chapter TWENTY-THREE #2
The boat responds perfectly to my commands as we enter the long, sweeping turn. I use minimal rudder, relying instead on differential power to navigate the curve while maintaining maximum speed.
"Perfect execution," I approve. "Three-quarter mark approaching. We're still under qualifying time. Looking strong."
Bayside has fallen back to a full length behind us. Harborview challenges on the outside, making a push, but too late to threaten our position.
The officials' launch has fallen back slightly, but their cameras remain trained on us, documenting every stroke, every command, every moment that might validate their suspicions.
"Final 500," I announce. "This is where we separate ourselves. Ready for the sprint. On my mark."
I feel the anticipation build through the boat, eight bodies preparing for the final push. The finish line approaches, spectators visible now, their cheers a distant roar beyond the bubble of focus within our shell.
In the grandstand, my parents are on their feet, my mother's critical gaze replaced by something that might actually be pride.
"Sprint in three, two, one—now!"
Gray cranks the stroke rate up, the rest of the crew matching him perfectly. The boat leaps forward, eating up the final distance with renewed power. Every muscle straining, every breath burning, every stroke bringing us closer to qualification.
"This is it," I call, voice rising with controlled intensity. "Empty the tanks. Nothing left. Drive!"
The final hundred meters arrive. The moment when champions are made.
"Ten strokes to the line. Ten. Nine. Eight..."
The count drives them forward, each number a command, a promise, a shared understanding between coxswain and crew.
"Three. Two. One—through the line!"
We cross the finish, the horn blasting to signal our completion. First position. Clear qualification for the finals.
"Way enough," I direct, allowing them to ease off. "Well done, gentlemen. Beautiful race."
The crew recovers their breathing, bodies slumping slightly as they transition from race effort to recovery.
Grins break out across sweat-slicked faces, and I catch Bo's quiet "Hell yes" mixed with Tyler's satisfied exhale.
Pride swells in my chest despite the increasing warmth spreading through my system. We did it. First hurdle cleared.
"Official time confirms first position," I announce after checking with the officials' launch that pulls alongside. "We're through to finals."
A chorus of satisfied grunts and sharp exhales serves as celebration. No high fives or shouts, not yet. This was just qualification. The real test comes this afternoon.
As we paddle back to the dock, I glance toward the boathouse area where the first heat's crews are recovering.
Westlake stands in a tight cluster around their coach.
Andrea looks up as we pass, her expression shifting from hopeful anticipation to frustrated disappointment when she realizes I've held it together.
But the day isn't over. The look she exchanges with Kinsley promises they're not finished trying to destroy me.
"Eyes forward, Callahan," Gray says quietly from his position at stroke. "One race at a time."
I nod, turning my attention back to guiding our boat to the dock. He's right. Focus on what's directly ahead. Deal with Westlake when necessary.
We unload quickly and quietly, carrying the shell back to our assigned area. Coach Bennett meets us with water bottles and a rare smile.
"Clean race," he approves. "Good execution on the turn. We'll review the footage before finals, but that's exactly what I wanted to see."
The team disperses to recover and prepare for the afternoon race. Finals are scheduled for 3:00 PM, giving us roughly three hours to rehydrate, fuel, and mentally reset.
I check my watch. My next suppressant is scheduled for 2:00 PM, one hour before the race. Also my last one. It should provide coverage through the finals, assuming my body doesn't continue accelerating through the medication.
"Callahan," Coach Wilder calls me over. "Everything okay out there? You looked uncomfortable coming through the halfway point."
My stomach tightens. I can’t let her know just how bad things are. "Just focused on the race, Coach."
She studies me, concern evident in her expression. "If you're not feeling well—"
"I'm fine," I insist. "Just need to hydrate and rest before finals."
She doesn't seem entirely convinced but nods. "Take care of yourself. We need you at one hundred percent this afternoon."
"Yes, Coach."
As she walks away, I feel someone's gaze on me. Cameron stands a few yards away, watching me with that unnerving intensity. He sees too much, notices too much. Always has.
Near the officials' area, I spot the three regatta officials from earlier in deep conversation with someone from Westlake's coaching staff. Whatever they're discussing, it involves frequent glances in my direction.
I turn away, needing space, air, a moment to compose myself. The physical symptoms are manageable for now. Slight elevation in body temperature, heightened sensitivity, a faint humming beneath my skin. Nothing I can't control with deep breathing and focus.
I find a quiet spot away from the crowd, leaning against a tree to steady myself. Closing my eyes, I focus on slow, even breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The techniques I've practiced for years to manage my designation when suppressants aren't enough.
"Here."
I open my eyes to find Eli standing before me, offering another bottle of water and what looks like a protein bar.
"Thanks," I say, taking both gratefully.
He sits beside me, maintaining a careful distance. "Tyler noticed your elevated temperature during the race."
I shouldn't be surprised.
"I'm fine."
"Your suppressant is failing," he states matter-of-factly. "Observable fact."
I take a swig of water to avoid responding immediately. "I have one dose left. I'm taking it before finals."
Eli considers this, his analytical mind visibly working through calculations. "It won't be enough. Based on your current rate of metabolization, you'll start showing symptoms by the midpoint of the finals."
"I'll manage." I unwrap the protein bar, forcing myself to take a bite despite my lack of appetite.
"The team should know," he says quietly. "Especially Gray."
"No." I wince as soon as the word's out of my mouth. I didn't mean to snap at him. I take a deep breath and speak softer. "Not yet. Not until after finals."
"Withholding critical information affecting team performance isn't going to help anything."
"Neither will creating unnecessary drama right before the first major race of the season." I turn to face him fully. "I need you to trust me on this. I'll get us through finals. What happens after that..." I trail off, unable to complete the thought.
Eli studies me for a long moment. "You're risking a lot."
"I know exactly what I'm risking." I finish the water, crushing the plastic bottle in my hand. "But this team deserves their shot at finals without distractions."
He seems about to argue further when Tyler approaches, tablet in hand.
"Westlake qualified first in their heat," he reports. "Ridgemont second. Combined with our results, lane assignments for finals put us in lane three, Westlake in lane two."
Great. They'll be right beside us for the entire race.
"Their time?" I ask.
"5:47.2. We posted 5:45.8."
A tight margin. Too tight for comfort.
"We can improve on the turn," Eli observes. "Our outside crew was slightly off rhythm."
Tyler nods in agreement. "Additionally, our sprint initiation could begin five strokes earlier based on energy expenditure patterns."
The two of them fall into a detailed technical discussion that I struggle to follow as another wave of warmth passes through me. The suppressant is definitely failing faster than expected.
I excuse myself, needing to find somewhere private to regroup. The restrooms in the athletes' area are busy with competitors preparing for afternoon events. I push through, finding an empty stall at the far end.
Locking the door, I lean against it, closing my eyes as I pull out my phone to text Eli.
Need you to get my bag from the team area. Meet me outside women's restroom ASAP.
His reply comes seconds later: On it.
I splash water on my face, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. The flush in my cheeks, the brightness in my eyes: subtle signs that would be obvious to anyone familiar with Omegas approaching heat.
When I exit, Eli is waiting, my bag in hand. He passes it to me wordlessly, understanding the urgency.
"Thanks." I dig through it, finding the silver case with my last suppressant pill inside. The spare one that thankfully survived my room break-in. I stare at it for a moment. My final defense against biological reality.
"Take what Tyler gave you for now,” Eli suggests. “Don’t take your regular dose until closer to race time.”
He's right, but the rising panic in my chest makes it tempting to take it now.
"Two o'clock," I confirm, closing the case and tucking it securely back into my bag. "Not a minute sooner."
Eli nods. "Good girl. I'll make sure nobody bothers you before the race."
The praise is enough to shock me out of my thoughts. My neck flushes hot but when I look up at Eli, his face gives nothing away. "Why are you helping me?"
He looks up from adjusting the cap on the bottle, eyes meeting mine. "Because you earned it."
"How? By lying to everyone?"
His lips curve into a rare half-smile. "By getting in that boat every day knowing what could happen. By pushing us harder than any coxswain ever has." He shrugs one shoulder. "That takes guts."
"So it's respect, then?"
"That." He pauses, looking almost uncomfortable. "And maybe I give a damn about what happens to you. Beyond the boat."
The simple admission warms something in my chest that has nothing to do with failing suppressants.
"Thank you," I say softly.
He nods once, then glances toward the boathouse. "Team meeting in ten minutes. Strategy for finals."
"I'll be there."
As he walks away, I take a deep breath, steadying myself for what comes next. Three more hours. One race. Then whatever happens, happens.
I can do this. I have to.
For the team. For myself. For everything I've worked toward.