chapter FOURTEEN
Gray
R eese is late.
"She'll be here," Bo says, reading my irritation as he stirs a pot of jambalaya that smells good enough to momentarily distract me. "Probably got caught up in study group or something."
"She should have texted," I mutter.
"Like you did all those times you were late for team events?" Eli comments without looking up from his laptop. "Oh wait, you were never late because you're physically incapable of being anything less than perfectly punctual."
"Team captain," I remind him. "Different standards."
"Different something," Zane mutters from the couch, where he's scrolling through his phone.
I ignore the comment, moving to the window for the third time in ten minutes. The team house sits on the edge of campus, closer to the lake than the main buildings. From here, I can see the path Reese would take from her dorm to reach us. Still empty.
"Worried about Callahan?" Beckett asks, sidling up beside me with two beers in hand. He offers me one, which I take out of habit more than desire.
"I'm worried about team cohesion," I correct. "Riverside is in five days. We need everyone on the same page."
"Right. Team cohesion." He smirks, taking a swig of his beer. "That's definitely what has you checking the window every thirty seconds."
I level a glare at him that would silence most people. Beckett just grins wider.
"Just saying, Captain. You've been extra... focused... since our new cox arrived."
"She's improved our times. I focus on results."
"Among other things."
I turn fully toward him. "You have something to say, Monroe?"
His expression shifts, the joker facade slipping to reveal the sharper mind beneath. "Just that I'm not the only one who's noticed how you watch her. The difference is, I can admit when I'm interested in someone."
I open my mouth to deliver a cutting response when the front door opens and Reese finally steps inside. My irritation at her tardiness is immediately replaced with an unexpected rush of relief that she came at all.
"Sorry I'm late," she says, slightly breathless. "Lost track of time."
Her hair is damp at the ends, like she showered recently. She's wearing jeans and a dark blue V-neck sweater instead of her usual athletic gear. The change shouldn't be noteworthy, but I find my gaze lingering on the way the color brings out the blue in her blue-green eyes.
"Callahan," I acknowledge, keeping my voice neutral. "We were about to start without you."
"Liar," Beckett says cheerfully. "He's been watching the window like a hawk."
I shoot him a warning look, which he ignores with his typical nonchalance.
"Food's ready," Bo announces from the kitchen, defusing the moment. "Everyone grab a bowl."
The team migrates to the dining area, a large table that barely accommodates all nine of us.
I position myself at the head out of habit, noting how Reese hesitates before taking an empty seat between Zane and Tyler.
Cameron sits directly across from her, his usual silence somehow more pronounced, attention fixed on his bowl.
Bo serves his jambalaya, moving around the table with the confident ease of someone accustomed to feeding a crowd. The rich aroma of spices and seafood fills the room, momentarily silencing conversation as everyone digs in.
"Holy shit, Strickland," Beckett says after his first bite. "Marry me."
"Get in line," Zane mumbles around a mouthful. "I asked first."
Bo shrugs, pleased but trying not to show it. "Old family recipe. Secret's in the roux."
"You cook like this often?" Reese asks, looking genuinely impressed.
"Team dinner before every major race," Eli explains. "Bo's rotation includes jambalaya, gumbo, and something he calls 'swamp stew' that tastes better than it sounds."
"Much better," Jackson confirms quietly. One of the few times he's spoken all evening.
I watch Reese as she eats, noting the dark circles under her eyes, partially concealed with makeup.
Her shoulders are tight with tension she's trying to hide.
Throughout breakfast this morning, she seemed distracted, checking her watch repeatedly.
Now her gaze keeps drifting to the window, as if expecting someone or something to jump out and attack her.
"How's everyone feeling about Riverside?" I ask, bringing the focus back to why I called this dinner in the first place.
Various responses echo around the table. Confident. Ready. Prepared. Bo mentions tweaks to his stroke rate. Tyler launches into statistical analysis of our projected times versus the competition. Eli discusses the course map he's been refining.
Reese stays quiet, pushing jambalaya around her bowl more than eating it.
"Callahan?" I prompt. "Any thoughts on race strategy?"
She looks up, composing her features quickly. "Your start sequence has improved significantly. If we maintain that power through the first 500 meters, we'll have the advantage at the crosscurrent."
Her assessment is correct but lacks the detailed insight she provided at breakfast. Something's off.
"What about after the turn?" I press. "You mentioned most crews lose time there."
"We'll need to... adjust for the change in current," she says vaguely. "I'll have more specific calls ready before race day."
Now I'm certain something's wrong. Reese Callahan doesn't do vague. Her race plans are typically meticulous, detailed to the meter. This morning she gave a comprehensive breakdown of the entire Riverside course. Tonight she can barely focus on the conversation.
"You feeling okay?" Bo asks her, his concern mirroring my thoughts.
"Fine," she says with a tight smile. "Just tired. Long day."
She reaches for her water glass, sleeve pulling back slightly to reveal a bruise on her wrist that wasn't there yesterday.
My eyes narrow. Could be from practice – coxing isn't as physically safe as most people assume.
But the size and shape suggest fingers. Someone grabbed her, hard enough to leave marks.
My eyes meet Bo's over the table. He saw it too.
He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, so I file this information away, continuing to observe as dinner progresses.
The conversation shifts to classes, upcoming exams, campus gossip.
Beckett and Zane debate the merits of some party happening Saturday night after Riverside.
Jackson eats silently, occasionally glancing at Eli, who studiously avoids looking back.
Cameron contributes nothing verbally but watches everyone, especially Reese, with that unnerving intensity of his.
Halfway through dinner, Reese's phone buzzes. She checks it, face paling slightly before she quickly puts it away.
"Everything okay?" Zane asks, noticing her reaction.
"Just my study group confirming tomorrow's session," she says smoothly. Too smoothly.
Another lie. I've been lied to enough in my life to recognize the signs. The question is, why? What is our coxswain hiding?
"Speaking of tomorrow," I say, "we need to discuss final preparations for Riverside. Equipment check at 4 PM. I want every oar inspected, every seat adjusted."
"I have class until 4:30," Reese says.
"I'll start with the boat," I tell her. "You can check your equipment when you arrive."
She nods, but there's a hesitation. Almost like she's unsure she'll be there at all.
"Something I should know about, Callahan?" I ask directly.
Her eyes meet mine, challenge flashing briefly before she masks it. "No. I'll be there."
The dinner continues, but I keep returning to that moment of hesitation. To the bruise on her wrist. To her distraction throughout the meal. The pieces don't fit together, and few things irritate me more than incomplete puzzles.
After dessert, Bo's homemade bread pudding that even I can't resist, the team breaks into smaller groups.
Zane challenges Beckett to a video game in the living room.
Jackson disappears upstairs without a word.
Bo and Tyler clean up the kitchen with the efficient teamwork that characterizes everything they do.
Cameron slips outside to smoke, a habit he thinks none of us know about.
I find Reese in the small study off the main room, examining our trophy case with apparent interest.
"Impressive collection," she says without turning, somehow sensing my presence.
"We have a legacy to maintain." I move beside her, looking at the accumulated hardware of Sable Ridge Rowing. Conference championships. Regional titles. National placements. My family name appears on several of the older trophies. Lockwood. A weight I've carried my entire life.
"Your father won three consecutive championships," she observes, reading the inscriptions. "In the 90s."
"And never lets me forget it."
She glances at me, something like understanding in her expression. "Family expectations. I know something about that."
"Do you?" I lean against the wall, studying her. "You never talk about your family."
"Neither do you."
"Mine's an open book. Four generations of Lockwoods at Sable Ridge. All rowers, all champions, all Alphas. Everyone knows the story."
"That's your family history, not your family."
The distinction is unexpectedly perceptive. I find myself answering more honestly than intended.
"My father is the head of Lockwood Financial.
Type-A personality, makes me look relaxed by comparison.
My mother runs every charity board in three counties.
I have an older sister who broke tradition by becoming a surgeon instead of a banker or rower.
Christmas dinners are exercises in strategic warfare. "
A small smile touches her lips. "Sounds familiar."
"Your turn," I prompt.
She hesitates, then offers, "Father runs his own investment firm. Mother is the perfect corporate wife. Two older brothers, both Alphas, both following exactly the path laid out for them."
"And you?"
"I'm the family disappointment." Something bitter edges her voice. "At least according to my father."
"Because you're a woman in a traditionally male sport?"