chapter TWENTY-THREE
Reese
"H ands on," I call , keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "Ready to lift."
Our boat rises in perfect unison, eight pairs of hands supporting its weight as we prepare to launch for our qualifying heat. The dock bustles with activity, teams loading and unloading, coaches shouting last-minute instructions, officials checking equipment.
I spot Westlake's crew returning from their heat, faces flushed with satisfaction. That can only mean one thing: they qualified. We'll face them in finals if we advance.
Andrea catches my eye as they pass, her expression hardening. We were friends once, before I transferred, before everything fell apart. Now she looks at me like I'm the enemy. Beside her, Kinsley Adams mutters something that makes Andrea's smile turn sharp and predatory.
The grandstand is packed with families, and I catch sight of my parents in the front section.
My father has put away his phone and is watching intently, while my mother sits rigidly upright, her expression unreadable behind designer sunglasses.
The weight of their expectations settles on my shoulders, but there's something else now too: the knowledge that when it mattered, Father stood up for me.
Near the officials' dock, I notice three regatta officials conferring in low voices, occasionally glancing in our direction. One of them holds a clipboard that looks suspiciously like the documentation challenge from earlier. Father got me cleared to race, but they're still watching.
"Focus, Callahan," Gray murmurs from behind me, startling me back to the present.
I nod, turning my attention back to our team. "Walk it down."
We move as one unit toward the water, our rhythm practiced and certain. Despite the chaos around us, the nerves twisting in my stomach, this part feels right. Natural. The weight of the boat shared among eight bodies, the silent communication of movement and balance.
"Easy down," I direct as we reach the edge of the dock. "Starboard side in first."
The shell kisses the water with hardly a sound.
One by one, the rowers take their positions, sliding into the narrow vessel with the ease of countless repetitions.
I wait until everyone is settled before taking my own seat at the stern, hands immediately finding the rudder lines, feet bracing against the foot stretcher.
From my peripheral vision, I catch Andrea and Kinsley positioning themselves along the safety launch route, phones in hand. They're documenting something, waiting for me to falter in front of the cameras and crowds.
"Clear," I call, checking that our path away from the dock is unobstructed.
"Push off."
Bo and Tyler extend their arms, leveraging us away from the dock in one smooth motion. The boat drifts into open water, and I feel a familiar calm settle over me despite everything else happening in my body.
The water is different today, choppier than during our practice run, a light wind creating small ripples across the surface. Clouds build on the horizon, promising the rain forecasted for later. We'll need to adjust our strategy accordingly.
"Let's take it up, half-slide warm-up," I direct, my cox voice dropping into its commanding tonality. "Ready all—row."
The boat surges forward as eight oars catch water simultaneously. We fall into rhythm easily, the shell cutting through the water as we make our way toward the starting line. I scan the course ahead, making mental notes of current patterns, wind direction, potential obstacles.
Officials signal us toward our lane. The stands are filling with spectators, creating a blur of color and noise that I filter out. Nothing exists outside this boat, these eight men, the water beneath us.
Through the officials' launch, I spot the same three regatta officials from earlier, now equipped with binoculars trained on our boat. One speaks into a radio, undoubtedly reporting our approach.
"Looking good, gentlemen," I say, keeping my tone calm but confident. "Remember, strong start, maintain rhythm through the crosscurrent, power through the turn. This is our race to win."
Gray sets a perfect warm-up pace from stroke position, his form impeccable as always. Behind him, the team follows his lead, a living machine of synchronized power. Whatever tensions exist between them on land disappear on the water.
My hand trembles slightly on the rudder line.
Not from nerves, but from the suppressant wearing off faster than it should.
Tyler calculated I'd have coverage through the afternoon, but my body is burning through the medication more rapidly than expected.
The proximity to so many unbonded Alphas, the stress of competition, the confrontation with Westlake: all accelerating the process.
I shake off the stress. One race at a time. Get through qualifiers, worry about finals later.
The officials' launch approaches. "Two minutes to start positions," the judge announces through a megaphone.
"Let it run," I command, and the rowers lift their oars from the water, allowing the boat to glide toward the starting blocks. "Bow pair, check your point."
Cameron and Eli make small adjustments, perfectly positioning us within our lane. The other crews move into position around us. Bayside to our right, Harborview to our left. All business now, all focus.
I feel, more than see, Gray's energy shift, that controlled intensity that makes him such an effective stroke. The rest of the crew feeds off it, a collective sharpening of focus rippling through the boat.
Along the shoreline, I catch movement from the Westlake area. Andrea and Kinsley have positioned themselves with a clear view of our lane, phones ready to capture whatever they hope will be my public breakdown. Like two sharks sensing a distressed seal. Waiting to make a meal out of my floundering.
"Stern four, back it down," I direct, guiding us toward the starting platform. "Easy... easy... hold."
The boat settles perfectly into position. A race official steps onto the platform, megaphone in hand.
"Crews, attach to the starting blocks."
Cameron reaches forward, securing our bow to the starting mechanism. Across all five lanes, other crews do the same.
"Final adjustments," the official announces. "Lock on in ten seconds."
I check our position one last time. Perfect alignment. In my peripheral vision, the monitoring officials position themselves with optimal viewing angles, their attention focused entirely on our boat.
The officials raise the flag.
"Attention."
The boat goes absolutely still, eight bodies poised like coiled springs, waiting for the signal. My heart pounds in my chest, but my voice will be steady when I need it. It always is. At least I can say that much.
The horn blasts, sharp and sudden.
"Row!"
Eight oars bite into the water simultaneously. The boat leaps forward, breaking from the starting blocks with explosive power. All the months of training, all the early mornings, all the pain and sacrifice, channeled into this perfect moment of synchronized strength.
"Power ten in two," I call. "One, two – drive!"
They respond instantly, legs pushing, backs swinging, arms pulling in perfect harmony. The boat surges forward, accelerating through the crucial opening strokes.
"That's it! Half a length on Bayside already. Keep it clean, keep it strong."
We settle into race pace, the initial sprint giving way to the sustained power of the main race. Gray's stroke rate is metronomic, precisely where we need it. The crew responds beautifully, finding that perfect balance between maximum power and sustainable pace.
Through the rhythm of the race, I'm aware of the officials' launch pacing us, cameras and monitoring equipment trained on our shell. They're looking for any sign of irregularity, any evidence to support whatever suspicions linger from the morning's challenge.
"Coming up on the crosscurrent," I warn. "Prepare to adjust in five, four, three, two, one—"
The boat hits the disturbance, the pull from the tributary attempting to push us off course. I compensate with the rudder, keeping us straight while the port side adjusts their pressure.
"Perfect adjustment," I call. "We're through it clean. Maintaining position."
A glance to either side confirms our lead. Half a length on Bayside, more on the others. Exactly where we want to be at this point in the race.
"First marker coming up," I announce. "We're five seconds under qualifying pace. Looking strong."
The 500-meter mark flashes by. Quarter distance covered. I check our line, our speed, our position. Everything precisely as planned.
"Let's open it up a bit," I direct. "Power five in two. One, two—drive!"
The response is immediate. Eight bodies dig deeper, finding another gear. The boat surges forward, stretching our lead.
"Bayside responding," I warn. "But we've got them. Holding form now. Long and strong."
The middle section of the course stretches before us, a straightaway before the challenging turn at 1500 meters. This is where discipline matters, maintaining technique while fighting the building burn in muscles, the increasing demand for oxygen.
"Focus on your breathing," I remind them. "We own this middle section. Halfway point approaching."
As we cross the thousand-meter mark, I feel a sudden wave of heat flush through my body. The suppressant is failing faster than expected. Not now. Not here.
Along the safety route, I catch Andrea pointing excitedly at something, her phone recording. Kinsley stands beside her, both of them clearly hoping to capture my failure for posterity.
I push the panic down, focusing on the race, on keeping my voice steady.
"Coming up on the turn," I call, forcing calm into my tone. "Outside crew, prepare for increased pressure. Inside, ease off slightly on my mark."