CHAPTER TWENTY
Reese
"Way enough!"
My voice cracks on the command, throat raw from ninety seconds of screaming us across the finish line. We drift past the markers, eight chests heaving, nobody celebrating. Third place. By two feet. The narrowest qualifying margin in Sable Ridge history.
"Oars across," I manage, though it comes out as more of a rasp.
They comply in ragged sequence—Cameron first, then Tyler, the others following without their usual crisp precision. Gray's oar comes across last, and he won't look at me. Hasn't looked at me once during the entire race.
Northshore's crew glides past us toward the dock, their stroke calling out, "Better luck next time, Sable Ridge." The condescension in his voice makes my hands clench around the rudder strings.
"Ignore him," Bo says quietly from seven seat, but even his usual protective energy feels muted.
We paddle toward the dock in silence. No one's asking about our time or split comparisons.
No one's analyzing what went wrong. We all know what went wrong—we're nine individuals sharing a boat, not a crew.
The only reason we qualified at all was a desperate final sprint where I screamed myself hoarse and they responded on pure muscle memory.
"Hold water," I call as we approach. My voice barely carries three feet.
Jackson reaches for the dock first, pulling us in with unnecessary force. The boat lurches, and I have to grip the gunnels to keep from pitching forward. A week ago, Gray would have snapped at him for the rough landing. Now he just sits there, staring at nothing.
"Out of the boat," I say, though they're already moving.
I stay seated as they climb out, partly because my legs are shaking and partly because I need a moment before I face what's waiting on shore. Through the forest of bodies, I can see Coach Bennett standing at the top of the boat ramp, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Other crews are watching us too. Bayside's coxswain catches my eye and gives me a look that might be sympathy or might be pity. Hard to tell. Harder to care.
"You good?" Eli asks, pausing by my seat.
"Fine," I lie.
He doesn't push, just offers his hand to help me out. I take it because my pride can't override the very real possibility that my legs won't hold me. The claiming bite under my concealer throbs—a constant reminder of why we're falling apart.
My feet hit the dock, and the world tilts slightly. Eli steadies me with a hand on my elbow, gentle but firm.
"When's the last time you ate?" he asks quietly.
I can't remember. Yesterday maybe? The days have been blurring together—managing the team fracture, avoiding Gray, pretending everything's normal while Jackson's mark burns on my neck like a brand.
Add in the fun photo collage plastered outside my Business Strategies class and the last few days have left me without the desire or the ability to eat more than a few crackers or nuts at a time.
"I'm fine," I repeat, pulling away.
The walk up the ramp feels endless. Each crew we pass goes quiet, watching us like we're some kind of cautionary tale. The mighty Sable Ridge reduced to barely scraping through a dual meet. I keep my shoulders back, chin up, but inside I'm screaming.
"Callahan." Coach Bennett's voice cuts through the morning air. "Walk with me."
It's not a request. I follow him away from the dock, toward the parking area where our trailer sits. My team's eyes track us, but none of them follow. They know Coach meant for this to be just between us.
We stop by the equipment van, far enough from everyone that we won't be overheard. Bennett pulls out a water bottle from the cooler and hands it to me.
"Drink. Your voice sounds like hell."
I comply, the cool water soothing my raw throat. He watches me with those weathered eyes that have seen forty years of crews come and go.
"That was the worst race I've seen from a Sable Ridge crew in fifteen years," he says finally.
"We qualified."
"By two feet." He shakes his head. "You held that boat together with spit and prayers. That's not rowing, that's damage control."
I don't answer because he's right. My voice is shot, my body is running on fumes, and I can feel the team splintering more with each stroke.
"Jackson was trying to stroke from three seat," Bennett continues, ticking off on his fingers. "Gray was so focused on controlling him that he forgot to actually set a rhythm. Your middle four rowed like two different boats, and Cameron looked like he wanted to throw himself overboard."
Each observation stings because they're all accurate. I saw it all, felt it all, tried to compensate through increasingly desperate commands.
"You want to know what Northshore's coach said to me?" Bennett asks. "He asked if we were rowing sick. Said it was painful to watch a crew with that much talent row that badly."
"We're working through some things."
He snorts. "Working through?" His eyes drop to my neck, where I realize the concealer has completely sweated off during the race. The claiming mark is visible, still red around the edges.
"Ah," he says quietly. "That explains a few things."
My hand flies to cover it. "Coach, I—"
"Save it." He waves me off. "I've been coaching long enough to recognize pack dynamics when I see them. The way those boys started circling you from day one, the way you hold them together, the perfect practice in the tanks last week—I knew something was building."
"You knew?"
"Well, I suspected. Didn't know someone had actually claimed you until just now." He rubs his face, looking tired. "Jackson?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"And Gray's losing his mind over it."
Another nod.
"Christ." He looks out over the water where other crews are warming up for their races. "Twenty years ago, I coached a mixed eight at Washington. Three Alphas, four Betas, one Omega in bow seat. They were magnificent when they clicked. Won nationals twice."
"What happened to them?"
"Politics. Administration got nervous about the dynamics. Split them up senior year." His jaw tightens. "They never rowed as well apart as they did together. Broke my heart watching them try."
He turns back to me. "Here's what I know, Callahan. I don't give a damn about university policies or designation politics. I care about boats going fast. And right now, you're letting personal dynamics destroy what could be the fastest crew I've ever coached."
"I don't know how to fix it."
"Sure you do." He crosses his arms. "Same way you fixed it in the tanks. Stop pretending you're just a coxswain. Stop letting them tear each other apart over position. You're the center of whatever this is becoming—own it."
"If the university finds out—"
"They already know. Torres has been watching you like a hawk for a while now." He jerks his chin toward the officials' tent where I can see Torres standing with her clipboard, observing everything. "She's just waiting to see what you do with it."
"She could shut us down."
"She could. Or she could be waiting to see something that hasn't existed in forty years—a true pack crew.
" He leans against the van. "You know what makes pack crews unbeatable?
It's not the physical strength or the Alpha aggression.
It's the synchronization. When the bonds are right, you don't need to think.
You breathe as one, move as one, win as one. "
"We're nowhere near that."
"Because you're fighting it." His voice gentles. "Jackson claimed you but you're still hiding it. Gray's trying to lead through authority instead of accepting the pack structure. The others are choosing sides instead of choosing unity."
"It's not that simple—"
"It's exactly that simple." He cuts me off. "You've got maybe two weeks before this either comes together or falls completely apart. Torres will file her report, the administration will step in, and that'll be the end of it."
"You're giving us an ultimatum?"
"I'm giving you the truth. You can keep pretending this is just about rowing, keep letting them destroy each other over who's in charge, keep hiding behind what's left of those suppressants." He meets my eyes. "Or you can accept what you're becoming and show everyone what a real pack crew can do."
He starts to walk away, then pauses. "If it means anything, I think you could be extraordinary. All of you. But only if you stop being afraid of it."
"Coach," I call after him. "What if we can't figure it out?"
He looks back with a wry smile. "Then you'll join the long list of crews that had all the talent in the world and wasted it on bullshit. Your choice, Callahan. But choose fast, because that," he points to where our boat sits on the trailer, "is painful to watch."
He leaves me standing there by the van, the weight of his words mixing with exhaustion.
When I turn back toward the dock, I see Torres by the officials' tent, clipboard in hand, watching our team with that sharp gaze that misses nothing.
She catches my eye and gives the slightest nod—not approval, just acknowledgment.
She saw what happened out there. She's watching. Waiting.
My team is loading the boat in fractured groups.
Jackson and Eli work on the bow section, their movements synchronized in a way that speaks to their deeper connection.
Bo and Zane handle the middle, talking in low voices.
Beckett and Tyler manage the stern rigging while Cameron stands apart, methodically checking the straps.
And Gray—Gray stands by the trailer's wheel well, alone, staring at nothing.
"Reese." Bo materializes beside me, concern written across his face. "You okay? Coach looked intense."
"Fine," I lie, pulling my jacket collar higher to hide the mark. "Just discussing strategy."
His eyes flick to my neck anyway. Southern boys might be polite, but they're not stupid. "Your voice sounds wrecked."
"It'll recover."
"Will it?" The question seems to encompass more than just my vocal cords.
Before I can answer, we're interrupted by laughter from Northshore's crew walking past. Their coxswain, a Beta named Luis who I've competed against before, slows down with a shitty-ass smirk on his face.
"Rough race, Callahan," he says with false sympathy. "Maybe you guys should consider the B boat next time. Less pressure."
Jackson's head snaps up from where he's working, his body tensing. Eli puts a warning hand on his arm.
"We qualified," I say evenly, though my destroyed voice undermines any authority.
"Barely." Luis’s eyes glitter with amusement.
"Though I guess that's what happens when your stroke and three-seat are trying to kill each other mid-race. We could see the tension from three lanes over. Maybe they’re too busy fighting over something off the water.
" His eyes move slowly over my body and I have to fight the revulsion that tries to shiver down the length of my spine.
The air shifts, becomes electric. All eight of my guys have stopped what they're doing, turning toward us with varying degrees of threat in their postures. Even Gray has emerged from his isolation, taking a step forward with his spine straight. At full height and with all the attention of his Alpha aura focused on one person, we’re all reminded of why he’s Captain.
"Walk away," Cameron says quietly from behind me. I hadn't even heard him approach. "Now."
Luis looks around at eight Alphas all focused on him with predatory intensity. Despite their fractures, despite the disaster of a race, they've all moved to position themselves around me. Not quite a pack formation, but close enough to make Luis step back.
"Just making conversation," he says, but he's already retreating. "See you at regionals, Sable Ridge. If you make it that far."
He leaves quickly, his crew following. The moment he's gone, the temporary unity dissolves. Jackson turns back to the boat without a word. Gray returns to his spot by the trailer. The brief glimpse of the united, protective, powerful unit we could be vanishes like smoke.
"We should go," Tyler says, ever practical. "We have a two-hour drive back before we have to figure out how to fix this in a week."
The thought of getting back in the boat this afternoon makes me want to cry. But that's what we do. We keep going, keep pretending, keep fracturing a little more each day.
As we finish loading, I catch glimpses of our dysfunction.
Jackson "accidentally" shoulders past Gray reaching for a strap.
Gray's jaw clenches but he says nothing.
Eli positions himself between them like a buffer.
The middle four work in careful silence, nobody wanting to choose sides.
Cameron watches it all from his perch on the trailer, cataloging every crack in our foundation.
"Vans leave in five," Coach Bennett calls out.
I climb into the second van, unsurprised when the seating arrangement reflects our current divide. Jackson and Eli take the back row. Gray sits alone in the front. The others distribute themselves carefully in the middle, maintaining neutral territory.
I end up in a row with Bo and Tyler, grateful for their steady presence even as I feel the weight of what needs to happen. Two weeks. Coach's timeline matches what Torres is probably thinking. Two weeks to either embrace what we're becoming or lose everything.
My phone buzzes. A text from Quinton: Heard you guys had a rough race. You okay?
I stare at it, not sure how to respond. How does he always know? It's like he has informants everywhere, always appearing when I'm vulnerable.
Fine, I type back. Just tired.
If you need to talk, I'm here. Coffee later?
I delete the text without responding and lean my head against the window. Outside, the other crews are preparing for their races, moving with the coordination we've lost.
"Hey," Bo says quietly beside me. "We'll figure it out."
"Will we?" I echo his earlier question.
He doesn't answer, but his hand finds mine, squeezing gently. A simple gesture of support that makes my throat tight with more reasons than just overuse.
As we pull away from Lake Hartwell, I can see our boat strapped to the trailer behind us. Eight seats that should move as one. Eight oars that should breathe together. Eight Alphas and one Omega who should be something revolutionary.
Instead, we're just broken pieces held together by habit and my failing voice.
But Coach Bennett's words echo in my mind: "Stop pretending you're just a coxswain."
Maybe he's right. Maybe it's time to stop pretending and start becoming what we're meant to be.
Even if it terrifies me.
Even if it destroys us.
Because the alternative—this slow dissolution, this painful fracture—is destroying us anyway. At least if we try, if we leap, we might discover we can fly.
Or we might just prove everyone right and crash completely.