chapter SIX
Zane
I spot Reese the moment she walks into Advanced Composition.
She's easy to find, a small figure in a sea of Sable Ridge giants, her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail that's starting to come loose after a day of classes.
She hasn't noticed me yet, scanning the lecture hall with those alert blue-green eyes that usually don't miss much.
"Cox!" I call out, waving like an idiot until she sees me. "Saved you a seat!"
Several heads turn, and I catch a few curious looks. Word travels fast at Sable Ridge, and our new female coxswain is prime gossip material. Reese hesitates for just a second before making her way up the tiered seating to where I've saved a spot beside me.
"Hollis," she says, sliding into the chair. "Didn't know you were in this class."
"Every athlete's favorite English requirement," I grin. "Professor Winters never takes attendance and grades on a generous curve."
The corner of her mouth twitches upward. "Choosing classes based on academic rigor, I see."
"Hey, some of us have to balance intellect with our stunning good looks and athletic prowess." I pat my chest dramatically. "It's a burden."
This time she actually smiles, small but genuine. "Must be exhausting."
"You have no idea."
I study her while she unpacks her notebook.
Without her cox hat and the stern expression she wears on the water, she looks younger.
There's a softness to her features that she tries to hide.
Delicate cheekbones, a small nose with a light scatter of freckles across the bridge, and lips that seem perpetually on the verge of smirking.
Her lashes are long and dark against her skin, which has the warm glow of someone who spends their life on the water.
But there's nothing soft about the way she carries herself. Her shoulders stay squared, her movements precise and controlled. Always alert, like she's navigating dangerous currents.
"How are you settling in?" I ask as she arranges her pens in order of color. Type A organization. Just like Gray.
"Fine." Her standard answer for everything.
"Liar."
She looks up, startled.
"I heard Kinsley and her minions cornered you this morning," I explain. "That's not 'fine' by any definition."
Reese's guard visibly goes back up. "It was nothing."
"Kinsley Adams is never nothing. She's been extra territorial since Gray broke things off."
"Their relationship status isn't—"
"Relevant to your ability to steer a boat," I finish for her. "Yeah, so I’ve heard. But knowing the social dynamics here might help you avoid some headaches."
She taps her pen against her notebook. "Speaking from experience?"
"You could say that." I shrug, deliberately casual. "Dated Olivia Perkins, the redhead in Kinsley's crew, freshman year. Bad idea."
"Shocking."
"I know, right? Who could possibly find all this charm resistible?" I gesture to myself with a grin.
Professor Winters shuffles in before Reese can respond, and class begins. I spend most of the lecture doodling in my notebook and sneaking glances at our coxswain. She takes meticulous notes, her handwriting small and neat, completely absorbed in the discussion of narrative structure and pacing.
When class ends, I catch her checking her watch. "Heading to practice?" I ask, gathering my things.
"After I drop my books at my dorm."
"Where are you housed?"
"Westover Hall."
I raise my eyebrows. "Fancy."
"My parents insisted." There's a slight edge to her voice.
"I'm parked in South Lot. I can drive you. It's on the way to the boathouse."
She hesitates, and I can practically see her weighing her options.
"No ulterior motives," I add, raising my hands. "Just team bonding. Promise."
"You always this nice to the new recruits, Hollis?"
"Only the ones who can make me row until my arms fall off."
That earns me another almost-smile. "Fine. Lead the way."
We exit the humanities building into late afternoon sunshine.
The campus is quieter now as students retreat to libraries and dorms to study or nap before dinner.
A group of Omega girls sits under an oak tree, their sweet scents carrying on the breeze.
One giggles as we pass, and I wink automatically. Old habits.
"So," I say as we cross the quad, "what's your story, Cox? And not the polished version you gave at breakfast."
She gives me a sidelong glance. "What makes you think there's another version?"
"Mid-season transfers usually have a story behind them, and you're pretty good at changing the subject when things get personal."
"Maybe I just value my privacy."
"Fair enough."
She glances at me with what might be relief.
"Not everyone wants their life story broadcast."
"True." I lead her to my beat-up Jeep Wrangler, the only vehicle I could afford despite my family's finances. My parents are big on what they call "building independence," which basically means they have money but I don't.
"This is yours?" she asks, eyeing the Jeep's faded blue paint and the bumper stickers that cover the back.
"Yep. Bought her with four summers of lifeguarding money. She's ugly but reliable." I open the passenger door with a flourish. "Your carriage awaits."
Reese climbs in, immediately buckling her seatbelt as I slide behind the wheel. The interior smells like the cinnamon gum I'm addicted to and the bag of workout clothes I keep forgetting to take inside. I clear some granola bar wrappers from her seat with an apologetic grin.
"Bachelor pad on wheels," I explain.
"Clearly," she says as she fights a grin.
As we drive toward Westover, I steal glances at her profile. She stares out the window, seemingly lost in thought, one finger absently tracing the strap of her backpack.
"You know," I say, "you haven't asked a single question about me."
She turns. "Should I have?"
"Most people do. I'm fascinating."
"And modest."
"Modesty is overrated," I grin. "Anyway, since you're too shy to ask, I'll volunteer information. Sophomore, English major with a creative writing focus. Middle child of three. From Chicago originally. I row because I'm too short for basketball and too uncoordinated for football."
"Six-one is too short?" She sounds incredulous.
"In my family? I'm the runt. Both my brothers are six-four."
"That must be hard for you," she says dryly.
"The struggle is real, Cox."
We pull up to Westover Hall, an imposing brick building with white columns that houses primarily legacy students and those with generous financial aid packages. The kind of dorm with actual furniture instead of the plastic chairs and wobbly desks the rest of us get.
"I'll wait here," I offer.
"You can come up if you want," she says, surprising me. "I just need to grab my gear."
I follow her into the building, noting how she nods politely to the security guard but doesn't stop to chat like most residents would. Keeping her distance. Always.
Her room is on the third floor, at the end of a hallway decorated with bulletin boards announcing mixers and study groups. She unlocks the door and pushes it open to reveal a single room, another luxury at space-starved Sable Ridge.
The space is meticulously organized. Bed made with hospital corners, desk arranged with textbooks by size, rowing gear hung neatly on hooks by the closet.
The walls are bare except for a single framed photo of what must be her family – all perfectly posed in coordinating outfits on a beach somewhere.
But what strikes me most is the scent, or rather, the lack of it. Even Beta rooms have some personal aroma. Either soaps, perfumes, laundry detergent. Reese's room smells like nothing. Clinically clean, as if it's been sanitized.
"Nice digs," I comment, leaning against the doorframe as she swaps her backpack for a smaller gym bag.
"It works."
I glance at the family photo. "Your family?"
"Yes." She doesn't elaborate.
"Two brothers, huh?”
“Both Alphas," she says, almost as an afterthought.
"Bet they were thrilled about their little sister becoming a coxswain."
Something crosses her face. "They had opinions."
"I'll bet." I pick up a small trophy from her desk. Regional Champion, Women's Collegiate Rowing. "Impressive."
"Thanks." She gently takes it from my hand and sets it back exactly where it was. "We should go."
As she moves past me to grab her water bottle from the mini-fridge, I catch a glimpse of a silver case tucked behind her textbooks. Medication? She notices my gaze and subtly shifts to block my view.
"Ready," she announces, shouldering her bag.
Back in the Jeep, I decide to change tactics. Personal family topics clearly make her uncomfortable.
"So what do you do when you're not terrorizing Alphas on the water?" I ask as we head toward the boathouse.
"Study. Train. Sleep."
"That's it? No hobbies? Secret talents? Embarrassing reality TV addictions?"
She looks out the window again. "I play piano. Classical mostly."
"No way. Me too!" I slap the steering wheel in excitement. "Well, not classical. More like 'Heart and Soul' and whatever I can figure out by ear. But still. Piano solidarity."
A genuine smile breaks through this time, transforming her face.
Her eyes crinkle at the corners, and a tiny dimple appears in her left cheek.
It hits me like an unexpected wave that she's not just pretty in a conventional sense.
When she actually smiles, Reese Callahan is stunning.
A sharp rush of some kind of emotion zips through my core when she looks at me like that.
"What else?" I press, wanting to keep that smile going.
She hesitates, then says, "I sketch sometimes. Landscapes mostly. It helps me remember race courses."
"Talented and practical. Gray must love that."
Her smile fades at the mention of our captain. "Gray doesn't know."
"Our fearless leader doesn't know everything? Alert the media."
She looks at me for a second, cocking her head to the side in a gesture I’m not sure she’s aware of. “You don’t like him.”
"I respect him," I correct. "Gray's the best stroke we've ever had. Driven, precise, dedicated. But like and respect are different things."
She nods, considering this. "And the others? What's their story?"
Now we're getting somewhere. "Team gossip? I'm your man." I downshift as we approach a stop sign. "Let's see. Bo's the mother hen, despite the muscles and the drawl. Looks like he could snap you in half but actually stress-bakes cookies before big races."
"Really?"
"Don't tell him I told you. He'd deny it to his grave." I turn onto the lake road. "Beckett uses humor as a shield. Smarter than he lets on. Tyler's the actual genius – dual major, perfect GPA, family expects him to take over their tech company someday."
"And Jackson?" she asks. "He barely speaks."
I hesitate. "Jackson's... complicated. Had a bad experience with an Omega his freshman year. Some kind of bond gone wrong. He doesn't talk about it, but he's been wary of new people ever since."
Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag. "What about Eli? And Cameron?"
"Eli's our strategist. Analytical to a fault.
Would chart his bowel movements if he thought it would improve his performance.
" I pull into the boathouse parking lot.
"And Cameron... well, nobody really knows Cam's deal.
He showed up at tryouts freshman year, rowed like he was being chased, and barely speaks unless necessary. Total enigma."
"Sounds like a fun group."
"We're a mess," I admit cheerfully. "But we row well together."
I park next to Gray's Range Rover, noticing the captain's shoulders tense when he spots Reese in my passenger seat. Territorial bastard that he is.
"Thanks for the ride," Reese says, gathering her things.
"Anytime, Cox." I pause before she exits. "Hey, just so you know… this team sticks together. Whatever's going on, we're solid."
She looks at me, her expression guarded.
"I don't—"
"No need to explain. Just letting you know."
For a moment, something softer crosses her face. Then she's back to business mode, shoulders straight.
"See you on the water, Hollis."
She exits the Jeep and heads toward the boathouse, her small figure straight-backed and determined. Gray watches her approach, his face impassive but his scent spiking with something other than his normal irritation. Something almost… warm.
I grab my own gear, thinking about what I've observed. The scentless room. The hidden medication. How she keeps her distance from everyone. The way she's always scanning like she's expecting trouble.
Beta females have scents, mild compared to Omegas, but definitely there. Reese smells like nothing at all.
I joke around a lot, but I pay attention. And something about Reese Callahan isn't adding up.
As I join the team for warm-ups, I notice how she circles around Jackson, our most scent-sensitive teammate. She keeps more space between them than anyone else.
Interesting.
Reese Callahan has her reasons for being here, and I doubt they're just about rowing. Whatever she's hiding, it'll come out eventually. Teams this close can't keep secrets for long.