CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Reese
Tuesday afternoon practice feels like watching a slow-motion car crash. We're marginally better than this morning's complete disaster, but that's like saying a broken leg is better than a severed limb.
"And... let it run," I call through the cox box as we finish our final sprint, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.
Eight oars drop to the water, but Eli catches a crab on the finish, sending spray across the boat. The shell lurches to port before Gray can correct with his steering.
"Fuck," Eli mutters, hauling his blade clear.
The word hangs in the air, summing up exactly how we all feel.
"Easy?" Bo pants from seven-seat, but there's nothing easy about the way Tyler's shoulders are locked with tension or how Jackson's stroke is consistently half a beat behind the rhythm.
Tyler checks his SpeedCoach and grimaces. "Six-twenty-eight for the five hundred. That's... not good."
"Statistically embarrassing," Eli corrects flatly. "The novice eight split faster than that yesterday."
Gray's jaw works like he's chewing glass. "We need to figure this out."
Coach Torres makes notes from the launch, her expression unreadable behind sunglasses. She's been taking a lot of notes this afternoon. Too many notes. Which either means we're worse than I thought or she's building a case against us for the administration.
"Take us back," I say, trying to keep the defeat out of my voice. "Easy pressure, rate eighteen."
The paddle back to the dock is tense, quiet.
I can hear fragments of whispered conversations.
Bo and Beckett discussing whether the timing issues are technical or biological.
Tyler muttering calculations about split times and championship qualifying standards.
Jackson and Cameron maintaining their usual silence, but it feels more strained than meditative.
Normal crew dysfunction, except it's not normal at all. Every mistimed stroke, every moment of lost synchronization, feels like evidence of something deeper breaking down.
The instincts we're all fighting are making everything harder. Instead of moving like one organism, we're nine separate entities trying to coordinate while our bodies pull us in different directions.
After we rack the boat and complete our usual post-practice routine, the atmosphere remains strained.
The guys cluster in their usual protective formation, but there's an edge to it now.
Gray stands apart, arms crossed, radiating frustration.
Jackson lingers near the equipment, yanking each rope coil tighter than necessary while keeping me in his peripheral vision.
Torres approaches, and the tension ratchets up another notch. Eight pairs of eyes track her movement, but it's wary vigilance rather than confident protection.
"Callahan, a word?"
The protective response flares immediately. Bo takes a half-step forward, Gray's posture shifts into something more aggressive, and even Tyler looks up from coiling ropes.
"I've got this," I tell them, trying to project confidence I don't feel.
Torres waits until we're out of earshot, walking toward the equipment shed where the late afternoon shadows provide privacy. Her pace is unhurried, but there's purpose in her stride. She's here to observe and report, not to coach us.
"Concerning day," she observes, leaning against the shed's wooden siding.
"How so?"
"This morning your crew rowed like strangers. This afternoon they rowed like strangers who actively dislike each other." She removes her sunglasses, revealing sharp brown eyes that seem to catalog every failure. "At this rate, you'll be lucky to qualify for conferences."
I choose my words carefully. "Sometimes it takes time to find rhythm as a unit."
"Unit." She repeats the word like she's tasting something sour. "That's a generous description for what I observed today."
My pulse quickens, but I keep my expression neutral. "We're working through some coordination issues."
"Coordination issues?" Torres pushes off from the shed, moving closer.
"Callahan, your stroke rate was all over the map.
Your power curve looked like a seismograph during an earthquake.
And the way your crew moves around you on land...
" She shakes her head. "That's not coordination issues. That's biological warfare."
The bottom drops out of my stomach. "I don't know what you mean."
"I think you know exactly what I mean." Her voice remains conversational, but there's steel underneath.
"You've got eight Alphas fighting instincts they don't understand while trying to row with an Omega whose scent is driving them insane.
Even through whatever industrial-strength suppressants you're using. "
I open my mouth to deny it, but she holds up a hand.
"Don't insult my intelligence. I've been supervising collegiate athletes for twelve years.
I know what designation masking looks like, and I know what early pack formation smells like.
" She crosses her arms, studying me with what might be professional interest or personal concern.
"The question is what I'm going to put in my report. "
My throat feels tight. "What are you going to put in your report?"
"That depends." She tilts her head, considering. "How long have you been an Omega?"
The direct question catches me off guard. After weeks of careful deflection and strategic misdirection, her bluntness feels almost like relief.
"Always," I answer quietly.
"How long have you been hiding it?"
"Since I hit puberty at twelve."
She nods, unsurprised. "Family pressure?"
"Traditional expectations." The words are acid in my mouth. Old wounds I’d rather not revisit. "Omegas obey. They don't command Alphas. They don't pursue athletic careers. And Omegas certainly don't cox men's crews."
"No, they don't." Torres agrees. "Which makes what you've accomplished fairly remarkable."
The unexpected compliment throws me. "What I've accomplished?"
"You've taken eight elite Alpha athletes who were coasting at the lowest end of their abilities and turned them into a powerhouse in less than a month.
You've maintained your cover despite physical pulls that should have exposed you weeks ago.
And you've managed to keep them focused on performance instead of territorial pissing matches.
For the most part." She pauses. "That takes serious skill. "
"Or serious luck."
"Luck doesn't create the kind of synchronization I observed the other day in the tanks. That was instincts and training working in harmony." Torres leans back against the shed. "But it's also unsustainable."
My chest tightens. "What do you mean?"
"I mean pack formation is an accelerating process. The more time you spend together, the stronger the bonds become, the harder they are to hide." Her voice softens slightly. "How many of them have knotted you?"
Heat floods my cheeks. "That's none of your business."
"It becomes my business when it affects team performance and university compliance." But her tone isn't accusatory. It's almost... understanding. "Look, Callahan, I'm not your enemy here. But I am required to file reports, and those reports need to reflect reality."
"So you're going to turn us in?"
"I'm going to tell you something about reality first." Torres checks her watch then looks around the area, ensuring we still have privacy.
"The problem has never been about bonds, Reese.
It's about the problems that can happen when Alphas can't get their heads out of their asses and Omegas can't find their voice to get them under control. "
The shift to my first name feels significant, like she's speaking to me as a person rather than a problem to solve.
"Omegas aren't weak," she continues. "They're stronger than anyone gives them credit for because they're the ones facilitating and strengthening the bonds. I know you think that what's happening between all of you is something bad or dangerous, but it's only that if you don't get it under control."
I just stare at her, unsure of what to say as the weight of her words settle on my shoulders.
"But I also know what I see when you're all together.
" Her voice takes on an almost wistful quality.
"Those men care for you whether they admit it or not.
I saw the way they formed a pack around you, how they protect you with everything they have.
You could be something amazing if you can just figure it out. And I'm hoping you do."
My lip hurts from how much I’m chewing on it to bite back the arguments I want to make. Because there’s no condemnation in her tone. Just a wistfulness that sounds suspiciously like hope.
"Because if you don't figure it out in the next week or two," Torres continues, and now her voice carries genuine regret, "I can't protect you anymore. I have to turn in my report. I hope I'm able to give them something good."
I stare at her, processing the implications. "You're giving us a chance."
"I'm giving you reality." She straightens, shuttering her expression. "Two weeks to prove you can manage what's happening without creating a liability for the university. Two weeks to show me that this pack formation enhances rather than compromises your competitive performance."
"And if we can't?"
"Then I report what I observe, and the administration makes decisions accordingly." She replaces her sunglasses, the gesture somehow final. "Your choice, Callahan. Figure it out, or lose everything."
She starts to walk away, then pauses.
"Just so we’re clear," she says without turning around, "I've never seen eight men more unified in protecting something they all care about. They’re devoted to you whether or not any of you realize it. Don't waste that."
Then she's gone, leaving me standing in the shadows with the sound of “two weeks” echoing in my ears.
When I finally make it back to the team, they're loading equipment into the boathouse like they can't escape fast enough.
Gray doesn't meet my eyes. Jackson is methodically checking oar locks, examining each mechanism twice, then again, clearly stalling.
The others move around each other maintaining deliberate distance, avoiding accidental contact.
"Everything okay?" Bo asks, but his voice carries strain. The protective drive is there, but it's fighting against exhaustion and frustration.
"Fine," I lie, because what else can I say? That we have two weeks to figure out how to function as a crew before Torres reports our biological dysfunction to the administration? That we're falling apart in real time and I don't know how to fix it?
"Bullshit," Zane says, but there's no cheer in it today. "You look like someone just cancelled rowing season."
"Maybe they should," Tyler mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The silence that follows is deafening.
We split up from the boathouse in our usual fractured groups.
Jackson and Cameron head for their bikes, the engines roaring to life in stereo.
Gray stalks toward his Range Rover without looking back.
The rest pile into Bo's truck and Tyler's sedan, maintaining the same careful distance they held while loading equipment.
I end up in Bo's passenger seat, watching Jackson's bike disappear around the curve toward main campus. Behind us, Zane slumps against the window while Beckett stares at nothing.
Two weeks.
Torres's deadline echoes in my head as Bo navigates the familiar path back to the house. Two weeks to prove we can manage what's happening. To show that pack formation enhances rather than destroys us.
The sun sets over the lake, painting the water the color of old blood. Tomorrow we'll be back here, trying again to find a rhythm that keeps slipping through our fingers. Nine people who used to move as one, now barely able to occupy the same space without fracturing.
Bo parks outside my dorm where I’ve been trying to avoid everyone, but nobody moves. We sit in the gathering darkness, each lost in our own thoughts about what happens if we can't pull this together.
And the pressure builds.