“How come you didn’t teach me like that?” Ray asked. Both Martin and I turned toward Ray where he stood in the water by five-seat position. He lifted his chin and indicated to how Martin held me in his arms. “Why didn’t you hold me like that?”

“Because you’ve got that rash,” Martin said, completely deadpan.

“Oh…yeah. That’s right.” Ray nodded, chuckling. “Good point.”

Once the guys felt sure we had the full motion of the stroke committed to muscle memory, they put us in the boat. I sat in Martin’s seat—seat eight, the stroke seat at the stern—and Sam sat at the bow in seat one. We placed our feet in the shoes, stretchers is what they called them, and practiced rowing and balancing, sliding the seat, moving through the catch to release to return.

The guys held the boat in place and kept it level until Sam and I got used to being in the water on such a narrow craft. Then, when I was sure I had everything mostly right, Martin taught me how to feather my oar.

“Like this,” he said as he showed me how he twisted his wrists, making the blade of the oar perpendicular to the water at the catch and sweep, but then after the release and during the return he instructed me to turn the oar so it became parallel to the water.

I nodded, gave it a try a few times. It felt clumsy at first, but after a while more natural. Logically it made sense. Leveling the blade during the return would cut down on air drag—again, relating it back to physics. I noticed that the soft pads of my hands were starting to hurt, so I paused and glanced at my fingers.

I blinked, frowned, blinked some more. I had a blister.

Though I had calluses on the tips of my fingers from playing the guitar, there was something really hardcore about having a bleeding blister on one’s palm.

“Huh,” I said to my hands. I thought it was pretty cool, as it kind of made me feel like a badass.

I’d noticed that all the guys had really rough hands, like really rough. Martin’s palms and fingers—especially near the joints—were hard. They looked like manly-man hands and I’d made a note of them last semester during one of our lab assignments. I had wondered how this spoiled, entitled rich kid could have such plebeian hands.

He must’ve noticed my diverted attention because he reached for me, turning my palm toward him for inspection. When he saw the forming blister he frowned severely, lightly touching it with his thumb.

“Damn,” he said. I was surprised by how upset he sounded. When he lifted his eyes to mine he looked regretful and troubled.

I gave him a little smile. “I don’t mind.”

“I do. You should never be hurt.”

That statement, and the earnest, stern sincerity with which it was stated, surprised me. Then it laid siege to the remaining defenses around my heart and gently annihilated them. I felt myself melting.

Martin ended up wrapping my hands with medical tape so I wouldn’t get any more blisters. Between watching him dreamily, I thought about protesting, but then he made a good point when he said, “That blister is going to tear off and bleed if you don’t tape it. If you don’t tape them, you won’t be able to use them today or tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you use tape?” I asked as he wound the tape around my fingers.

“I need my hands to be tough. I row almost every day. If you row all the time it’s better to let your hands bleed for a while than covering them with tape to protect yourself. If you use tape then you’ll have to use it all the time.”

“So rather than taking the time to cover your hands, you just toughen up instead? Until you stop bleeding, and you can’t get any more blisters because you have so many calluses.”

He nodded absentmindedly. “Something like that.”

Well…there was an apt analogy if I’d ever accidentally stumbled over one. Martin Sandeke was basically his hands. I tucked that thought away for a later discussion.

After hand taping and another half hour of practicing, finally, finally they let us row on the open water.

I took Eric’s seven-seat, sitting right behind Martin. Eric took three seat so Sam could sit behind him in two-seat. The boat went fast but our movements seemed slow. Martin was careful to set a measured pace, therefore I don’t know how fast we were actually traveling. But it felt very fast. It was unsettling at first. I was sure, though I didn’t voice it, that I was going to fall into the water. But I didn’t.

I didn’t even catch a crab, which is what it’s called when you try to feather your blade too soon or too late and it gets pulled under the water. I was told this usually ends with the oar handle hitting you somewhere on your torso or in your face, or completely throwing you out of the boat (or any combination of the above).

We also turned the boat in a circle using various methods, under Lee’s excellent direction.

It was a lot of fun. It was a crazy amount of fun. It was epically fun. When we all moved in unison I felt like I was flying. I loved it. And I could see how rowing might become addictive. There was something about being one with your teammates and the boat, the water and the sky. Something about feeling the rush of the wind, all the while moving your body.

It. Was. Awesome.

But apparently it was also a lot of work because my legs, arms, back, and stomach felt like rubber when we made it back to shore. Sam and I put away the oars as the guys moved the boat. Eric suggested we all go swimming, so we excused ourselves to clean up.

When I finished my shower—my painful, painful shower—I found Sam in her bikini, lying on my bed like she was never going to move from the spot. I put on my swimsuit with a great deal of effort, then collapsed next to her.

“I hurt. I hurt so bad.” She said this dramatically, like she might cry. Sam was face down, spread eagle on my mattress. She was clearly exhausted.

“But you had fun.” I was also exhausted and lay limply on my side.

Her blue eyes focused on mine, then she gave me a mischievous grin. “It was worth it. I ogled Eric the whole time. I think his back muscles have muscles.” Then she added, again sounding in pain, “But I think I’m too sore for sex and that makes me sad.”

I laughed, and then winced, my abdominal muscles protesting.

“It’s like dating boot camp,” she said.

“I think boot camp hurts less.”

“That’s not what I meant. This, being with Eric all the time, it’s like dating boot camp. We’ve only known each other since Friday but I’m having conversations with him that I never had with any of my previous boyfriends. It’s…it’s intense.”

I nodded—or tried to—thinking about her analogy. “I have no basis for comparison, not really. But you’re right. I feel like everything is being rushed, like we’re cramming weeks and months of relationship interactions into hours and days.”

She gave me a weird, searching look. “Is Martin pushing you?”

“No. But we’re…getting close.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“And how is that? Are you still convinced he needs just a friend?”

“Yes…and no.”

“And…?”

“And what?”

“Don’t be coy, I’ve seen those hickies on your neck. You might be flexible but you didn’t give them to yourself.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, unwilling to move any other part of my body. “Yes, obviously we’re being more than friendly.”

“Don’t let him pressure you, Kaitlyn.”

“It’s honestly not like that.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes with disbelief. “Yeah, right. I’ve seen how he looks at you. He wants to have a penis party in your vagina.”

I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh, because laughing was painful. “I told him I want to take things slow because, well, I’m the queen of inexperience.”

“And he agreed?”

“Yeah. He said he wants us to last, he wants what we do to be meaningful.”

“Whoa! He said that?”

“Yes. So we both agreed to slow down, hence the dancing and rowing lessons today.”

She smirked, her eyes lighting with mischief. “But he got you off, right?”

Now I rolled my eyes. “Sam…”

“He did. I can tell. You don’t need to answer.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because you’re looking at him like you want him to have a penis party in your vagina.”

“Ugh.”

“Was it good? Did he use mouth, or hand, or both? I like it when they use both.”

“I’m not answering that.”

“But it was good, right?”

I blinked at her.

She grinned. “Niiiice. Let me know when you’re ready to shed your repressed modesty and discuss the baser details. I can tell it was good because of how you’re blushing.”

“I’m not blushing. It’s just warm in here.”

“Whatever. I’d high-five you if I could move my arm.”

“How do you think I feel? You’re already an athlete, I hurt in places I didn’t know existed.”

“You’re the idiot who wanted to learn how to row. Why, Kaitlyn. Why? Why would you do that? Why would you ask that sadist to teach you how to row? Why?”