chapter EIGHTEEN
Zane
"S eat assignments are non-negotiable," Gray announces, clipboard in hand as we stand beside the team bus where Coach Bennett is loading the last of the equipment. "This is a three-hour drive to Riverside. I've arranged the seating to optimize rest, team dynamics, and minimal distraction."
I bite back a laugh. Only Gray Lockwood would treat a road trip like a military operation, especially after the stress of the past two days. Between the break-in at Reese's room and her parents' impending arrival, our captain's control-freak tendencies have shifted into overdrive.
"Just say you're keeping all the troublemakers separated," Beckett calls out, flashing that smile that's gotten him out of trouble since kindergarten.
Gray doesn't smile back. Shocking. "Monroe, you're in the third row with Callahan."
Now that's interesting. I glance at Reese, who's standing slightly apart from the group, checking something on her phone.
She's been quiet this morning, quieter than usual, which is saying something.
The past few days have taken their toll—shadows under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide, a careful way of holding herself like she's bracing for the next crisis.
"Strickland and Wu in the back row," Gray continues. "Reed and Blake in the second. Stone, you're up front with me."
Eli accepts this with a nod, but I catch the quick look he exchanges with Jackson. Something's been off between those two all week, tension crackling whenever they're in the same room. Add it to the growing list of weird team dynamics lately.
"Hollis, you're with me and Stone up front," Gray adds, and I realize he's splitting up potential chaos-makers while keeping protective eyes on our coxswain.
Coach Bennett slams the equipment compartment shut and climbs into the driver's seat. "Everyone on board. We're on a schedule here."
I grab my duffel and the cooler bag I packed with snacks—because unlike some of these animals, I actually plan ahead for long trips. As I pass Reese, I notice her struggling slightly with her equipment bag.
"Need a hand, Cox?" I offer.
"I've got it," she says, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
"Course you do. But let me help anyway." I take the bag with an easy smile. "Team bonding and all that."
She looks like she wants to argue, then just nods. "Thanks, Zane."
The use of my first name instead of "Hollis" hits differently than it should. Most of the team still goes by last names, the formal distance that competitive athletics demands. But lately, the barriers have been shifting.
Assistant Coach Wilder appears beside us with her clipboard, checking off the team roster. "Bus leaves in two minutes. Everyone accounted for?"
I do a quick headcount as the team files aboard. Eight rowers, one coxswain, two coaches. Plus enough nervous energy to power the entire trip.
The team settles according to Gray's master plan.
I slide into the front seat next to Eli, who immediately pulls out his tablet to review race footage.
Behind us, Jackson and Cameron occupy the middle row—the two quietest guys on the team, practically guaranteed to spend the entire journey in contemplative silence.
In the back, Bo settles in with Tyler, already discussing optimal stroke rates for tomorrow's conditions.
Which leaves Beckett and Reese in the third row. I can see them in the rearview mirror as Coach Bennett starts the engine, Beckett immediately launching into what's probably his most charming conversational mode.
"Three hours of this," Eli mutters, nodding toward Gray, who's already pulled out his own tablet. "He's going to micromanage our hydration levels."
"Could be worse," I point out. "Remember last year when he made us practice visualization exercises for the entire drive?"
"The meditation thing?" Eli shudders. "Jackson nearly strangled him."
The bus pulls away from campus, rain still falling steadily as it has been for days.
It's been a wet week leading up to Riverside, and the weather doesn't look like it's cooperating for tomorrow either.
Too bad I can't shake the feeling that we're driving toward some kind of storm—and not just the meteorological kind.
An hour into the drive, I hear Beckett offering Reese a shoulder massage. I glance back to see her considering it with the wariness of someone who's had too many surprises lately.
"Professional services only," Beckett adds with exaggerated innocence. "Ask anyone—I'm practically licensed."
"That's a terrifying thought," she replies, but there's humor in her voice.
Watching them interact is like observing a careful dance. Beckett deploys his considerable charm while respecting her boundaries, and Reese gradually relaxes under his genuinely skilled hands. It's sweet, actually, seeing her guard come down even slightly.
"Think she's okay?" I ask Eli quietly.
He glances back, then returns to his tablet. "Define okay. Physically? Probably. Emotionally? That's above my pay grade."
Sometimes Eli's analytical detachment is helpful. Sometimes it makes me want to force-feed him empathy lessons.
Two hours in, we stop at a rest area to stretch our legs. I watch the team dynamics shift as we exit the bus—Gray immediately positioning himself near Reese, Bo flanking her other side, the rest of us forming a loose protective circle without any conscious coordination.
"You guys look like a Secret Service detail," Coach Wilder observes dryly.
"Just good teammates," Gray replies, but his eyes are constantly scanning the area.
During the stop, I notice Reese checking her phone repeatedly, her expression growing more tense with each message.
"Everything alright?" I ask as we prepare to reboard.
"My parents landed early," she says. "They'll be at the hotel when we arrive."
The weight of that statement settles over our group. We all know this weekend was supposed to give her time to figure out how to handle the family situation. Now that buffer has disappeared.
"We've got your back," I tell her simply.
She looks surprised by the direct statement. "Why?"
"Because you're team," I say, echoing what Beckett told her yesterday. "And because whatever happens this weekend, you don't have to face it alone."
For a moment, something vulnerable flickers in her eyes before she masks it. "Thanks, Zane. That... means something."
The final hour of the drive passes quickly, the team energy shifting from travel mode to competition focus. By the time we pull into the hotel parking lot, everyone's alert and ready.
Coach Bennett parks and turns to address us. "Everyone grab your gear and meet in the lobby. Five minutes."
As we file off the bus, Coach Wilder hands Gray a folder. "Room assignments and keys. I've already checked us in."
Gray nods, all business as he opens the folder. "Thanks, Coach."
"Remember, we have practice access to the course at 6 AM tomorrow," Coach Wilder reminds us. "Breakfast at 5. No exceptions."
The coaches grab their own bags and head into the hotel while Gray distributes the room keys.
"Room assignments," Gray announces as we unload our gear. "We have four doubles. Strickland, you're with Reed. Wu with Stone. Monroe with Blake. Hollis, you're with me."
He pauses, scanning his list. "Callahan, you have the single."
"Slight problem with that arrangement," Eli says, appearing at Gray's shoulder with a troubled expression. "I just checked with the front desk. The single we reserved was given to another team. We have four standard doubles now."
Gray's expression darkens like storm clouds. "That's unacceptable. Coach confirmed the rooms last week."
"Nothing they can do," Eli says with a shrug that seems a little too casual. "Some mix-up with the conference bloc. Every hotel in the area is booked for the regatta."
"So we're short a bed," Gray says, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
"Not necessarily," Eli continues smoothly. "They offered a rollaway, but it would make one of the rooms extremely cramped. Or we could rearrange to put her with one of us."
All eyes turn to Reese, who stands very still, her expression carefully neutral. I can practically see her calculating the social dynamics, the potential complications, the careful balance she's maintained with the team.
"I'll take the rollaway," she says. "Just tell me which room."
"Absolutely not," Gray says immediately. "I'm not making you sleep on some piece of furniture that probably hasn't been cleaned since the Clinton administration."
"It's fine, Gray. I've slept in worse places."
"Well, you're not sleeping in worse places on my watch," Bo interjects, his Southern drawl thickening with protective instincts. "You can room with me. I don't snore, and I promise to keep my hands to myself."
The offer hangs in the air, generous and uncomplicated. Bo Strickland, our gentle giant, making it clear that her safety and comfort matter more than any potential awkwardness.
"Are you sure?" Reese asks. "I don't want to impose."
"No imposition," Bo says firmly. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you actually get some sleep instead of staying up all night worrying about tomorrow."
Gray looks like he wants to argue, but even he can't find fault with Bo's logic or intentions.
"That works," Reese says with visible relief. "Thank you, Bo."
"New assignments then," Gray announces. "Strickland and Callahan. Reed and Blake. Wu and Stone. Monroe, you're with me. Hollis gets the rollaway in my room."
I suppress a groan. Rooming with Gray means listening to him obsess over race strategy until the early hours, but if it means Reese is comfortable and safe, I can handle our captain's neuroses.
"Everyone get checked in and settled," Gray continues. "Team meeting in the conference room in thirty minutes, then dinner at seven."
As we move toward the hotel entrance, I fall into step beside Reese and Bo.
"You sure about this arrangement?" I ask quietly. "Because if you change your mind, I can always bunk with someone else."
"I'm sure," she says. "Besides, Bo promised not to snore."
"I make no such promises," Bo replies with a grin. "But I'll do my best."
As we enter the hotel lobby, I catch sight of an elegant couple near the concierge desk. The woman has Reese's dark hair and sharp cheekbones, while the man radiates the kind of authority that comes from expecting the world to rearrange itself around his presence.
Reese sees them at the same moment I do, and every line of her body goes rigid.
"Shit," she breathes.
"Your parents?" I ask unnecessarily.
"My parents," she confirms, straightening her shoulders like she's preparing for battle.
The weekend just got a lot more complicated.
But as I look around at our team—Gray already moving to position himself strategically, Bo staying close to Reese's side, even Beckett abandoning his usual casual demeanor for something more protective—I realize we're ready for whatever comes next.
We're a team. And teams take care of their own.
Even when facing down disapproving parents in a hotel lobby at the most inconvenient possible moment.