Writer's Note: This is a rewritten and expanded version of my original story, part of my effort to update early work. All sexually involved characters are 18 or older.
Originally Published: February 2019
Republished: September 2022
Enjoy!
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"Go, Abigail, go! You got this, Abi! C'mon!"
Screams and cowbells rang out into the brisk April morning. The grass glistened with dew as blue haze thickened with misty breaths.
A crowd, numbering in the thousands, stood along the bank of the swiftly moving river. The Schuylkill was choppy and cresting, as it had been for more than two hours.
Colored tents and banners fluttered in the wind, stretching down the bank for as far as the eye could see. The canopies served as the only refuge from the elements, filled with mountains of packaged food next to tables of portable coffee makers.
Above, gray crowds hung in the low sky, encouraging the tired eyes to look up and wonder when the freezing rain would finally be unleashed.
For most, this was an unbearable way to spend a Saturday morning. But for parents of high school rowers, such as Heather Gaines, it was tradition, almost looked upon affectionately. Almost.
Every fifteen minutes, a row of racing shells would glide through the choppy water, spanning the width of the river. Be it a crew of eight, four, two, or one, the rowers grunted, braving the splash of their oars on their strained faces and soaked bodies.
Each stroke demanded the young athletes dig and pull with all their might, as any meter could decide a place, and placing well enough would earn them the right to advance in the regatta tournament.
Meanwhile, the parents were left to watch, helplessly looking down from the walled embankment, with cottage boat houses downriver and the towers of the Philadelphia skyline poking above the trees in the haze behind them.
Most parents were regular folks, visiting the races to cheer on their children in a sport they vaguely understood. Other parents, such as Heather Gaines, were as competitive and knowledgeable as the teens rowing.
Not a yeller nor a chanter, Heather liked to stand on the very edge of the stone wall, muttering beneath her binoculars as the boats went by.
Even so, she was not considered among the craziest or most competitive mothers on the team. That honor belonged to a handful of others, who were not apologetic about their nature.
In the world of elite private schools, such as Gladwyne Prep, parents' egos were often tied to the fortunes of their privileged children. And in this way, the Gaines family was different.
Far from rich and even farther from wealthy, the Gaineses needed the steep discount from Richard being one of the four rowing coaches just so he and Heather could afford their son's tuition. Although, the investment was about to pay off.
Now a senior at Gladwyne, Paul started rowing at ten when he would go to work with his dad after school to fill in for high school students who were absent from practice. In time, he not only became a great rower but was in line for an incredible opportunity — a choice of full college scholarships.
While thrilled and humbled by every college offer he received, his heart was set on Princeton. And his mom Heather knew it.
She wasn't as guilty as other moms of steering her son's career, but she did believe he inherited his drive from her and wanted to see him reach his full potential, as any mother would. And so, this weekend was important.
In all of high school rowing, no boat was more iconic or prestigious than the Varsity Eight. The full crew of eight rowers and one small coxswain represented the best of the school and competed for the most prized trophies in the most renowned races.
Of Gladwyne's eight, five had already committed to Ivy League schools. And Paul was not one of them. Despite years of hard work both on the water and in the classroom, he was on the outside looking in.
Heather wanted her son to live his dreams and get the world-class education nobody in their family had before. But she also selfishly wanted to silence the few miserable wenches on the team sideline.
"It's okay, Heather, I'm sure he'll get one. Coaches get more desperate to fill their rosters later in the season. Paul will be fine. It happens every year."
"Yeah, scholarship commitments fall through all the time. Around May and June, once other rowers start backing out, they'll definitely give Paul a look."
"A friend of mine told me Cornell is still looking. But, hey, even if they aren't, it's not like rowing for a state school is that bad."
Those "veiled" insults were infuriating, and Heather was at wit's end, but had to bite her tongue. For who was she but the mother of the poor family and the coach's wife?
If it weren't for her husband's power over their children and her comely looks, she doubted the group would even tolerate her.
And while not as bad as it seemed, she was aware that lashing out just once in her defense would earn her the label of a jealous, crazy woman.
"They don't give a shit about you. They won't even look at you half the time. Face it, you're low status.
Yeah, when they need a favor for their douchey kid, then it's all... Oh, Heather, it's so great to see you! How are you? Oh, yeah... Wait... To Rich's wife, aren't you? Well, since I'm here anyway, my smartass son Billy is such a strong rower and I feel if he were in the front of the boat, blah, blah, blah."
Her rants in the bathtub on river days tended to begin along those lines.
However, in the defense of those meddling parents, seating positions were a huge deal. Rowers on the bow or stern were considered to be the most skilled oarsmen and were more sought after by college scouts.
It was the reason parents sat near Heather and socialized with her like a dear, old friend whenever their child raced. They would comment loudly, "We just can't seem to compete like we used to. Hmm... I wonder if we move Charles to the back of the boat if we'd pick up a few seconds?" Heather's naked reenactments in the bathtub were barely satire.
Of course, the great irony of it all — what every one of the greedy parents was too self-centered and blind to see — was that if she had so much influence over her husband, why did Paul spend the last two seasons in the middle of the boat?
Whenever she tried to get Paul moved, her proposal went the same way:
"Honey, you have to do this. Just try Paul out in the stern. We're not like them, those WASPy families who can buy their kid's way into Harvard. Seriously, you should hear some of them brag about their donations. It sounds like a dick measuring contest. You'd think they'd be embarrassed about buying their kid's way into school, but no, they brag about it! They talk about it like it's an accomplishment."
And then Rich would always pinch the bridge of his nose and explain his position.
"Babe... you gotta stop doing this. Stop. Please. I gotta do whatever it takes to make the boat go the fastest. Period. I set my lineup based on rowing machine times and weight. That's it. That's how every halfway decent coach in the country does it. So, I can't change it. Just imagine, for two seconds, that I showed Paul special treatment. Hell, just imagine if one of the parents even thinks I did. Can you Imagine that hell?"
It was a good excuse, one Heather had grown skeptical of over the last year. As Paul increased his weight and lowered his rowing times, his position remained the same. And while mothers like Mary and Gretchen gloated about their sons "leading the boat," Paul outperformed them in practice.
During the summer, Heather went down a paranoid hole, going as far as reviewing her husband's accounts to see if he had taken bribes from parents. And, frankly, given their debts, she probably would've understood. But there was no evidence of anything other than them being poor.
Later though, in August, Heather was in the passenger seat of their minivan, looking out the window as Rich drove them home from Target. A pop sounded from his mounted smartphone, and the notification showed the text from Gretchen:
It's almost the official rowing season again!!! I hope you're excited... I know I am ;)
The message could have had many meanings. And it was common for her husband to text parents. But Heather could never forget the hollow twisting in her gut as her husband frantically swiped the pop-up from the screen.
Sometimes at night, Heather would walk downstairs and sit in the dark alone, wondering why she pretended to see nothing. Maybe it allowed her to pity the women who looked down on her for a change. Maybe she didn't want to believe that a woman like Gretchen could entice her husband and captivate him sexually like she she could. Or maybe she was simply afraid of what she'd have to do if her gut feeling was true.
Regardless, that was a conversation for after Paul was safely away at Princeton. Then the outcome didn't matter. And none of that mattered now, not on this important weekend on the river.
*** Time Trial ***
The white ball. There was only the white ball.
The stinging wind, the unforgiving seat, and the endless rocking all narrowed into a singular sensation, concentrated on one point — the white ball at the tip of the sleek, blue shell.
Paul steadily breathed, keeping his warmth and holding still on the sliding seat. His body was forward, arms outstretched while grasping the oars, and toes wiggling.
A skin-tight singlet of blue polyester was his only protection against the elements. But the uniform was practically no more than thick boxer briefs sewn to an elastic tank top.
Although his arms, thighs, and face were red and splotchy, the coursing adrenaline within him numbed his skin to any sensations other than the white ball and the sound of the race organizer's voice through the megaphone on the nearby floating stage.
"Hoo..." His feet rattled against the velcroed shoes.
From far away, Paul was no more than a blob of blue and beige, crowned with brown, in Heather's binoculars. This race was unlike any before, as it was the first time her son would row not in the Variety Eight but a single scull.
