chapter SEVEN
Jackson
S omething's off about her scent.
I can smell it, or rather, I can't smell it. The moment Callahan steps onto the dock for afternoon practice, my irritation spikes. Everything about her reads Beta on the surface, but there's something unnatural in her lack of scent. Too clean. Too neutral. Like a scent deliberately wiped away.
The thought nags at me as I set up my blade, keeping my head down, focusing on the familiar routine. Muscle memory. Safe. Predictable. Everything this new coxswain isn't.
"Reed." Gray's voice cuts through my thoughts. Our captain stands nearby, his own oar balanced perfectly against his shoulder. Always perfect. "You're quiet today."
I shrug. I'm quiet every day. That's my brand.
Gray follows my gaze to where Callahan discusses strategy with Bo and Beckett. "Something bothering you about her?"
"No," I lie.
Gray studies me. Weighing, calculating. "You'd tell me if there was?"
"Yes." Another lie.
I've known Gray for three years. He knows I'm lying. I know he knows. But Gray Lockwood also understands boundaries, and mine are heavily fortified.
He nods once and moves away, leaving me to my thoughts. To the memory of another coxswain, another team. Before Sable Ridge. Before everything fell apart.
"Alright everyone, on the water!" Callahan's voice rings with authority that someone her size shouldn't possess.
We take our positions, sliding the boat into the water smoothly. Eight bodies moving as a single unit. I keep my focus on my oar, on the back of Zane's head in front of me, on anything but the small figure settling into the coxswain position.
"Back it up," she calls.
We respond, pushing backward from the dock.
"Way enough. Ready all, row."
The familiar rhythm begins. Catch, drive, finish, recovery. My body knows this dance, even as my mind wanders. Water streams off my blade with each stroke, droplets catching afternoon sunlight. Beautiful, if you're into that kind of thing.
"Seat three, you're rushing the catch."
I snap back to awareness at her call. She's watching me, those sharp blue-green eyes missing nothing. I correct my timing, resenting the flush of heat that rises in my neck at being singled out.
"Better," she says. "Let's run the start sequence. We need a faster first twenty."
For the next hour, she drives us through drill after drill, her voice slipping into that lower tone that feels like it bypasses my brain and connects directly to my muscles. It's a good quality in a coxswain. Annoying as hell in a woman I'm trying to ignore.
When we hit our final power piece, something happens. The rhythm changes, the boat lifts. Eight bodies in total sync, cutting through water like we're part of it.
Swing .
Even Gray looks surprised by how smoothly we're moving.
"Thirty more strokes," Callahan calls, intensity building in her voice. "Push through it. This is where you find out what you're made of. Where you prove who you are."
My muscles burn, sweat stings my eyes, but something primal responds to her call. We surge forward, finding another gear.
When we finally ease back, chests heaving, I realize we've hit a split time we've never reached in practice before. I sneak a glance at Callahan. Her face glows with exertion and satisfaction.
For just a second, as a gust of wind blows across the water, I catch something beneath the neutralizing soap she uses. Something sweet and warm that makes my pulse jump. Then it's gone, leaving me wondering if I imagined it.
Back at the dock, the team buzzes with energy. Nothing bonds rowers like shared suffering followed by surprising success. Even Gray looks marginally less murderous than usual.
"Good work today," he acknowledges as we rack the boat. From him, it's gushing praise.
I hang back, waiting for the showers to clear. I hate the crowded locker room after practice. Too many scents, too much noise, too many bodies in too small a space. Better to wait.
Turning to grab my gear, I nearly collide with Callahan, who appears silently at my side.
"Sorry," she says, stepping back quickly. Too quickly. Like she's afraid to be near me.
Smart girl.
"Reed." She holds my gaze, though she has to tilt her head back to do it. "You have excellent power, but you're protecting your right shoulder."
I freeze. No one has noticed that. I've been careful.
"Old injury?" she asks.
I nod, reluctantly.
"Thought so. Your recruitment file mentioned a shoulder repair surgery in high school." She keeps her distance, but her gaze feels too intimate, too seeing. "Try dropping your right hand a half inch on the catch. It'll recruit your lats more and take pressure off the deltoid."
"You checked my medical records?" My voice sounds rusty from disuse.
"I check everything about my rowers." Her phrasing echoes Gray's so perfectly I wonder if she's mocking him.
"I'm not your rower."
"For the next week and a half, you are." She doesn't back down. "So fix the catch position. Your power numbers will improve by minimum eight percent."
I stare at her, speechless. She turns to leave, then hesitates.
"I know about your history with Omega coxswains," she says quietly. "Coach Bennett mentioned it."
The blood in my veins turns to ice. "He had no right."
"He thought I should know why one of my rowers flinches every time I get within five feet of him." Her expression softens slightly. "I'm a Beta, Reed. Nothing to worry about."
She walks away before I can respond, leaving me with the unsettling feeling that I just heard another lie.
The team house is quiet when I return from my late workout. Most of the guys are probably at dinner or the library. Perfect. I need the silence after the sensory overload of the day.
I climb the stairs to the second floor, heading for the shower in my room, when Eli's door opens.
He leans against the doorframe, wearing only gym shorts, his sandy hair damp from his own shower.
His lean body bears the marks of yesterday's practice, a bruise forming on his ribs where he caught a crab with his oar.
"You missed dinner," he says.
"Not hungry." I move to step past him.
His hand catches my wrist, gentle but firm. "Liar."
Unlike with Gray, I don't mind when Eli calls me on my bullshit. It's different with him. Everything is.
"Extra weight room session," I explain.
His hazel eyes scan my face. "Because of what she said about your shoulder?"
News travels fast in a house of eight rowers. "Partially."
Eli's thumb traces slow circles on the inside of my wrist, a gesture casual enough to be deniable but deliberate enough to send heat coursing through my veins.
"You're thinking too loudly," he murmurs. "I can hear it from my room."
"Thought you were studying for your econ midterm."
"I was. Then I got distracted." His gaze holds mine, a question in it.
We shouldn't do this again. We've both agreed it's just physical. Just convenience. Just two teammates helping each other through the pressure of competition season.
But tonight, with my skin feeling too tight and my head full of unwanted thoughts, I need the release. Need to regain control that's been slipping since Callahan stepped onto our dock.
I move forward, crowding Eli back into his room, kicking the door shut behind us. His breath hitches, pupils dilating as I turn and press him against the wall.
"Someone's tense," he observes, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"You talk too much." I cup the back of his neck, fingers threading through sandy hair, and kiss him hard.
He responds immediately, hands sliding up under my shirt, mapping familiar territory. This is what I need: direct, honest, uncomplicated. No mind games, no hidden agendas, just skin and heat and momentary escape.
We navigate across the room, his hands tugging my shirt over my head while I work at the drawstring of his shorts.
Clothes hit the floor in our wake as we fall onto his narrow bed in a tangle of limbs.
Eli lets me take control, understanding without words that I need it tonight.
But there's nothing passive in the way he meets me halfway, challenges me, pushes back.
"Turn over," I growl against his ear, already reaching for the drawer where he keeps supplies.
Eli complies, but not without a smirk over his shoulder. "Demanding today."
I silence him with a firm hand between his shoulder blades, pressing him into the mattress.
His skin is hot beneath my palm, muscles shifting as he adjusts his position.
I take my time preparing him, relishing the way his breath catches, how his body responds to my touch.
Sliding my fingers in and out of his tight hole while he pushes back against me.
Gripping the back of his neck until he gasps.
"Get on with it," he urges, voice rough with impatience.
"No." I grab his hips, holding him in place. "We do this my way."
I pick up the lube, slicking myself thoroughly before digging my fingers into his hips and pulling him back against me.
I position myself, sliding in slow before pushing the rest of the way in with a force that rocks the bed against the wall.
I want to go slow, to savor the feeling of him clenching around my cock, but too much is swirling in my head and the only way to make it stop is to lose myself in him.
I pick up my pace until Eli’s voice is the only thing I can hear.
Each thrust punctuated by his gasps, my growls, the slap of skin against skin.
Eli isn't having it. He pushes back against me, demanding more. "Stop holding back."
"I'm not."
"Liar." He looks over his shoulder, hazel eyes dark with challenge. "You want to lose control. So lose it."
If that's what he wants, I'll give it to him. I increase the pace, each thrust punctuated by his gasps, my growls, the rhythmic impact of the bed against the wall.