CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Beckett
The morning air at Lake Hartwell bites with that particular April chill that makes you question your life choices. We left campus at five AM, and after the two-hour drive, seven o'clock still feels ungodly. But here we are, unloading the boat while other crews warm up on the water.
"Northridge is here," Tyler observes, nodding toward their trailer. "And Hampton Hills."
"Good," Gray says, all captain intensity. "We need real competition."
What we need is coffee strong enough to wake the dead, but I keep that observation to myself. Reese is checking her cox box for the third time, a nervous tell she doesn't know she has. Bo hovers nearby, not quite touching her but close enough that everyone knows exactly what's going on there.
Jackson and Eli are in their own bubble, doing their synchronized stretching routine that would be creepy if it wasn't so effective.
Zane's actually quiet for once, watching the other crews with an intensity that reminds me he's more than just the team's emotional support human.
Cameron's doing his thing where he appears to be meditating but is actually cataloging every detail around us.
And me? I'm pretending everything's fine while my stomach does backflips from pure nerves.
"Hands on," Gray commands, and we lift the boat together.
The thing about rowing is that it strips away all the bullshit.
You can't fake it on the water. Either you're connected or you're not.
Either you trust each other or you don't. After yesterday's practice, I'd say we're at about sixty percent.
Not great, but better than the twenty percent we've been operating at.
"Northridge's boat looks fast," some Hampton Hills rower comments as we pass. "Heard Sable Ridge has been having issues though."
"Heard your mom has been having issues," Zane mutters under his breath, and I have to bite back a laugh.
We get the boat on the water and start our warm-up row to the starting line. Reese's voice through the cox box is steady, controlled. None of the desperation from earlier this week.
"Long and controlled," she says. "Save the power for when it matters."
The warm-up feels... decent. Not our best, but solid. Like we remember how to be a crew even if we're still figuring out how to be a pack.
"Lane assignments," the official calls. "Northridge lane two, Sable Ridge lane three, Hampton Hills lane four."
Middle lanes. Good position. We back into the starting platform, and I can feel the energy shift. Game time.
"Okay boys," Reese's voice comes through clear and fierce. "We've had a shit week. We've been at each other's throats. But right now? None of that matters. For the next six minutes, we're not nine individuals. We're one boat. We move together or we lose together. Your choice."
"Together," Jackson says, loud enough for all of us to hear. It's the most decisive he's sounded all season.
"Together," the rest of us echo.
The starter raises his flag. "Attention!"
We coil forward, loaded with potential energy.
"Row!"
We explode off the line. The first ten strokes are pure power, pure chaos, pure adrenaline. Reese calls them with a fury that makes my blood sing.
"That's it! Show them what Sable Ridge can do! Lengthen out now, settle to base rate. Northridge is even with us, Hampton Hills is half a length up."
The middle thousand is always where races are won or lost. It's not about power anymore - it's about efficiency, sustainability, trust. Every stroke has to be perfect, or at least perfectly together.
"Hold that rhythm," Reese commands. "Tyler, you're setting a beautiful pace. Everyone match his control. We're walking through Hampton Hills."
And we are. Inch by inch, stroke by stroke, we're moving. Not because we're pulling harder, but because we're pulling together. It's been so long since we've felt this that I'd almost forgotten what it was like.
"Five hundred to go!" Reese calls. "Northridge is making their move. Do NOT let them walk through us. This is our water!"
The last five hundred is pure pain. Your lungs burn, your legs scream, your back threatens to give out. This is where most crews fall apart. But something happens in that last five hundred that hasn't happened all season.
We get stronger.
"THAT'S IT!" Reese's voice cracks with intensity. "Cameron, Eli, drive those legs! Jackson, Zane, perfect timing! Tyler, Beckett, you're doing beautiful! Bo, Gray, bring us home!"
I don't know where the power comes from. Maybe it's muscle memory. Maybe it's pride. Maybe it's just that we're too stubborn to lose. But we're moving, really moving, the boat singing across the water like it has wings.
"Ten strokes to go! Northridge is right there but WE DO NOT brEAK!"
We don't break. We drive through the finish line a bow ball ahead of Northridge, maybe two seats up on Hampton Hills.
"Let it run!"
We collapse over our oars, gasping. My entire body is on fire, but the good kind. The kind that means you left everything on the water.
"Holy shit," Zane pants. "We actually did it."
"Barely," Tyler corrects, but he's smiling.
"A win's a win," Bo says.
We paddle back to the dock, and for a few minutes, everything feels... not fixed, but fixable. We're laughing, chirping at Northridge about their sprint, acting like an actual team.
Then I see her.
Kinsley Adams stands on the dock with several members of the women's team, all wearing identical smirks that make my hackles rise.
"Nice race," she calls out, voice dripping with false sweetness. "Must be all those special training sessions paying off."
"Ignore her," Gray mutters.
But Kinsley's not done. She pulls out her phone, waving it at us. "You should all check your messages. I sent you something... enlightening."
"Whatever game you're playing—" Gray starts.
"Oh, this isn't my game," Kinsley interrupts, her smile pure venom. "This is yours, Gray. Or should I say... ours?"
My phone buzzes. Then Tyler's. Then everyone's in rapid succession.
"Don't—" Gray says sharply, but it's too late. Zane's already opening the message.
"What the fuck?" Zane's voice is deadly quiet.
I open the video on my phone. It's dark, grainy, clearly filmed in secret. But the voices are unmistakable. Gray's low growl. Kinsley's breathy moans. The visual is shadowy but explicit enough - two bodies moving together in what looks like the back of a car.
But it's the audio that makes my blood run cold.
"Knew you'd come back," Kinsley's voice purrs from the phone. "That little Omega was just a distraction, wasn't she?"
"Stop talking," Gray's voice responds, rough with arousal.
"You missed this. Missed me. While you were playing captain to your confused little pack, you were thinking about this."
The video cuts off.
The silence on the dock is deafening. Everyone's staring at Gray, who's gone white as paper.
"That's not—" he starts.
"Not what?" Jackson's voice is lethal. "Not you fucking Kinsley?"
"It's old," Gray says desperately. "From before—"
"Before what?" Bo demands. "Because she literally just said 'while you were playing captain to your confused little pack.' When else would that be?"
"The audio—she must have dubbed it or—"
"That's your voice," Eli says quietly. "Your... sounds."
I look at Reese. She's frozen, staring at her phone screen. Her face is carefully blank, but I can see her hands shaking slightly.
"Reese," Gray steps toward her, but Jackson blocks him.
"Don't you fucking dare," Jackson snarls.
"It's not real!" Gray insists. "I mean, it is, but it's from months ago. She's edited it somehow—"
"Months ago?" Kinsley laughs. "That was last week. You know, when you said you needed to 'clear your head' after your little team meltdown?"
Last week. When Gray disappeared from the house, from the group chat. When we were all falling apart.
"You're lying," Gray says, but his voice wavers.
"Am I? Check the timestamp on the original file. Or better yet, ask him about the scratch marks on his back. Fresh ones."
Without thinking, we all look at Gray's back, covered by his racing uniform. He flinches.
"This is bullshit," he says, but he won't meet anyone's eyes.
"Gray." Reese's voice is steady, too steady. "Look at me and tell me you haven't been with her since I joined the team."
He looks up, meets her eyes. "I haven't. I swear, Reese. That video is from before you—"
"Then take off your shirt," Cameron says quietly.
We all turn to stare at him. He rarely speaks, but when he does, it carries weight.
"What?" Gray asks.
"Prove it. No scratches, no marks. Take off your shirt."
Gray's jaw clenches. "This is ridiculous. You're going to believe her over me?"
"You're not taking it off," Tyler observes clinically. "That's answer enough."
"We have two more races today," Reese says, her cox voice taking over. "We need to get the boat loaded."
"Reese—" Gray starts.
"We have two more races," she repeats, not looking at him. "Whatever this is, we deal with it later."
She turns and walks toward the trailer. Professional. Controlled. But I catch the way her shoulders shake for just a second before she squares them again.
"This isn't over," Jackson tells Gray, low and dangerous.
"It's not what you think," Gray insists.
"Then explain it," Bo challenges. "Explain why Kinsley has a video of you two together that sounds like it's from last week. Explain why you won't show us your back. Explain why you disappeared for days and came back different."
Gray's silence is damning.
"That's what I thought," Bo says, disgust clear in his voice.
We load the boat in hostile silence. The unity we'd found during the race evaporates like morning mist. Gray tries to approach Reese twice, but Bo and Jackson form a wall between them.
"Next race in an hour," Reese announces, still in that eerily professional voice. "Let's focus on what we came here to do."
But I can see it in everyone's faces. We're broken again. Worse than before, because this time it's not about dynamics or administration or even pack bonds.
This time it's betrayal.
And there's no coming back from that.
I watch Gray standing alone by the trailer, isolated from the team that was just starting to trust him again. Watch Reese pretending to adjust her cox box while her hands tremble. Watch our pack fracture along lines that might be irreparable.
"Well," Kinsley says sweetly as she passes, "good luck with your next races. You'll need it."
She's right. We're about to race with a crew that can barely stand to be in the same boat together.
This is going to be a disaster.