Chapter 14
United States Naval Academy Dock, Annapolis, Maryland.
Race day dawned sunny and moderate, but he never let the Chesapeake Bay lull him into complacency. She was always an unpredictable bitch.
Fly stepped onto the dock with the rest of the crew, Valor nudging against her lines like she was eager to be let loose. The water near the marina lay flat and bright, sunlight sliding clean across it.
Valor sat low and lean in the water, narrow through the beam, her white hull scuffed where training boats always were.
No shine left to impress anyone. Just use.
She was a Navy Twenty-Six, twenty-six feet of hull built to move fast and answer immediately, not to coddle mistakes.
Her deck was open and spare, lines ran clean and purposeful, hardware placed where hands could find it without looking.
The mast rose straight, sails flaked and ready, stiff enough to bite when the wind came up.
Light because she was light. Responsive.
Unforgiving. In clean wind she was eager, alive under the helm, but in chop she could broach or swamp if you got careless, and Fly never forgot that the wrong angle could wash a person over as easily as a loose line.
He trusted Valor because she told the truth.
Every shift came straight through the tiller.
If something went wrong, it would be because the water demanded it, not because the boat lied.
Mei was already aboard, kneeling near the mast with a coil of line in her lap, fingers quick and precise as she worked the knot loose. She looked up when Fly dropped his bag into the cockpit.
“You’re late,” she said, mild but pleased.
“I was here before you finished that loop,” Fly said.
“That counts.” He had been here for an hour, doing his skipper diligence.
From a bench further down the dock, he’d watched everyone arrive.
Josiah Benitez was still on the dock, passing up gear and double-checking everything like it might vanish if he didn’t keep a hand on it.
Second year. Solid sailor. Too respectful sometimes.
Joss had good instincts, but he checked them against the rulebook before he trusted them.
Fly didn’t mind that. It made him careful, and careful had its place.
On the bow, Bridget Mulvaney crouched low, fingers wrapped around the rail, eyes fixed on the water ahead like she was memorizing it.
First year. Sharp as a tack. No fear in her at all, which Fly had already learned to watch for.
Bridge saw things early. She just didn’t always know yet which ones mattered.
Five crew. Good balance. No weak links.
She smiled and went back to the line. Than stepped down behind him, steady as always, moving like the deck belonged to him. Fly barely had to look to know where he was. Than had a way of being exactly where he was supposed to be.
“Try not to break anything today,” Fly said to him.
Than’s mouth curved. “No promises.”
Mei snorted, then glanced at Than with a look that was open and affectionate. Than met it with a steady, grounded presence between them.
Whatever they’d found, it had weight, and they weren’t afraid to let people see it. He respected that. More than that, he trusted it. His chest tightened for his friends, and a little envy slipped in. What they had was real, and that was so rare to find.
Fly ran through the boat without thinking, fingers checking tension, eyes tracking lines, weight shifts. Valor felt good. Balanced. Responsive. He trusted her.
“Harvard’s already rigged,” Fly said. “They’re nervous.”
“They should be,” Mei said, with confidence. “I mean. Statistically.”
Than grinned at her. “Trash talk from Harada. That’s new.”
She pushed his shoulder with the back of her hand, gentle. “I can do trash talk. I choose not to.”
Fly glanced between them, smirked. “Save it for after. Let’s not scare the freshmen.”
Bridge, already on the bow, shot them a look. “Too late.”
Joss laughed from the dock, passing down an extra fender. “You’re all terrible role models.”
Fly caught it one-handed. “Yet you’re still here.”
They moved through prep in easy rhythm. Sail flaked. Lines coiled clean. Voices overlapped, familiar and loose. Fly liked them like this. Focused but relaxed.
He straightened and looked past the breakwater.
The bay opened wide beyond the marina, blue and inviting, a soft breeze sliding across his skin. The horizon sat low and pale. Clouds stacked thin in the distance, nothing dramatic. Just weather being weather.
Something tightened anyway.
Just a sense of pressure where there shouldn’t be any. The water out there looked too smooth between pulses. The wind brushed his face, then hesitated, then came again from a slightly different angle.
He inhaled slowly. The air felt cooler than it should.
Fly held his gaze on the water a second longer than necessary, cataloging details without naming them.
Timing. Texture. The way the surface seemed to breathe.
Beneath the hull, Valor rolled, slamming the side into the fenders, foam protectors between Valor and the dock.
He stared down, his shoulders tight, then they relaxed as the water settled.
“Fly?”
Mei’s voice pulled him back. He turned, already steady again.
“Yeah.”
“You want the jib run tighter?” she asked. Calm. Trusting.
He nodded. “Yeah. Go a touch tighter.”
She adjusted without question, fingers fast, precise. Than shifted his weight automatically to compensate. The boat answered like it always did.
Fly let the unease settle where it belonged. Deep. Quiet. Filed away.
He clapped his hands once. “All right. Finish rigging. We launch in twenty.”
The bay stayed calm. Bright. Cooperative.
Fly didn’t look away from it until the last line was ready.
Hollis’s voice cracked across the water, sharp and pleased. “Varsity crew, let’s move. Tight and fast. I don’t want daylight where a hand should be.”
Fly didn’t react. Varsity wasn’t a title you wore. It was a standard you were held to. They’d earned the boat, the race slot, the scrutiny that came with it. That meant no slack, no excuses, and no room for error.
The chase boat idled nearby, Hollis standing tall at the console, grin sharp and eager. He looked energized. Almost giddy. Race day did that to him. Competition lit him up in a way Fly had learned to catalog and work around.
Fly stepped aboard first and took the helm without ceremony. The tiller settled into his palm like it belonged there. Valor answered the touch immediately, a small shift, a promise.
“All right,” Fly said, voice calm and level. “Bridge, bow. Eyes up. Call anything that looks off.”
Bridge scrambled forward, nimble and fearless, planting herself near the rail with an easy confidence that still surprised him sometimes.
“Joss,” Fly continued. “Jib assist. Stay loose but ready.”
“Yes, sir,” Joss said, already moving, lines in hand, attention locked in.
“Than, foredeck. Ballast when we need it.”
Than nodded once and stepped into position, wide stance, weight centered, like gravity listened to him.
“Mei, main,” Fly said last, glancing her way. “You’re with me.”
She met his eyes, calm and sure. “Always.”
Hollis barked again from the chase boat. “Let’s go. Harvard’s already itching. Don’t give them an inch.”
Fly eased Valor off the dock, lines coming in clean, the boat sliding free like she’d been waiting for it. The bay opened up around them, bright and generous. Wind filled the sails just enough to feel alive.
The Crimson Star pushed early. Too early. Fly saw it in the angle of their approach, the way they tried to muscle the boat instead of letting it run. He adjusted without thinking, a subtle correction at the tiller, Mei answering instantly, trimming the main with practiced precision.
“Pressure building,” she said quietly.
“I see it,” Fly replied.
Valor surged forward, smooth and eager, cutting through the water like she knew where she was going. Than shifted his weight a fraction, Joss followed the movement, Bridge calling out chop and spacing from the bow.
They rounded the first mark ahead, clean and fast.
Hollis whooped from the chase boat. “That’s it. Keep it tight. Make them chase you.”
Fly didn’t smile, but he felt the satisfaction settle in his chest. This was what it was supposed to feel like when everything worked. Crew in sync. Boat alive. The Star fell back, even though they were doing everything right.
They stretched the lead on the next leg. Fly rode the wind instead of fighting it, reading the surface, adjusting for every small change. Mei stayed locked in with him, quiet and brilliant, hands never still.
Then something shifted.
Not enough to matter yet. Just enough to notice.
The water ahead smoothed out strangely, the rhythm between waves off by half a beat. The wind brushed his face, then faded, then came back sharper. Valor rolled once beneath him, subtle but present.
Fly filed it away.
He glanced toward the horizon, then back to the water around them. No reason to change anything. Not yet.
Hold this, he told himself silently. Just keep an eye on it.
They crossed the next mark with Harvard well behind, Valor cutting clean and fast, crew tight and confident.
Hollis’s voice crackled again, pleased and smug. “Beautiful, Gallagher. That’s how you win races.”
Fly acknowledged without looking back. His focus stayed on the water, on the way it breathed under the hull, on the timing that felt just a touch off.
They were winning. He was still listening, and he wasn’t going to stop.
The lead stretched clean behind them, Harvard’s hull shrinking, their wake rough and impatient. Valor ran light and quick, exactly what a Twenty-Six was built for, skimming instead of digging in.
Fly kept one hand on the tiller and one eye on the water.