CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cameron
Four hours of sleep in three days makes everything feel like it's happening underwater.
I lean against the trailer, watching the team unload the shell in the pre-dawn darkness at Lake Hartwell. Early Season Dual Meet sounds casual enough on paper. In reality, it's our first competition since everything went to shit, and we look like walking death.
Well, most of us do.
Jackson's different. Not obvious at first, but I've been watching people long enough to spot the shifts.
The way he squares his shoulders when Gray speaks.
How he plants himself at the front during team meetings instead of hanging back with Eli.
Eye contact that would have been unthinkable a week ago.
The way he's been eyeing the stroke seat like it belongs to him. Along with everything that goes along with that position.
Friday night changed him. Claiming Reese did something to his wiring, flipped some switch from follower to challenger. It’s both fascinating and terrifying.
"Careful with the riggers," Gray says curtly as Zane and Beckett attach them. It's the first thing our captain's said all morning. Hell, might be the tenth thing he's said all week.
The silence between Gray and Jackson is loud enough to drown out everything else.
They move around each other like magnetic poles, maintaining exact distances, never directly interacting.
Eli stays plastered to Jackson's side, and the rest of us are caught in the middle, trying to pretend the power structure of our entire team isn't crumbling.
"Coffee?" Bo appears beside me with a thermos, looking as exhausted as I feel. Dark circles under his eyes make him look older, worn down.
"Thanks." I take a sip, grateful for something to focus on besides the tension. "You sleep at all?"
"Maybe an hour." He watches Reese directing the rigging setup, her voice steady despite everything. "You?"
"Same."
We stand in comfortable silence, two guys who know better than to fill empty air with bullshit. That's what I've always appreciated about Bo—he doesn't need to talk just to hear himself.
"Quinton came through," he says eventually, voice neutral.
I nod. The lacrosse captain had somehow managed to kill the social media wildfire within twelve hours. Every Instagram post deleted, every story expired, even the group chats had moved on to other drama. Like someone had flipped a switch and wiped the internet clean.
Too clean. Too convenient. But I keep my mouth shut because right now, we need the breathing room, even if it comes with strings we can't see yet.
"Hands on!" Reese calls out, and we move to lift the shell. Her voice carries the same authority it always has, but I catch the exhaustion underneath. She's been holding us together through pure will, but even she has limits.
As we walk the boat to the water, I end up next to Jackson. He doesn't acknowledge me, but I can feel the energy rolling off him—controlled, focused, dangerous. The same energy I've been fighting in myself since we started recognizing each other as pack.
The difference is he acted on it. Claimed her. Changed everything.
And now he's looking at Gray's position like that's his next target.
"You planning something?" I ask quietly, too low for the others to hear.
His shoulders square. "Just focused on rowing."
"Bullshit."
He finally looks at me, and there's something wild in his eyes. The claimed Alpha who's tasted what he wants and is ready to take more.
"Gray's failing," he says simply. "Someone needs to lead."
"And you think that's you?"
"I think," he says carefully, "that Reese deserves better than a captain who can't even look at her."
He's not wrong. Gray hasn't made eye contact with Reese since the confrontation. Hasn't spoken to her directly. He's following her commands in the boat, but that's it. Professional distance that feels more like abandonment.
We set the boat in the water, and I watch Reese climb into the cox seat. Even from here, I can see the concealer on her neck isn't quite covering the mark. My instincts stir, recognizing the claim, wanting to add my own.
I turn away, focusing on adjusting my foot stretchers. That's been my strategy all week—look away, keep distance, don't let the possessive urges take control. Because I know myself. I know that if I get close to her now, with everything so raw and fractured, I won't be able to hold back.
And the last thing this team needs is another Alpha losing control.
"Northshore's here," Tyler observes, nodding toward the other team rigging their boat. "And Bayside. Both brought their A boats."
"Good," Gray says flatly. "We need the competition."
Zane snorts. "We need sleep and therapy, but sure, competition works too."
"Focus," Gray snaps, but there's no real heat behind it. He's going through the motions of being captain without actually leading.
"Ten minutes to launch," an official calls out.
Reese starts running through her pre-race checklist, voice calm and steady. "Bow pair, check your points. Stern four, remember the pick-up drill at the 500. We're in lane two, so watch for the wake bounce off the wall."
Normal words. Normal routine. Like we're still a normal team.
But as I slide into my seat, I catch Eli watching Jackson watch Gray. See Bo positioned protectively near Reese. Notice how Beckett and Zane have started rowing as a pair within the boat, creating their own stable unit while everything else falls apart.
We're not a team anymore. We're factions held together by habit and Reese's voice.
"Ready all?" Reese calls.
Eight voices respond in unison, but there's no unity in it. Just eight guys who happen to be in the same boat, fighting their own demons while pretending to row together.
"Northshore's boat looks good," Tyler mutters from behind me. "Strong catch, clean finishes."
"We've beaten them before," Zane says, but his usual optimism sounds forced.
"That was before," Beckett says quietly.
Before. Such a simple word for such a massive fracture. Before Jackson claimed Reese. Before Gray shut down. Before we all started choosing sides in a war nobody wanted but everyone saw coming.
"Hands on oars," Reese commands, and muscle memory takes over.
But as we paddle toward the starting line, I can feel it—the disconnection. Nine bodies moving through the same motions without any of the synchronization that makes a boat fly. We're just going through the mechanics, missing the thing that made us dangerous.
The thing that made us a pack.
"Two minutes to start," the official announces.
Gray rolls his shoulders, that pre-race ritual I've watched a hundred times. But there's something different about it now. Less preparation, more resignation. Like he's already accepted we're going to lose.
Maybe Jackson is right. Maybe we do need new leadership.
Or maybe we just need our captain to remember why he started fighting for this team in the first place.
"Northshore's stroke is watching us," Eli observes. "Thinks we're weak."
"Prove him wrong," Reese says simply.
But as we line up at the start, I wonder if we can. Wonder if we're too fractured to find our way back to what we were. Wonder if Jackson's claim changed us too fundamentally to recover.
The official raises his flag.
"Attention... Row!"
We explode off the line, eight oars hitting the water in something approaching unison. For a few strokes, muscle memory takes over. We're not perfect, but we're moving.
Then reality sets in.
Something's rushing the slide, pushing the pace like he's trying to prove something. Gray's trying to control it from stroke seat, but without his usual authority. The middle four is just trying to survive, and I'm in bow watching it all fall apart stroke by stroke.
"Stabilize!" Reese calls out, voice cutting through the chaos. "Breathe together! Move together!"
But we can't. Because breathing together means trusting each other, and that trust is gone. We're eight individuals who happen to be holding oars, not a crew.
Northshore starts pulling away at the 250-meter mark.
Bayside follows at 300.
By the time we hit the 500, we're half a length behind and falling apart with every stroke.
And we still have 1500 meters left to completely destroy ourselves.