Eight Count Heat (Sable Ridge Crew #1)

chapter ONE

Reese

T he scent of lake water fills my lungs as I watch Sable Ridge University's elite men's rowing team slice through morning mist that has yet to burn off the glassy surface of Bellwater Lake.

The light of the morning sun is just beginning to crest the distant treeline in ribbons of gold and amber, crepuscular rays reaching up through the last of the night's storm clouds.

I stand on the weathered wooden dock, its planks still slick with dew, my heart in my chest as I watch how the team moves.

My new team. If they accept me.

Eight muscular bodies move in perfect sync.

Sunlight catches on sweat-slicked shoulders and arms as they pull through each stroke.

Most wear practice tanks that cling to torsos sculpted by years of brutal training, though a couple have already stripped down to just shorts in the morning heat.

The gleaming carbon-fiber shell skims the water's surface, leaving a perfect V-shaped wake behind it.

They work together nearly perfectly, like the elite team that they are, but there are slight flaws in their timing. In their control.

They clearly don't need another rower – but they do need a coxswain.

They need me .

"You sure about this, Callahan?" Coach Bennett asks, arms crossed over his chest. "These boys aren't known for their hospitality."

I grip my stopwatch tighter. "I didn't transfer here for the hospitality, Coach."

What I don't say is: I transferred because my previous team discovered what I am. Because suppressants failed me once, and I won't let it happen again. Because Sable Ridge has the best rowing program in the Southeast, and I need to prove myself here if I want any shot at nationals.

The men's eight glides back to the dock, water sluicing off carbon fiber. Eight pairs of eyes lock onto me, ranging from curious to outright hostile.

"Who's the girl?" A blond guy with a lazy smile asks, jumping onto the dock with the casual grace of someone born into his body. Water cascades from his honey-colored hair as he pushes it back from his face. Seat six, according to the roster I memorized. Beckett Monroe.

"Your new coxswain," Coach Bennett says.

Silence drops like a stone.

"Bullshit."

The word comes from the stroke seat as he rises to his full height.

Gray Lockwood. Team captain. Six-foot-four of pure, controlled aggression.

Unlike most of the others, his practice tank is still on, the black fabric clinging to a torso that looks carved from marble.

His jaw clenches as he steps onto the dock, sweat sliding down powerful thighs.

Everything about him radiates cold calculation, from his perfectly cropped dark hair to his steel-gray eyes that narrow as they scan me from head to toe.

His lips curl into something between a sneer and a snarl, revealing a glimpse of straight white teeth.

A rich Alpha, with all the arrogant confidence that comes natural to people like him.

"We don't need a coxswain," he says, voice like gravel. "We need Davis."

"Davis quit," Coach Bennett says flatly.

"Finding a replacement willing to cox an all-Alpha crew isn't exactly simple.

The university already has concerns about mixed-designation team dynamics.

" He gestures toward me. "Callahan here has three years competitive experience, two championships, and the best race strategy I've seen in a decade. "

"She's tiny," another rower says. This one has shaggy dark hair falling into his eyes. Jackson Reed, seat three.

I step forward. "Five-foot-two is the perfect height for reducing drag. My weight will shave four seconds off your time."

"Your weight won't matter when you can't control a boat full of Alphas," Gray says.

My heart stutters but I keep my face neutral. They don't know. They can't. My suppressants are top-grade, my fake Beta registration paperwork flawless.

I stare directly into Gray's steel eyes. "I don't need to be an Alpha to command one."

He narrows his eyes almost imperceptibly, but keeps his mouth shut.

"Two-week trial," Coach says, ending the debate. "Callahan coxes, or you guys forfeit the Riverside Invitational. Your call."

A collective grumble passes through the team. Only one of them, a guy with warm amber eyes and a hint of a smile, gives me an encouraging nod. Zane Hollis, seat four.

"Fine," Gray finally says. "Trial run. But when she screws up, I want it on record that I opposed this.

" His steel eyes narrow as he looks between Coach Bennett and me.

"The administration is already watching this team closely after our performance last season.

We don't need additional complications."

"Noted, Lockwood," Coach says dryly. "Now get back on the water. Callahan, take the helm."

My stomach tightens as I approach the boat. The cockpit where I'll sit is at the back, or stern, while I face the rowers. My eyes sweep over them as they settle into their positions, recognizing each from my research.

Gray Lockwood, the stroke in seat eight. Reputation for perfection and meticulous control. Cold as ice.

Bo Strickland behind him in seven, built like a wall with a Southern drawl that belies his fierce reputation.

Beckett Monroe in six, the golden boy with the troublemaker grin.

Tyler Wu in five, methodical and focused, already recalculating my added weight.

Zane Hollis in four, the only one who seems remotely welcoming.

Jackson Reed in three, barely making eye contact, muscles tight with tension.

Eli Stone in two, watching me with assessing eyes.

And at bow, Cameron Blake, silent and observant, something almost predatory in his dark hair and severe posture.

Eight Alphas. One shell. And me, an Omega masquerading as a Beta, about to command them all.

I slide into the cockpit, feeling the familiar curve of the boat embrace me. This is where I belong. This narrow space of power where my voice controls eight bodies, sixteen oars, and the cutting path through water.

"Arms only to start," I say, my coxswain voice dropping into the lower intonation I use on the water. Firm, clear, commanding. "Half slide after ten, full slide at twenty. We'll take it easy since you're not used to my calls."

Gray makes a scoffing sound but says nothing more.

I grip the rudder lines, feeling their tension. "Sit ready at the catch."

Eight bodies shift forward, oars positioned.

"Row."

Like magic, they respond to my command. The boat lurches forward, then settles into rhythm as blades dip and pull.

Within minutes, I learn their patterns: Gray's metronomic precision, Bo's raw power, Beckett's fluid strength, Tyler's efficiency, Zane's easy flow, Jackson's tense energy, Eli's careful technique, and Cameron's adaptability.

"Power ten in two," I call. "One, two—"

The boat surges as they drive harder, and something settles in my chest. This could work. This could actually work.

Then Gray deliberately shifts his timing, throwing off the rhythm.

"Seat eight, you're rushing the catch," I call out, keeping my voice neutral. "Match seven's pace."

He ignores me. The boat wobbles as the synchronization fails.

Two can play this game.

"Let it run," I command.

The rowers lift their oars from the water, allowing the boat to glide.

"Seat eight," I say, my voice quiet but carrying across the suddenly silent boat. "When I give a command, I expect it to be followed. You want to challenge me? Save it for land. On this water, my word is law."

Gray cocks his head, eyes locking with mine. The challenge in them makes my pulse quicken, not with fear, but with something that has no place on this boat or with these men.

"And if I don't?" he asks.

"Then you'll lose," I say simply. "Not just this trial run, but Riverside. Nationals. Everything you've worked for. Your call, Lockwood."

The air between us crackles with tension. Seven other Alphas watch, waiting.

Finally, Gray turns back to position. "Let's run it again."

I smile, just slightly. Round one to me.

"Sit ready at the catch," I call out.

The boat comes alive beneath me as we start again, cutting through morning mist with gathering speed. Eight bodies, moving as one under my command.

I don't look at Gray again, but I feel his eyes on me. Assessing. Calculating. Planning his next move.

Let him try. I didn't come this far to be intimidated by an Alpha with control issues. The university might have policies about bonded athletic teams, but that's not a concern for a Beta coxswain who has no intention of forming attachments beyond professional respect.

Even if he does smell like cedar and breaking ocean waves.

Even if his scent makes something primal inside me stir.

I grip the rudder lines tighter. Two weeks to prove myself. Two weeks to secure my place. Two weeks to show these Alphas that this Omega, this coxswain, belongs at the helm.

Game on.