich shop far enough from the river not to have a massive line out the door for food or bathrooms.

They cheered all afternoon, except for when they booed good-naturedly at the passing of every Harvard boat. The weight of peak rowing talent might have shifted in recent years to the West Coast teams, according to general wisdom, but Harvard had dominated rowing for so many decades, they still came in for the worst of the grudges.

After the final race, instead of fighting the crowds at the bars, everyone headed back to Cash and Steph’s apartment for grilling and hanging out. With no morning workout the next day, and no stress on Rafi’s part about getting busted allowing underage drinking, he overindulged. The sheer luxury of being able to not pay attention to how many beers he drank went to his head. And when it came up in conversation that Rafi was the only one of the group who’d never seen the
Lord of the Rings
trilogy, he’d happily fallen asleep on the couch with Denny leaning up against his legs from a seat on the floor, to the sounds of hobbits trekking across Middle Earth.

An aching head was no excuse for missing races, so they were up and out the door in the early morning hours again. At least they got to skip the hills-of-death run, though, which might have killed him with the hangover he was sporting.

He could have strangled Austin when his suitemate showed up to meet them with his bag full of cowbells.

Cowbells. For ten hours.

Austin and Vinnie had spent part of the day close to the start of the race and had a terrific story about an eight nearly running down a sculler who’d been directed to cross the river’s traffic in between boats. It happened every year that some scullers moved too slow at Magazine Beach, aka Clusterfuck Central. Scary stuff.

They yelled themselves hoarse, shouting for Carlisle alums and the women’s team boats. And Rafi nearly launched himself over the railing when he heard the shoreline announcer call out the name of a team stroking past the boat ahead of them in the Men’s Championship Fours.

“Lincoln Park Boat Club, having an excellent race…”

He couldn’t make out the features of any of the rowers, and wished he’d done a better job of staying in touch with Aya so he’d know who was racing.

Carlisle’s varsity boat was one of the last to start in the Men’s Collegiate Eights. Their group had abandoned the bridge again for their spot by the alumni tents on the bank.

“Did he say Carlisle?” someone called out minutes before they expected to see the school’s dark green boat and green-and-white striped paddles skimming across the water.