The Coxswain

New author here. Comments and advice appreciated!
Slow boil, no sex til the sequel...

"Jamie, pull up at the finish! We're down to port," Marissa called out.

Lucky, I thought. If she had to correct someone I wanted it to be me, not the guy 2^nd from bow. Fuck this is getting ridiculous.

Sitting in 5 I couldn't see her except when we stopped, but I knew what she looked like in the cox seat. Her 5'1" frame folded easily into the narrow space. She'd be leaning forward, gripping the gunnel and the steering string. I don't know if it was deliberate, but she'd have a bit of a frown and sly smile.

"Power 30 in 2," she ordered. Thank goodness, nearly there, I thought. We'd gone up the power pyramid by tens to sixty so we had just three more sets.

At the catch she called out, "2". I smashed the footboard. My blade got super heavy and I ripped water. Oops, guess no one else is starting early, I thought.

"1" she called out. Not so heavy this time. The boat was ready to get this over with.

"Go," she shouted. All of eight of us smashed the footboards in unison. No elegance. The boat jerked forward. It could not be comfy in the cox seat with the hard bulkhead at her back. Three more jolts brought us close to full speed, which smoothed out the stroke simply because there wasn't as much space to accelerate.

For ten glorious strokes we all flew together. Each stroke was like a wingbeat. Hardly an oar touched the water on the recovery. Then someone mistimed a catch and the boat dumped too starboard. Ugh, I thought. We over corrected it through the stroke and ended up down down to port.

"Ports pull up! Everyone, look at the oar handle in front of you," Marissa shouted. We found our focus for five more strokes, then it started to fall apart a bit. Marissa called out the count with each catch. It was easy for me to fall in time with her. The rest of the boat, perhaps not so much and our boat wobbled with out of sync finishes. This late in the practice it couldn't be helped. People were tired.

We brought it in once we finished the piece. At the dock we took the oars and hefted the boat up to shoulders. Marissa walked in front until we got to the boathouse doors. As we passed through I made a show of ease by letting the shell rest on my shoulder without any hands supporting it. You're ridiculous Everett, I chided myself. She was a senior. She probably had an apartment off-campus, a boyfriend or was too busy with her thesis.

We were the last boat in so we had to squeeze in for a spot on the outskirts of the circle. Coach Emmanuel was telling us what he'd seen during the practice and ran down upcoming regattas. I caught maybe one word in four. Marissa was standing right to me, the hairs of our arms almost brushing against one another. She probably can't see shit, I thought. At 6'2" I was about average height for a Div 2 heavyweight and there were two layers of rowers ahead of us. An image flashed through my mind of her sitting up on my shoulders.

"Oh, last thing. I'm putting line ups together starting Monday. If you want to try for a higher erg score submit it by Sunday midnight," he said.

He got a chorus of groans and shaking heads in response. Our last time trial on the rowing machine had been just a week and a half ago. They were considered valid for five. No one wanted to kill themselves unnecessarily.

"You going to go for it?" Marissa asked.

"Huh? Uh, probably n—"

"You should. I think you could crack 6:20 on your 2k," she said.

"Really?" I wondered. She had a lot more faith in me than I did. My erg had peaked early sophomore year at 6:22 and my last one had been a tolerable 6:26. Luckily Coach Emmanuel took technique into account, which I'd improved a lot in practice and by rowing a single over the summers.

"Yeah. I'll cox you if you like," she offered. Having a boner's not going to improve my time, I thought. On the other hand, it'd be a chance to spend some time alone with her. Maybe it meant—No, she just wants us to win some races, I chided myself. Some of the other coxes merely steered the boat, but Marissa actually coached us. She knew our names, our erg scores, our bad habits, and what motivated us.

"Um, sure. Sunday around 10?" I asked. Given our practice schedule, it was about the most rested I'd get.

"Sounds good," she replied. She looked up and flashed me a quick smile from under her visor. Neither of us moved. Was I supposed to say anything else? I wondered.

"Alright, I should make sure the other coxes didn't tangle the mikes. See ya then," she said. She gave me a little wave and bounced off toward the cox's corner.

"Yeah, thanks!" I uttered.

"No problem!" She replied over her shoulder. God she's cute, I thought. Just a little ball of energy with sharp, elfin features. I shook the thought from my mind. My fingers jittered as I gathered up my keys, cell phone, clothes and wallet from the cubby. Fuck I'm already nervous, I thought.

_______________________________

When I got to the boat house Marissa was already dragging out an erg from where they were stored in the back. It was adorable, yet also strangely formidable. She didn't struggle with it at all even though she had to hold the back of the erg well above her shoulders to get the wheels to catch. She stopped and turned the erg around when it was in line with the fifth seat in the eight on one side and between two and three seat of a four on the other. My seat and where I would sit in a four, I thought. Usually we did erg-ing out on the docs in the sunshine, but I could see the advantage of doing it here. It was cooler and there were fewer distractions.

"Hey," I greeted.

"Hey," she replied. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be," I muttered. She grimaced. The boat house had an echo and it was quiet this time on a Sunday.

"It'll be worth it," she said. With a casual touch she sent the seat sliding down the erg. It clacked against the backstop and bounced back to rest in the middle. Ominous, I thought. I sat down on erg and strapped my feet in. Unfortunately, sitting made it easy for my blood to flow right where I didn't need it to. I didn't waste any time reaching for the oar handle. It still took about fifteen warm-up strokes for everything to subside. She glanced over the top of the erg to see the screen with the stroke rate, time, distance etc.

"Looks good. You've got good length and you keep your back strong at the catch. I want you to take it up to a 24, but you're going to do it just by throwing the hands away and bringing the knees up sooner. You're not on the water, doesn't matter if you have to row over them," she said.

It's bad technique, I thought. On the water it would throw off the timing and make the oar blade slap on the water. However, it was easier and erg scores didn't come with a video. Plenty of guys did whatever it took to smash their PR. One time won't make me an erg monster, I decided.

The instant I finished each stroke I flung my hands forward again. It made me fling my torso forward too as if I was doing a sit up. My recovery was twice as fast and the stroke rate jumped up to a twenty-eight before I realized what I was doing.

"Okay, not that fast," she chuckled. "Just relax on the recovery. You don't have to time the finish, you don't have to set the boat up. All you're going to do is breathe and roll forward."

I flung my hands a bit less. I looked up at her, trying to guess if I was doing it right. She took her eyes of the screen and they caught mine instead. Busted, I thought. I had to look away, not least because despite the exertion I was a little turned on. I made myself breathe. It helped. I relaxed. I felt my hands lift to row over my knees. It made me cringe a bit, but she was right. For erg-ing it was easier.

"Alright, that's enough. Take a minute to stretch," she said.

I rolled forward so I could undo the straps. I got off the erg and stretched my quads, my lats, my hamstrings, and lastly my calves. The more flex I got there the longer the stroke I could execute correctly. A little hesitantly I took off my shirt. It'd be stupid to do this in here only to sabotage myself with false modesty. She didn't give any indication she'd noticed my shirtless state, she just patted the seat to indicate it was time. I sat back down, strapped myself in again and rolled up to the catch. She shook her head. I took one hand of the bar and went loose.

"See that four?" She asked, pointing to the shell on the top rack to my left.

"Yeah," I uttered.

"Coach wants a second heavyweight four. You could be in it if you want. But," she pointed to the eight on the middle rack on the other side, right at my eye level, "You're going to do this because you should be in that boat every practice, every race. You have the technique, now you're going to show me you have the power and the will."

Her boat, I thought. That thrilled me. My heart raced even faster. Well not always her boat, she's too good with the freshers. It didn't matter. It was the sleekest heavyweight shell in the club and on race days, when it counted, it was hers. Crushing on a coxswain was a terrible idea, but I wasn't going to think about that now. Anyhow, she wouldn't be my cox unless I could pull a 2k in under 6:20 and prove that I wasn't a sub. I was A boat material.

"Alright," I croaked. My throat had gone dry.

"You ready?" She asked.

"Yeah," I replied. I jiggled my legs in the straps one last time.

"Okay. Up to the catch," she ordered. I rolled up three-quarters of the slide. I didn't look at her, I was keyed up enough. I looked at a point just over the screen.

"Attention. ROW!" She shouted. I smashed the footplate so hard the erg bounced.

"2! 3! 4!" She barked. I pounded out a half stroke legs only, 3/4, 3/4...

"Full!" The whole slide now. Every bit of power I could find on short notice.

"...8! 9! Reach!" She commanded. Full strokes now, still at crazy high rate. I glanced at the screen. 1:38/500m . Not quite fast enough, I thought. I didn't feel anything yet, even my breathing hadn't changed. Five more strokes took me to a 1:33. I eased up the rate, but not the pressure. That would be keep me cruising at that pace. If I kept it up most the way I'd slice under my PR.

"You got this! Go! Hands away!" She demanded. Right, that, I remembered. She was scowling. Not mad, eager. She glanced at the split and her tongue licked over the side of her lip. I looked back at the split. 1:29, holy shit! I exclaimed. I backed off it a bit. Had to be realistic. I felt great now, but rowing wasn't like running. You didn't get high in the middle, you felt like you were flying at the start and slogging through mud at the end.

"Focus! Drive!" She ordered. Fuck. Thinking about the discouraging second half had dropped me to a 1:36. I clawed back the split with the leg drive. 1:32. Fuck it, stays here until I can't or she says otherwise, I thought.

"That's it! Hands away! Drive!" she shouted. "Jump off of the footboard!"

I darted to the front stop and smashed away from it. The erg jumped again. A little too much. I flew to the front rather than pull myself there. I made myself wait just a split second for the reel to pull in the slack before I blasted away.

"Keep it up! 500 down!" She called out.

1:33 was on the clock. It meant my resting pace had been lower than that to account for acceleration at the start. No math, rowing, I reminded myself. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the eight. My breath had gone out of wack, I forced it match up with the stroke. Out on the drive. In, out, in on the recovery. Slightly more challenging now it was shorter.

"Reach! Reach!" She shouted. I reached out 'til the handle was inches from the reel.

"That's it! 1:32, keeps it there!" She ordered. Oh fuck me. I gave her the wrong idea, I thought. I blew by seven fifty without even noticing. She hardly stopped shouting now. I had a passing concern for her vocal cords, but she was a cox. She could yell all day.

At 1200m the slog had well and truly set in. My quads where on fire, my butt hurt, and there was strain in my biceps. That worried me. It meant my technique was off.

"Don't let it go! Pull!" She ordered.

They'll last 800 meters, I thought. It would hurt, but they'd last. I kept on hitting the foot boards and throwing the hands away. I knew I was slouching a bit, but I didn't have the energy for exemplary posture.

"Up two in two!" She ordered.

Ugh why? I thought. I hated bumping up the stroke rate and there were still 700 meters.

"2, 1, Go!" She shouted.

I bumped up the stroke rate. My pace held steadier. She was right. If I couldn't keep up the power, I had to make it up in the rate.

"Breathe!"

Right, that, I thought. My heart rate was blitzing. I couldn't change that. I could breathe. In-out-in, hold, out! I got a little power back. My pace dipped down to a 1:31 then settled at 1:34. Good enough, I thought.

At five hundred she had me take it up two again. I hated it, but I wanted to PR more. Technique was fast going out the window. To my surprise, that wasn't reflected in the split. The display flickered between 1:33 and 1:32. Faster than I needed and the faster it'd be over.

"At 200, up 4," she told me.

Ow, ow, ow, I thought preemptively and concurrently. My mouth was a desert, my lungs were on fire, and my legs had lost any spring they'd had at the start. It was just weightlifting now. I watched the meters count down with anticipation and dread.

"Up 4!"

Fuck you! I thought. She was scowling at me furiously and abuzz with anticipation. One hand gripped the screen, the other was balled against her knee. I could do this. I shortened my stroke. It was the only way to go up 4. It worked though. My split stayed steady, then it ticked down to 1:31. Not possible, I thought.

"Twenty strokes! 19! 18! 17!" She counted them down for me. I smashed each one to make point.

"4! And done! Paddle it out," she told me. 6:14 on the box. Six seconds above my best. That was insane! Clearly I'd been slacking on the erg. My thudding heart cut off that any more think. I was actually worried it'd explode. It should not beat that hard and that fast. I barely felt the handle.

"Great rowing. You killed it! Keep paddling. Got to cool down," she said. She was flush and breathing hard too.

Yeah I know, I know, I thought. I pushed through a handful of strokes then I couldn't. The handle slipped out of my fingers and I just scooted my butt back and forth along the slide. I was so fucking happy I'd managed a 6:14 and so fucking miserable. It all hurt.

She put the handle back in my palm. "Everett, you just went over ten seconds faster than you did a week ago. You've got to paddle it out."

"Can't," I said. It wasn't quite true. I managed two more strokes, then I gave up. I put the handle in the holster. I slid back and forth a little. My quad seized up. It was on fire and I could barely bend my leg. I flopped forward to the straps and yanked the buckle up. Then, quite deliberately, I keeled over onto the floor like I wanted to.

"Shit, Everett, you okay?" She asked.

Oh, god, my chest hurt. My heart rate had gone down, but breathing hurt. I saw Marissa's knee on the floor near me. Her hand flop-slapped onto my face.

"Yeah, yeah, just hurt," I said. I pushed her hand away. That was stupid, it felt nice, I thought.

"You sure?" She asked.

"Yep, ow," I uttered. She looked quizzically at me. I don't think she believed me.

"You should really get up, walk around," she said.

"Can't. Give me a minute," I replied.

"Alright. One minute," she agreed. She checked her watch. Who still wears a fucking watch? I thought. I'd better pull myself together otherwise she's going to call someone.

I made myself breathe more deeply. I also tried to use my thumb to massage my quad, but it was like one giant bruise. I settled for pumping my leg up and down.

"Minute's up. Come on," she said. She got up and proffered a hand to me. I took it. She leaned back and hauled my limp ass off the floor. I knew for a fact she didn't even make the minimum cox weight of 120 lbs so that was some impressive use of leverage. I tipped forward. She stopped me with a hand over my solar plexus. I glanced down at it and she hid it away. Damn it. I didn't mean to discourage that, I thought.

She started walking out towards the water. I followed her, shakily. She looked behind, making sure I was okay. I grimaced. Totally fine, just didn't have working quads. People made do without those, right?

I had to walk carefully. I did not trust that I could recover my balance and she was a little too far away to catch me. I'd build too much momentum and at best we'd both fall down in a heap. Yep, I'd like that. Blood was pooling at the base of my dick rather than flowing down to my legs. Jesus Christ, my priorities are fucked, I scolded myself. Heh, literally.

The sunlight blessed her face when we got to the threshold. She had rose gold skin and white gold hair bound in a braid. She looked at me in profile. I memorized that gleeful smile. She had a right to be proud. I'd never have rowed a 6:14 on my own.

"Let's walk it out," she said.

"Y—" I started. I had to clear the catch in my throat. "Yeah."

I followed her out to the landing. She didn't stop at the edge of the concrete as I'd expected. She pointed to the bridge about two hundred meters away. I nodded. We didn't talk for a bit. I liked the quiet too. The only sounds were a motor boat and more casual rowers dipping their oars in the water. From a distance they still had some grace. In the boat would be another story. She pointed to the water fountain. Yeah, good idea, I thought. I drank for like a minute. After, she wet her throat as well.

"So, Mr. 6:14. How's it feel?" She teased.

"Well, pretty miserable right now, but also frickin' fan-fucking-tastic. Did not think I could do that," I admitted.

"I knew you had it in you. When coach has you help the freshers I'm constantly steering to starboard no matter who I've got on port," she said.

"Th-thanks," I blushed. "I mean really. Um, you're a good cox."

She beamed at me, "I know. "

That made me blush even more, which was totally unfair. Even coxswains weren't supposed to be that, well, cocky. I looked back at the river. When I was fairly sure she was also watching the amateur rowers I snuck another look at her. She'd chosen a light pink athletic shirt and I couldn't help noticing the outline of her bra. It wasn't a sports bra. Probably all in the wash. It is Sunday, I thought. I mean I'd already known she wasn't actually flat chested, but combined with the tightness of her shirt she looked positively nubile. She's older than you moron, I chided myself.

I'd stared a little too long. Her eyes flicked across mine knowingly. I couldn't trust myself to look anywhere in her vicinity. I feigned a great fascination with the architecture along the Jewoppy River. Lots red brick. Very nineteenth century, very proper, unlike my thoughts.

She stopped near the apex of the bridge. I rested my arms on the balustrade next to her. Like, right next to her. Shit oops, can't move now, that'd be even more uninviting, anti-inviting really, I thought. She settled her elbows on the balustrade as well. Plenty of room for both of us, yeah right.

"....row after college?" She asked.

"Hhhmm?" I replied. On the plus side, I'd forgotten how much I hurt. On the minus side, my lack of self-discipline was getting rude.