CHAPTER SEVEN #2
"Steady," Reese commands, but there's worry in her voice. "Control the slide."
Quinton calls out from the dock: "Looking a little rough there, boys. Everything okay?"
And that's when Gray snaps.
Not obviously. Not in a way Carmine would necessarily notice. But he pulls harder, drives his legs with enough force that the boat lurches. It throws off everyone's timing, making us look incompetent.
"Gray," Reese says sharply. "Settle."
But Gray's not settling. He's rowing like he wants to murder the water, and it's destroying our rhythm. The other Alphas are caught between following their captain and following their coxswain, and the result is chaos.
"Hold water," Reese commands.
We stop, the boat gliding to a halt about fifty meters from shore. Close enough that Quinton and his lacrosse buddies can still see us clearly. Close enough that Carmine is definitely taking notes on her tablet.
"What the hell?" Beckett asks.
"Sorry," Gray says, but he's staring at Quinton. "Lost focus."
"You don't lose focus," Jackson states. It's true. Gray's the most disciplined rower I've ever seen. This isn't about focus.
"Let's reset," Reese says, her voice carefully neutral. "Back to basics. We're going to row by pairs, starting from bow."
It's a novice drill, something we haven't done regularly since freshman year. But it's smart. It forces us to focus on technique instead of power, on cooperation instead of competition.
Cameron and Eli start, finding their rhythm easily. They've been bow pair long enough that they can row together in their sleep. Then Jackson and Zane join, then Beckett and I slide in, and finally Bo and Gray.
By the time all eight are rowing, we've found something like normal rhythm. Not the transcendent unity from last night, but acceptable. Passable.
"Better," Coach Bennett calls from the launch. "Run a standard warmup pattern."
We continue, and I force myself to focus on the technical elements. The angle of my blade, the timing of my catch, the pressure through the drive. My brain likes the precision of it, the measurable components that combine into something greater.
But I can't stop tracking the undercurrents. Gray's barely contained aggression. The way all our heads turn slightly when Reese's voice comes through the speakers. How Quinton is still filming, still smirking, still knowing something we don't want him to know.
"Pause for instruction," Carmine calls out suddenly.
We stop again, and she stands up in the launch, tablet in hand.
"Mr. Lockwood," she addresses Gray directly. "You seem agitated this morning. Is there a problem?"
"No, ma'am," Gray responds immediately.
"Because from where I'm sitting, it appears personal dynamics are affecting your performance."
It's a trap. Acknowledge personal dynamics and we're admitting to something. Deny them and we look like liars.
"It's early season rust," I say before Gray can respond. "We're still finding our rhythm after winter break."
Carmine's attention shifts to me. "Mr. Wu. You've been with this crew for three years. Is this level of dysfunction normal?"
Dysfunction. She's already made up her mind.
"All teams have adjustment periods," I say carefully. "We're working through ours."
"By having your new female coxswain run novice drills?" She makes another note. "Interesting approach."
"Actually," Reese speaks up, "I suggested the drill to refocus on fundamentals. Sometimes going back to basics is the best way forward."
"Smart strategy," Carmine says, though her tone suggests she's not convinced. "Let's see if it works."
This is bad. This is very bad. Gray's still radiating tension, and I can see Quinton on the shore, still filming with his phone while his teammates do their stretches. He's not saying anything, just watching, but his presence is like salt in Gray's wound.
"We should continue the workout," Coach Bennett interjects, clearly trying to defuse whatever is building.
"Of course," Carmine agrees. "Please, continue. I'm particularly interested in seeing how you perform under pressure."
We start rowing again, but now it feels like a funeral march. Every stroke is watched, measured, judged. The synchronization we found in the tanks feels miles away, buried under the weight of observation and Gray's radiating hostility toward Quinton.
"Steady state to the bridge," Reese commands. "Then we'll turn and do pieces on the way back."
Standard workout. Safe. Boring. Exactly what we need to look normal.
Except nothing about us is normal anymore, and the harder we try to fake it, the more obvious it becomes.
My brain keeps trying to solve this like an equation. Eight Alphas plus one hidden Omega plus external observation plus unknown Gray-Quinton conflict equals what? What's the solution when all the variables are working against each other?
"Focus up," Zane says quietly from behind me. "We just need to get through this."
He's right. We just need to survive the next hour. Show Carmine we can function. Keep our interactions hidden. Maintain the facade.
But as we approach the bridge, I see Quinton still filming from the shore, his lacrosse teammates fucking around, their stretches forgotten, while obviously watching us.
He’s still smirking, but it doesn’t look the same as it did when Reese was around and I can't shake the feeling that surviving isn't going to be enough.
Something's coming. Something worse than administrative oversight.
And we're rowing straight toward it.