chapter EIGHT
Eli
T he door slams as Jackson leaves, the sound echoing through my room like a punctuation mark. Period. End of discussion. Typical Reed exit strategy when emotions get too complicated.
I stretch carefully, cataloging the pleasant ache of well-used muscles and the less pleasant awareness that we're circling some unspoken truth neither of us wants to acknowledge. Not just about us, but about our new coxswain.
The sheets beside me still hold Jackson's body heat. I trace the indentation with my fingers, mind calculating the variables of our situation with the same precision I bring to race strategy.
Three years of whatever this is. Three years of "just blowing off steam" and "helping each other out." Three years of pretending it's nothing more than convenience between teammates.
And now Reese Callahan arrives, upending the careful equilibrium we've established.
I push myself up, wincing slightly at the soreness. Jackson was rougher than usual tonight, but I'm not complaining. I like him that way. Intense, focused, letting his guard down in the only way he knows how.
The shower beckons, and I spend longer than necessary under the hot spray, allowing myself the luxury of not thinking for once. Not analyzing. Not strategizing. Just feeling the water pour over tired muscles.
When I step out, towel around my waist, I check my phone.
A text from Tyler about tomorrow's quiz in Advanced Statistical Methods.
Nothing from Jackson, not that I expected anything.
He'll return from his run, slip into his room without a word, and tomorrow we'll be teammates again. Nothing more, nothing less.
It's a pattern as predictable as the stroke rate Gray sets in the boat.
I dress and head downstairs for water, pausing at the foot of the stairs when I hear voices from the common room. Gray and Reese, still reviewing race footage. Their heads are bent close together over her tablet, both focused with that singular intensity they share.
"You need to call it earlier," Gray is saying. "Here, at the thousand meter mark. We're losing ground on the turn."
Reese shakes her head. "If I call the power ten too soon, you'll burn out before the final push. Look at your heart rates from the last race."
I hang back, watching them. From this angle, their profiles are sharply defined in the lamp light, Gray's hard angles and rigid posture, Reese’s smaller but equally uncompromising form. Two alphas in a standoff, except she's supposed to be a Beta.
I've had my suspicions from day one. The way she holds herself, always aware of exits and escape routes. The careful distance she maintains. The complete lack of scent, which isn't just unusual, it's a red flag.
Beta females have subtle scents, noticeable up close. Reese smells like nothing. Clinically, deliberately nothing.
"Fine," Gray concedes. "We'll try it your way in tomorrow's practice."
Reese's satisfied smile is brief but genuine. "You won't regret it."
"I better not." But there's no real bite in his tone.
Interesting. Gray Lockwood, yielding to someone else's strategy. Our captain, who micromanages everything from our diets to our sleep schedules, deferring to a coxswain who's been here less than a week.
She's good. I'll give her that. Four days of practices and our split times are already down by three seconds. But it's more than technical skill that has every Alpha on this team watching her, whether they admit it or not.
It's her voice on the water, dropping into that resonance that bypasses thought and speaks directly to instinct. It's the way she commands without dominating, leads without forcing. It's something in her very presence that feels... right. Necessary.
I've never been particularly susceptible to Omega appeal. Unlike most Alphas, my preferences have always run toward my own designation – strong, direct, uncomplicated. Like Jackson, who never plays games or feigns weakness. What you see is what you get, however limited the view.
But watching Reese now, the way she holds her ground against Gray's intensity, I feel an unexpected pull. A curiosity that goes beyond analytical interest.
Gray gathers his notes, nodding once. "0500 tomorrow. Don't be late."
"When have I ever been late, Lockwood?" She begins packing up her things.
"There's always a first time."
She rolls her eyes, but there's something almost fond in the gesture. Another surprise. Our new coxswain is softening the glacier.
Gray leaves through the back door, heading for his private room in the annex. Captain's privilege. Reese continues organizing her materials, meticulous as always.
I step into the common room, making enough noise that she notices my approach. Her head snaps up, eyes instantly alert. Fight or flight response. Another tell.
"Stone." She acknowledges me with a nod.
"Long strategy session," I observe, moving to the kitchen for my water. "Gray must be impressed."
"Gray is..." She searches for the right word. "Exacting."
I laugh. "That's diplomatic. Most people go with 'obsessive' or 'dictatorial.'"
"He knows what he wants." She shrugs, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I respect that."
"And when what he wants conflicts with what you want?"
Her blue-green eyes meet mine directly. "Then I make him see why my way is better."
"Simple as that?"
"Nothing simple about it." She zips her bag closed. "But I don't back down just because an Alpha glares at me."
I lean against the counter, studying her.
Up close, in the quiet of the nearly empty house, I notice details missed during practice.
The faint scatter of freckles across her nose.
The calluses on her palms from years of handling steering lines.
The way she constantly scans the room, always aware of exits and entrances.
And still, no scent. Not even the clinical soap smell from earlier. As if she's reapplied whatever neutralizing agent she uses.
"I never asked," I say casually. "What made you choose Sable Ridge?"
She tenses almost imperceptibly. "The program speaks for itself."
"So does Westlake's women's team. National champions last year. Yet you left mid-season to cox for us." I take a sip of water. "Most people would call that a lateral move at best."
"Most people aren't trying to make the Olympic development program."
"And you think we're your ticket?"
"I know you are." She straightens, confidence unwavering. "Eight of the last twelve Olympic development rowers came from this program. You have the strongest coaching staff, the best facilities, and a legacy of excellence."
All true, but recited like a brochure. The question is what she's not saying.
"And it has nothing to do with the fact that women's teams tend to have more Omegas than men's?"
The flash of panic in her eyes is gone so quickly I almost doubt I saw it. Almost.
"Why would that matter to me?" Her voice stays steady.
"You tell me."
She studies me, calculating. "Your file says you're the team strategist. The one who sees patterns others miss."
"My file?"
"I do my research." She steps closer, a deliberate move that surprises me. "So what pattern do you think you see, Eli?"
The use of my first name feels surprisingly intimate. I'm not used to being challenged so directly by anyone except Jackson and occasionally Gray.
"I see someone hiding something," I answer honestly. "The question is whether it matters to the team."
She holds my gaze. "Does it? Matter to the team?"
"Depends what it is."
A moment of silence stretches between us. For a second, I think she might actually tell me. Then her walls slam back into place.
"Get some sleep, Stone. Early practice tomorrow."
She moves toward the door, but pauses beside me. From this close, closer than she's ever willingly stood to any Alpha on the team, I catch something beneath the neutralizing agent. Something sweet and warm that makes my pulse jump in a way I wasn't expecting.
My reaction must show on my face because her eyes widen slightly before she steps back.
"Goodnight," she says quickly, and is gone before I can respond.
I stand there for several minutes after she leaves, processing what just happened. That momentary scent. My unexpected response to it. The tangle of intrigue and attraction I haven't felt for a woman since... actually, I'm not sure I've ever felt it.
My experiences with women have been limited and unmemorable.
A few awkward encounters in high school, enough to know I wasn't uninterested, just particular.
In college, it's been easier to connect with other Alphas.
Simpler. No designation complications, no scent triggers, no biological imperatives complicating things.
Just straightforward physical release. Like with Jackson.
I head back upstairs, thoughts churning. In my room, traces of Jackson still linger, his scent on my sheets, a stray sock under the bed. Familiar. Safe, in its way.
But now there's something else. Something new. The mystery of Reese Callahan and that brief, unexpected scent that shouldn't intrigue me but does.
I strip the bed, gathering sheets for tomorrow's laundry run. As I stuff them into the hamper, I hear the back door open and close. Jackson, returning from his run. His footsteps pause at the foot of the stairs, then continue up. They slow as he passes my door but don't stop.
I consider going to him. The conversation isn't finished. But pushing Jackson Reed when he's not ready only makes him retreat further.
Instead, I pull out my tablet and open the team records. If I'm going to figure out what Reese Callahan is hiding, I need more data.
Her Westlake records are impressive but incomplete. Captain of the women's team for a year and a half. Multiple wins at regional competitions. Then a sudden departure mid-season, with no explanation given in the public records.