CHAPTER SEVEN
Tyler
Five forty-three AM.
I arrive at the boathouse seventeen minutes early because my brain won't let me be late when something important is happening. Also because I couldn't sleep past four knowing what today means for us.
The lake is glass this morning. Perfect conditions for rowing, which means Carmine will have no environmental excuses if we fail.
The pressure differential between the cool morning air and warming water creates these tiny wisps of fog that my brain wants to calculate the evaporation rate for, but I force myself to focus.
Cameron's already here, sitting on the dock with his feet dangling over the edge. He doesn't acknowledge me, which is normal. We've rowed together for two years and I think we've had maybe ten actual conversations. It works for us.
"Morning," I say anyway, because Reese has been trying to get us to communicate more.
He grunts. Also normal.
I check my watch again. Five forty-five. The others should start arriving soon. We agreed to be here by five-fifty to warm up and look organized when Carmine shows up at six. Organization suggests control. Control suggests we're not a pack of Alphas losing our minds over an Omega coxswain.
Which we absolutely are, but that's beside the point.
"You think we can pull this off?" Cameron asks suddenly, surprising me.
I consider the question seriously because that's what I do. "Statistically? We have about a thirty percent chance if Carmine is actually looking for violations. Seventy percent if this is just administrative theater."
"Those aren't great odds."
"No," I agree. "But they're better than zero."
Bo arrives next, alone but checking his phone like he's coordinating with someone. My brain likes patterns, and the patterns between all of us have shifted dramatically since Riverside. Since Reese's heat. Since we stopped pretending we're just nine random people who row together.
"Y'all ready for this?" Bo asks, his Southern drawl thicker when he's stressed.
"Does it matter?" Cameron responds from his spot on the dock.
Gray shows up at five forty-eight, precisely two minutes before our agreed time because he likes to be punctual but not eagerly early. He's wearing his lucky workout shirt, the one with the tiny hole near the hem that he thinks no one notices. I notice everything, but mentioning it would be weird.
"Where's Reese?" he asks immediately.
"Not here yet," I report. "Neither are Eli, Beckett, or Zane."
Gray's jaw tightens. He's been on edge since Sunday, but it got worse yesterday after finding out about Quinton being Reese's project partner.
There's something there, some history that goes beyond normal prep school rivalry.
But Gray's not talking about it and I'm not great at reading between lines unless the lines are very clearly marked.
Zane literally bounces up at five fifty-one, because of course he does. "Morning, morning! Beautiful day to fool the administration into thinking we're normal!"
"We are normal," Gray says flatly.
"Right. Super normal. Just eight Alpha rowers who can't function unless our Omega cox—"
"Beta," Gray cuts him off sharply. "She's Beta as far as anyone knows."
"Sure, sure." Zane's grin doesn't falter. "My bad."
Jackson and Eli arrive together at five fifty-three, walking close but not touching. That's normal for them - they've had their thing for years, though Jackson would rather die than talk about it. Jackson looks more tense than usual, which is saying something.
Beckett shows up right after them, yawning dramatically. "Why are we awake? The sun isn't even properly up yet."
"Because our futures depend on it," Eli says dryly.
"Right. That."
Reese arrives last at five fifty-five, and the second she's within scent range, everything shifts. All eight of us turn toward her like sunflowers finding light. It's embarrassing how obvious we are, but at least Carmine isn't here to see it yet.
"Morning," she says, and her voice does something to my chest that I don't fully understand. It's not sexual exactly, but it's... something. Like when a equation finally balances or when the boat hits perfect swing. Satisfaction maybe? Completeness?
"You good?" Bo asks her quietly.
"I'm fine." She's not. I can see it in the tension around her eyes, the way she's holding her shoulders. But she's trying, which is what matters.
"Alright, let's warm up," Gray orders. "Carmine will be here soon and—"
"Actually, she's already here."
We all turn to see Assistant Director Carmine walking down from the parking lot. She's got a tablet, a coffee, and an expression that suggests she'd rather be anywhere else at six AM on a Saturday.
"Morning, gentlemen," she greets us formally. "Ms. Callahan. I trust you're ready for practice?"
"Yes, ma'am," Reese answers for all of us.
"Excellent." She makes a note on her tablet. "I'll be observing from the launch with Coach Bennett. Let's see what makes Sable Ridge Crew so special."
We start heading toward the boathouse when Zane stops short. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
I follow his gaze to see the lacrosse team running drills on the path that circles the lake. Shirtless, because of course they are, even though it's barely sixty degrees. And right in the middle of the pack, keeping pace with easy strides, is Quinton Whitmore III.
I’m not attracted to guys in the least as far as I know, but even I can admit Quinton is abnormally good-looking.
The kind of guy who works obsessively on his v-cut just to make sure he’s always the center of attention no matter what environment he’s in.
I wonder if that’s the kind of guy Reese is interested in?
I mean, rowers at our level are generally in peak physical condition too but–
"Since when does lacrosse practice this early?" Beckett asks, interrupting my rambling thoughts.
"Since never," Gray says, his voice flat and dangerous.
The lacrosse team's path brings them closer, and Quinton breaks from the group, jogging over to us while his teammates continue their circuit. Sweat gleams on his chest, and he's breathing just hard enough to seem athletic but not actually winded. It's performative as hell.
"Morning, crew," he calls out cheerfully. "Lockwood. Ms. Callahan." His eyes linger on Reese. "Beautiful morning for some rowing, isn't it?"
"What are you doing here, Whitmore?" Gray's tone could freeze the lake.
"Team conditioning. Coach wants us to up our cardio." He grins. "Total coincidence running into you all here. Though perfect timing - we're still on for three o'clock, right Reese? Library, Southeast Asia research?"
"Yes," she says tightly.
"Great. Maybe we can grab coffee after, discuss our angle. Or maybe dinner?" His eyes flick to Gray. "Unless you’re busy?"
"Just the library," Reese says. "I have plans after with the team."
"All eight of them?" Quinton's eyes sweep over us, and his smile sharpens. "That's quite the... dedicated crew you have here."
The way he says 'dedicated' makes it sound like something else entirely. Every single Alpha on our team tenses. The pheromones that spike are pure territorial aggression, and even I can feel it, which means it's really obvious.
"We take team bonding seriously," Gray says, his voice flat and dangerous.
"I can see that." Quinton's grin widens.
"We should get the boat," I say, because someone needs to break this weird standoff and apparently it's going to be me.
"Right," Gray agrees tightly. "Let's move."
"I should get back to my run anyway,” Quinton says, tossing his dark hair out of his eyes. “See you at three, Reese."
We head to the boathouse, but I notice Gray positions himself between Quinton and Reese. It's subtle, but Quinton definitely catches it. He smirks like he's won something as he jogs backwards a few steps before turning and catching up with his team.
I'm missing crucial information here. My brain hates that.
"Jackson," I say quietly as we lift the shell. "What's the deal with Gray and Quinton?"
Jackson glances at Gray, then back at me. "Prep school shit. Old rivalry. Don't ask about it."
Which means it's definitely something I should ask about, just not right now.
We get the boat to the water, moving through our normal routine but everything feels performative. Like we're actors playing the role of a normal crew. Even the way we're walking is too careful, too measured.
"Remember," Reese says quietly as we prepare to launch, "we're just a team. Nothing more."
"Right," Eli mutters. "Just a team that rows better when we're acting like a—"
"Don't," Gray cuts him off. "Not with them watching."
Coach Bennett's launch is already on the water, Carmine seated with her tablet ready.
"Gentlemen," Coach Bennett calls out. "Whenever you're ready."
We get on the water, and immediately I can feel the difference from last night. In the tanks, we found sync by embracing what we're becoming. Now we have to perform normalcy while maintaining that same unity. It's like trying to solve two contradictory equations simultaneously.
"Easy pressure to start," Reese commands through the cox box. "Let's find our rhythm."
We start rowing, and it's... okay. Not great, not terrible. Safe. But safe isn't going to convince Carmine we're fine.
"Pick it up to three-quarter pressure," Reese calls.
We increase power, and that's when I see them.
The lacrosse team has circled back on their run, and they've stopped on the path that runs parallel to our rowing lane.
Quinton stands at the front, and he's pulled out his phone.
He's recording us. That's not normal. That's not supportive interdepartmental observation.
That's evidence gathering.
"Gray," I say quietly, not breaking stroke. "Quinton's filming."
Gray's rhythm stutters for just a second. "Focus on rowing," he says through gritted teeth.
But I can feel his anger radiating through the boat. The other Alphas are picking up on it too, their own territorial instincts responding to their captain's aggression. The boat starts to rush, our timing getting aggressive, almost violent.