CHAPTER EIGHT
Reese
We manage to finish the practice without completely falling apart, which feels like a minor miracle given how it started. The pieces back from the bridge are marginally better - not great, but competent enough that Carmine stops taking quite so many notes.
When we finally dock, she's waiting on the shore with Coach Bennett, her tablet clutched like a weapon.
"Adequate," she pronounces, like the word tastes sour. "Barely."
We stand in a line, still dripping with sweat and lake water, waiting for the verdict.
"The administration's concerns appear to have merit," she continues. "Team dynamics are clearly affecting performance. Therefore, effective immediately, Sable Ridge Men's Crew is on probationary status."
My stomach drops. Behind me, I hear Bo's sharp intake of breath.
"What does that mean exactly?" Gray asks, his captain voice steady despite everything.
"It means," Carmine says, pulling up something on her tablet, "that you'll have supervised practices.
I'm assigning Assistant Coach Torres from the women's team to observe your daily sessions.
You'll have weekly check-ins with me to assess progress.
Any signs of inappropriate conduct or further performance degradation will result in immediate suspension of competitive privileges. "
"For how long?" Tyler asks.
"Through the end of the season, assuming you can demonstrate consistent improvement and appropriate team dynamics."
The lacrosse team chooses that moment to jog past again, Quinton at the lead. He doesn't look at us, just keeps running, but his presence feels like salt in an open wound.
"Questions?" Carmine asks, though her tone suggests she doesn't want any.
"No, ma'am," Gray responds for all of us.
"Good. Coach Torres will attend your Monday morning practice. I expect to see significant improvement by our first check-in next Saturday." She turns to walk away, then pauses. "Ms. Callahan, a word?"
I follow her a few steps away from the team, my heart hammering.
"I've seen your records from Westlake," she says quietly. "You were an excellent team captain there. Whatever is happening here, I suggest you get it under control. Your future in collegiate rowing depends on it."
"Yes, ma'am."
She leaves without another word, and I turn back to find eight pairs of eyes watching me with varying degrees of concern and frustration.
"Let's get the boat up," I say, because what else is there to say?
We work in tense silence, everyone processing what just happened. As we're finishing, I notice Quinton has broken away from his team again. He's walking toward the boathouse, but not toward us. Toward Gray, who's coiling ropes near the bay doors.
I can't hear what Quinton says, but I see Gray's entire body go rigid. Quinton speaks for maybe thirty seconds, his expression pleasant, almost friendly. Then he claps Gray on the shoulder - a gesture that makes every Alpha on our team tense - and walks away.
Gray's hands are clenched so tight his knuckles are white.
"What was that about?" I ask, approaching carefully.
"Nothing." The word comes out sharp enough to cut.
"Gray—"
"Drop it, Callahan."
The use of my last name stings more than it should. We're back to formality, back to walls. Maybe that's for the best, given our new probationary status.
"Fine," I say, matching his cold tone. "I have to go anyway. Library at three."
Something flickers across his face - anger, worry, possession - but it's gone before I can identify it.
"Be careful," he says quietly.
"Of what? Studying?"
He doesn't answer, just turns and walks away.
---
By the time I shower, change, and make it to the library, it's 3:07. Quinton is already there, books spread across a table in a quiet corner of the third floor. He looks up when I approach, and his smile seems genuine.
"Hey, thought you might have bailed on me," he says, pulling out the chair next to him.
"Sorry, practice ran long." I sit down, maintaining careful distance.
"How'd it go? Saw you guys out there this morning - early workout, huh?"
"Administrative observation," I admit, because he obviously saw Carmine. "We're on probation."
His eyebrows rise. "That's rough. What for?"
"Team dynamics affecting performance, apparently."
"Ah." He nods knowingly. "Let me guess - Gray's being territorial about you joining the team?"
The accuracy of the guess surprises me. "Something like that. What's your deal with him anyway?"
Quinton sighs, running a hand through his hair. For the first time, he looks genuinely uncomfortable.
"We were best friends at prep school. Exeter. Inseparable, actually. Then junior year, this girl transferred in. Sophia." He smiles ruefully. "We both fell for her. Hard. She chose me, and it... it destroyed our friendship. Gray took it as a betrayal."
"That seems extreme."
"Gray doesn't do anything halfway," Quinton says. "When he commits to something - friendship, rivalry, hatred - he's all in. Anyway, Sophia moved to California end of junior year. Broke both our hearts, but the damage between Gray and me was done."
I study his face, looking for signs of deception, but he seems sincere.
"That's why I tried to talk to him earlier," he continues. "Clear the air. I asked if there was anything between you two because..." He pauses, meeting my eyes. "I'm interested, Reese. And I don't want history repeating itself."
My cheeks heat. "I'm not really looking to date right now."
"Fair enough." He accepts it easily, no pressure. "But if you change your mind, the offer stands. Now, should we talk about Southeast Asian emerging markets before Professor Hawthorne wonders why we have no research?"
The subject change is smooth, respectful. He doesn't push, doesn't make it awkward. Just opens his laptop and starts pulling up articles about Myanmar's economic development.
We work for what feels like minutes but must be hours.
Quinton is surprisingly funny, making dry comments about economic indicators that actually make me laugh.
He's smart too, connecting concepts I wouldn't have thought to link.
For the first time since arriving at Sable Ridge, I'm just a college student working on a project.
Not an Omega hiding her designation. Not a coxswain managing Alpha dynamics. Just... Reese.
"Oh shit," Quinton says suddenly, looking at his phone. "It's almost six."
I check my own phone to find twelve unread messages in the team group chat.
Bo: Where are you?
Zane: Dinner's ready
Tyler: ETA?
Bo: Seriously, you okay?
Jackson: Who has eyes on Callahan?
Gray: She's at the library.
Beckett: It's been three hours
Eli: Someone should check
Cameron: I'll go
Gray: No. She's fine.
Bo: Reese, text back when you see this
Zane: Getting worried here
"I need to go," I say, already packing up.
"The guys?" Quinton asks, glancing at my phone. "They're protective."
"Typical Alphas," I say, trying to crack a joke. Quinton huffs out a laugh with that disarming crooked smile on his face, but it doesn’t sound like he’s buying it.
"I'll walk you back. It's getting dark."
I want to say no, but that would look suspicious. Like there's something inappropriate about the team's concern. "Sure, thanks."
We walk through campus as the sun sets, Quinton keeping respectful distance between us. He tells me about a professor who fell asleep during his own lecture, about the time the lacrosse team accidentally dyed the pond pink. Normal college stories. Safe topics.
The path to the team house cuts through woods, and it's properly dark under the trees. I'm actually grateful for the company until I see a figure on the back deck.
Jackson. Standing perfectly still, watching us approach.
"Is that your place?" Quinton asks.
"The team house. I'm staying there temporarily."
"Why?"
I hesitate, then decide partial truth is better than lies. "Someone left a threatening note under my dorm door. The guys insisted I stay somewhere safer."
Quinton stops walking, his hand catching my arm gently. "Wait, what? Someone threatened you?"
"It's handled."
"Reese, that's serious. Did you report it?"
"The team's taking care of it."
His expression shifts to genuine concern. "Are you okay? Really okay?"
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. "Yeah. I'm fine. The guys are... they're protective."
"I can see that." He glances up at Jackson, who hasn't moved. "Just... be careful, okay?"
"Careful of what?"
He steps closer, lowering his voice. "These guys, they're not all what you think. Especially Gray. I know you think they're protecting you, but sometimes protection and possession look really similar."
"Quinton—"
"I'm not trying to start anything. Just... someone should be looking out for you. Making sure you're okay. If you need anything, if something feels wrong, you can call me. Anytime."
He squeezes my arm gently, then steps back. "See you in class Monday?"
"Yeah. Thanks for walking me back."
He nods, gives Jackson a long look I can't interpret, then heads back toward campus.
When I turn to face the house, Jackson is still on the deck, but now his expression is clearly visible in the porch light.
He looks ready to kill someone. Maybe multiple someones.
"Jackson—"
"Get inside." His voice is flat, controlled in that dangerous way. "Now."
"I don't take orders from—"
"Reese." Just my name, but the way he says it stops me cold. "Please. Get inside before I do something that violates our probation."
I climb the deck stairs slowly, watching him track every movement. When I pass him to go through the door, he inhales sharply.
"You smell like him."
"We were studying."
"For three hours."
"Is there a time limit I'm not aware of?"
His jaw works like he's physically chewing back words. "Gray wants to see you. He's in his room."
"I should check in with everyone first—"
"That wasn't a request."
The authority in his voice triggers something instinctive - not quite Alpha command, but close enough that my feet are moving before I decide to comply.
Gray's door is cracked open. I knock anyway.
"Come in."
He's standing by his window, still in practice clothes like he hasn't moved since this morning. The tension radiating off him fills the room like smoke.
"How was your study date?"
"It wasn't a date."
"Three hours, Reese."
"We lost track of time. It happens when you're actually working."
He turns to face me, and his eyes are all storm. "Did he tell you about Sophia?"
"Yeah."
"What did he say?"
"That you both liked her, she chose him, and it ended your friendship."
Gray laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Is that what he said?"
"What really happened?"
"Doesn't matter." He moves closer, and I catch his scent - pine and rage and something desperate. "What matters is that Quinton Whitmore takes things. Especially things that matter to other people."
"I'm not a thing to be taken."
"No," he agrees. "You're not. But he doesn't know that. He sees you with us, sees how we are around you, and he thinks you're something he can use to hurt me."
"Not everything is about you, Gray."
"This is." His certainty is absolute. "Whatever he's doing, whoever sent him, it's about destroying what we have."
"What we have is a team on probation that can barely row together."
"That's not what I mean and you know it."
The air between us crackles. I should leave. Should maintain distance. Should be professional.
"What did he say to you this morning?" I ask instead.
Gray's expression shutters. "Nothing important."
"You're lying."
"Let it go."
"No. If this affects the team—"
"Everything affects the team." He's close enough now that I can feel his heat. "You being here affects the team. You leaving your scent all over Quinton affects the team. You pretending we're just nine people who row together affects the team."
"We are just—"
"We're not." He cuts me off. "We haven't been since the moment you walked into that boathouse. We're something else now. Something that scares the administration, that threatens people like Quinton, that makes us vulnerable."
"Then maybe we should stop."
"Can you?" His voice drops. "Can you walk away? Pretend you don't feel it? This thing that pulls us together?"
I want to say yes. Want to lie.
But Jackson's on the deck ready to commit murder over Quinton walking me home. Bo made sure I had breakfast when I couldn't sleep. Eli kissed me like I was the answer to a question he'd been asking his whole life. And Gray... Gray looks at me like I'm both his salvation and his damnation.
"No," I admit. "But that doesn't mean we should give in to it."
"Even if fighting it is tearing us apart?"
Before I can answer, someone pounds on the door.
"Team meeting," Bo calls. "Dinner's getting cold and we need to talk about tomorrow."
Gray doesn't move. Neither do I.
"Five minutes," Gray calls back.
Bo's footsteps retreat.
"He's going to hurt you," Gray says quietly. "Quinton. Whatever game he's playing, you're going to get hurt."
"I can take care of myself."
"I know." He reaches up, thumb brushing my cheekbone so gently it aches. "That's what terrifies me."
He drops his hand and steps back. "We should go down."
"Gray—"
"We have bigger problems than Quinton right now. Martinez starts monitoring us Monday. We need to figure out how to row like a team instead of a pack, or we lose everything."
He's right. But as I follow him downstairs, I can't shake the feeling that Quinton was right too.
Sometimes protection and possession do look the same.
The question is: which one am I experiencing?
And which one do I want?