chapter TWO
Gray
S he's still here. Two days into her two-week trial, and Reese Callahan refuses to break.
I watch her from the boathouse doorway as she stretches on the dock, preparing for our morning practice. The rising sun catches in her dark hair, which she's already braided tightly against her head. Her movements are precise, economical. Nothing wasted.
That's what bothers me most. She's good .
The thought irritates me. A female Beta commanding my crew isn't how things are meant to work. It goes against everything I've ever been taught about natural hierarchies. About the order that makes champions.
"You gonna stand there all morning, or you gonna help me with these oars?" Bo asks, his Southern drawl thick with morning grogginess.
I turn away from the dock. "Just making sure our temporary cox showed up on time."
Bo raises an eyebrow. "That what we're calling it?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." He hefts a pair of oars onto his shoulder. "Just noticed you spend an awful lot of time watching someone you claim to dislike."
"I'm documenting her failures for Coach."
"And how's that going?" Bo grins, flashing white teeth.
I don't answer because we both know the truth.
She hasn't failed. Not yet. Every morning, she arrives before anyone else.
Every practice, her calls are clear, her strategy sound.
The university has strict policies about Omegas and Alphas on the same competitive team, with complications the administration won't tolerate.
But Callahan's a Beta, which makes her safe to cox for us.
Still doesn't make it right.
"Gray, catch!"
I turn just in time to grab an oar Beckett has tossed my way. His carefree smile is already in place, like it costs him nothing.
"One of these days," I tell him, "I'm not going to catch it."
"But you always do." Beckett winks. "That's your problem. Too reliable."
"Someone on this team has to be."
"We talking about the new cox?" Zane appears, munching an apple. "Because I think she's staying. Tyler ran the numbers. Our split times are already down."
"Two weeks," I remind them, my tone firm enough to end the discussion. "That was the deal."
But I know the numbers. I've seen the improvement myself.
The way she steers through corners, saving us precious seconds.
The way she calls for power exactly when we need it, like she can read the water.
And according to Coach Bennett's notes, which I may have accidentally seen, she's technically sound enough to cox at national level.
The knowledge bothers me. I shake it away.
"Let's hit the water."
The team falls into our usual routine, carrying equipment to the dock. When we reach the water, Reese is already waiting, stopwatch in hand. Her blue-green eyes, sharp as always, sweep over us. They linger on me for half a second longer than the others.
"Morning, gentlemen," she says, and I notice again how she keeps her distance, always maintaining several feet between her and any Alpha on the team. Like any smart Beta would.
There's a chorus of responses ranging from Beckett's cheerful greeting to Jackson's grunt. Jackson, our most scent-sensitive Alpha, always seems on edge around her. Another oddity.
"We're running sprints today," she continues, unfazed by my silence. "Four hundred meters, six reps, thirty seconds rest between sets."
"That's not the workout Coach posted," I point out.
She meets my gaze directly. "I adjusted it. You're all collapsing in the third quarter of your races. We need to build your anaerobic threshold."
"And you decided this based on what? Two days of watching us?" My Alpha tone slips into my voice, the one that makes lesser men bare their throats.
She doesn't flinch. "Two days of watching you, plus reviewing your race footage from the past season. Your stroke rate drops by an average of two beats per minute at the fifteen-hundred-meter mark. Costs you about three seconds per race."
The fact that she's right only makes it worse. A Beta who doesn't back down to an Alpha challenge. Unusual, to say the least. Most Betas defer automatically, biological imperative overriding personal will.
"Coach approved it," she adds, before I can argue further.
Bo chuckles beside me. "Sounds like she's got your number, Captain."
I ignore him and motion toward the boat. "Let's get on the water." The sooner we finish this practice, the sooner I can review the university's updated guidelines on mixed-designation teams. There have to be additional restrictions I can invoke.
Boarding is routine, each man finding his seat, adjusting his oarlock, checking his slide. I settle into stroke position, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility. From here, I set the pace. I dictate the rhythm. I lead.
Until Reese slides into the coxswain position, and suddenly I'm just another body responding to her commands. The feeling grates on my nerves like fingernails on carbon fiber.
"Push off," she orders, and the boat glides away from the dock.
As we warm up, I find myself listening for flaws in her call pattern, weaknesses in her strategy. There are none. Every word is calculated, every command timed perfectly. When we hit our first sprint, the boat flies.
"That's it," she calls. "Together now. Power through. Hold your form."
Her voice drops slightly when she coxes, something I noticed that first run. It becomes more commanding, more... something I can't define. Something that makes me respond before my brain can interfere.
"Lockwood, I need more from you at the catch."
I grimace, focusing on my technique. She's right, but I'll never admit it.
"Better," she says a few strokes later. "Now hold that."
The sprints are brutal, exactly what we need. By the fourth rep, my lungs burn, sweat pours down my face, and my muscles scream for relief. But her voice keeps us moving, keeps us together. I hate how well it works.
"Last two hundred," she calls, intensity building. "This is where you break. This is where you fold. But not today. Not this crew. Drive through it. Now!"
The boat surges forward, eight men pushing past their limits, responding to the command in her voice like it's hardwired into our biology, which should be impossible. Betas don't possess that kind of influence over Alphas.
When we hit the finish line of our final sprint, I'm gasping for air, muscles trembling. But something else thrums beneath the exhaustion. Pride. We've never hit times like this so early in the season.
"Well done," she says, and there's genuine approval in her voice. "Especially you, Lockwood."
I don't acknowledge the compliment, but something inside me responds to it, hungry for more. I crush the feeling immediately.
"Take us back," I say, letting my Alpha dominance fill the simple command.
She raises an eyebrow at my tone but gives the commands to turn the boat. As we row back to the dock at a recovery pace, I study her reflection in the water. Small, fierce, in complete control of a vessel carrying Alphas twice her size.
Coach Bennett will want a full report on today's practice: Split times, technical observations, team chemistry assessment. I'll have to acknowledge that our performance improved under her modified training plan. The admission tastes like defeat.
"What's your deal, Callahan?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
She looks up, surprised. "My deal?"
"Why did you really transfer here? Mid-season transfers are rare."
Her expression closes off. "I go where the opportunities are."
"Bullshit. You had a scholarship at Westlake. Captain of their women's team. Why leave that for a two-week trial with us?"
"You researched me."
"I research all potential threats to my territory." The Alpha phrase slips out before I can censor it.
Something like hurt flashes through her eyes, quickly suppressed. "Is that what I am? A threat?"
"I haven't decided yet." I inhale deeply, trying to catch her scent again. Still nothing but that clinical neutrality. "But yes, potentially. The university has strict policies about team composition for good reason. Mixed-designation teams create complications."
"Such as?"
"Bonding." The word cuts through the air between us. "The university has strict policies because of incidents like Concordia in 2019. Five Alphas bonded with their Omega team manager. Lawsuits. Policy changes. Career destruction."
Her face pales slightly. "I'm not an Omega."
"No," I agree, watching her reaction. "But the university's policies apply to any situation where designation biology might compromise competitive integrity. Even Beta-Alpha dynamics can become... complicated."
She holds my gaze, defiance flashing through fatigue. "I'm here to cox, not complicate your precious team dynamics."
"Good." I pause. "Because the administration watches mixed teams closely. One hint of impropriety, one suggestion of inappropriate bonding, and they'll disband us faster than you can say 'Title IX violation.'"
"Thanks for the warning," she says dryly. "Though I'd appreciate it if you kept the legal lectures to rowing technique."
The dismissal stings more than it should. I'm trying to protect the team, to protect her, if she'd listen, and she treats it like unwanted interference.
"Fine," I concede. "But when your designation becomes a liability, don't say I didn't warn you."
Her eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Before I can respond, we reach the dock. The team works to unload gear with their usual efficiency, but I catch the glances exchanged between them. They heard enough of our conversation to sense tension.
Beckett approaches as we rack the boat. "Everything alright, Captain?"
"Everything's fine," I reply, though my jaw aches from clenching it.
"Right." His tone makes it clear he doesn't believe me. "You know, for someone who claims she doesn't belong here, you sure do watch her a lot."
I glare at him, but Beckett just grins and moves away. Sometimes I hate how perceptive he is beneath all that charm.
In the locker room, I finally allow myself to consider the real problem. It's not Reese's competence that bothers me. It's not even her presence disrupting team hierarchy.
It's the way I find myself watching her when I should be focused on training. It's the way her approval affects me more than it should, the way something inside me responds to her voice with an intensity that has nothing to do with coxswain commands and everything to do with her.
She's been here two days, and already she's gotten under my skin in ways I don't understand and can't control.
I've spent my entire life mastering control. On the water, in competition, in every aspect of my existence. Control is what separates champions from everyone else.
But Reese Callahan makes me feel like that control is slipping, stroke by stroke, practice by practice. And the worst part?
I'm not entirely sure I want to stop it.
My phone buzzes with a text from Coach Bennett: Split times look good. Whatever you're doing, keep it up.
I stare at the message, caught between satisfaction and frustration. Our performance is improving because of her. The team is responding to her leadership in ways they never responded to our previous cox. She's making us better.
Which means I have twelve more days to find a reason to send her away. Twelve more days to prove she doesn't belong with us.
Twelve more days to convince myself I don't want her to stay.
The math isn't looking good.