CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Gray
The water is glass-smooth at four o'clock, perfect conditions that feel like mockery given our current state. I stand on the dock at the boathouse, watching my team—my pack, apparently—gather their oars with none of the usual pre-practice energy.
Reese arrives with Bo in his truck, and I force myself not to react to how natural they look together. To the easy way he touches her lower back, guiding her toward the cox's seat. To the way she leans into him for just a second before straightening her shoulders and becoming our coxswain again.
"Standard warm-up?" she asks me, and there's something different in her tone. Not challenging, but not deferential either. Equal.
"Twenty minutes steady state, then we'll do some technique work." I meet her eyes directly. "Your call on the power pieces after."
She nods, surprised but pleased. "Let's load up."
We get the boat on the water with minimal fuss, everyone falling into familiar patterns. Jackson's moving with more confidence, Eli's right beside him. Even Cameron seems more present, less like he's observing from a distance.
"All eight, sit ready," Reese calls through the cox box, her voice clear despite the damage from yesterday's disaster. "Ready all... row."
The first strokes are rough. We're out of time, out of sync, eight individuals pulling instead of one crew moving. But then Reese starts talking.
"Long and steady, no rush. Jackson, match Tyler's shoulder rotation. Eli, you're early on the catch. Gray, set the rhythm and trust them to follow."
Trust. That word again.
I focus on my stroke, on making it as clean and consistent as possible. Not forcing, not controlling, just rowing. Behind me, I feel Bo fall into sync first, then Beckett. One by one, the boat starts to come together.
"Better," Reese says. "Zane, relax your grip. Cameron, beautiful length. Let's take the rate up two beats on my call. Ready... now."
The boat responds. Not perfectly, but together. The familiar rhythm starts to build, that feeling when eight becomes one. It's been missing for so long I'd forgotten how it felt.
"That's it," Reese's voice carries a note of excitement. "Feel that? That's what we're capable of. Let's do some pause drills. Pause at the finish... row."
Technical work usually feels like punishment, but today it's meditation. We focus on the basics—blade depth, timing, body position. Things we haven't properly addressed in weeks because we've been too busy falling apart.
Tyler's rowing better than he has all week, his analytical mind finally quiet enough to let his body work.
Zane's found his rhythm again - not the forced power he's been using to compensate, but the natural flow that made him recruit-worthy.
Jackson and Eli are moving in perfect synchronization, like they're sharing the same nervous system.
Cameron, usually our silent bow seat, actually calls out a technical adjustment to Beckett - just two words, "catch angle" - but Beckett fixes it immediately. That's the thing about Cameron: when he speaks, everyone listens.
"Excellent," Reese calls. "Let's build into some power pieces. Three sets of twenty, increasing pressure each set. First one at three-quarter pressure."
This is where we usually fall apart. Where the power differences and ego conflicts emerge. But something's different today. Maybe it's exhaustion. Maybe it's surrender. Maybe it's just that we've finally stopped pretending.
"Ready all... attention... row!"
We drive together, the boat surging forward with each stroke. It's not our best, not even close, but it's honest. Real. No one's trying to prove anything or dominate anyone. We're just rowing.
"Seventeen... eighteen... nineteen... let it run!"
The boat glides, and I can hear the collective breathing behind me. Heavy but controlled. Present.
"Good," Reese says. "Really good. Second set, ninety percent pressure. Remember, power comes from connection, not force."
The second set is better. The third is almost respectable. By the time we're doing our cool-down paddle back to the dock, we've found something we lost. Not perfection, but possibility.
"That's enough for today," I call as we approach the dock. "Good work, everyone."
"Did Gray Lockwood just give a compliment?" Beckett asks, but there's genuine relief in his voice. He's been pushing himself harder than anyone lately, trying to prove he's more than just the team clown. "Someone check for signs of the apocalypse."
"Don't push it, Monroe."
But there's no heat in it, and he knows it.
We dock and lift the boat with something approaching our old efficiency.
Beckett's the first to grab the heavier end without being asked - another thing people miss about him.
He does the work when it matters. Torres watches from the launch, making notes, but for once her expression seems thoughtful rather than critical.
"Tomorrow's regatta," I remind everyone as we finish washing down the equipment. "Bus leaves at five AM. Don't be late."
"Aye, aye, captain," Zane salutes mockingly, but he's smiling.
As the team starts dispersing to their cars, Tyler catches my arm. "We need to talk."
"If this is about the lineup—"
"It's not." He glances around the boathouse parking lot, making sure we're alone. "I've been doing some research."
Of course he has. Tyler researches everything. It's his way of maintaining control when everything else is chaos.
"Research into what?"
"University policies. State regulations. Legal precedents." He adjusts his glasses, a nervous tell. "Specifically about mixed-designation teams and pack bonds."
My stomach tightens. "Tyler—"
"Just hear me out." He pulls out his phone, scrolling to what looks like a lengthy document. "The administration can investigate us for being a mixed-designation team. They can enforce policies about appropriate conduct. But there's one thing they can't touch."
"Which is?"
"Legally bonded packs." He shows me the screen. "State law protects them from discrimination. Universities can't separate bonded pack members or penalize them for their dynamics."
I stare at the legal text, trying to process what he's suggesting. "You're talking about—"
"All of us claiming Reese. Formally. Legally." He puts his phone away. "It's rare but not unprecedented. The Seattle rowing club had a six-Alpha pack with an Omega cox back in 2012."
"That's insane."
"Is it?" Tyler challenges. "More insane than what we're doing now? At least this way we'd have legal protection."
I run a hand through my hair, trying to think through the implications. "Eight Alphas sharing an Omega. You know how that looks."
"I know how it is," he corrects. "We're already sharing her, Gray. Jackson's claimed her. Bo clearly has something going with her. The rest of us are circling like satellites. At least this way we acknowledge it."
"My family—" I start, then stop. Even thinking about my father's reaction makes my chest tight.
"Mine too," Tyler admits. "You think my traditional Korean parents are going to be thrilled about their son in a poly pack? They're still hoping I'll mate with a nice Beta girl from their church."
We stand in silence for a moment, both wrestling with family expectations we've never quite escaped.
"It would solve the administrative problem," Tyler continues. "But create about a hundred personal ones."
"You think the others would go for it?"
"Jackson and Eli are already basically there. Bo would probably be relieved to make it official. Zane follows his heart, so yes. Beckett..." He pauses. "Beckett would surprise us, I think. And Cameron goes where the pack goes."
"And you?" I ask, studying him. "You'd be willing to claim her?"
Tyler's quiet for a long moment. "I'm not like the rest of you."
"What does that mean?"
"You know what it means." He looks uncomfortable. "I don't... feel things the same way. The whole Alpha drive thing. I can go months without even thinking about sex. Watching Jackson and Bo with her, the way they need her physically... I can't give her that."
"Maybe that's not what she needs from you."
He looks surprised that I'm not mocking him.
"Tyler, you're the one who makes sure she eats when she's stressed. You notice when she's pushing too hard. You sent Zane to get her migraine medication last week without her even asking."
"That's just being observant—"
"That's being pack," I correct. "Not everything has to be about knotting and claiming bites."
"My family wouldn't see it that way."
"Neither would mine." I think about my father, about the carefully arranged dinners with 'appropriate' Omega daughters of his business partners.
About the expectation that I'll mate strategically, produce heirs, continue the family legacy.
"They're already pissed about me rowing instead of joining the company immediately after graduation. "
"So what do we do?"
I look out at the water, still perfect in the evening light. Tomorrow we race. Tomorrow we show everyone what we're capable of, or we fail spectacularly. Either way, we're running out of time to pretend.
"We survive tomorrow first," I tell him. "Then we have a team meeting. A real one. Put everything on the table."
"Including the pack bond option?"
"Including everything." I meet his eyes. "But Tyler? This has to be unanimous. All eight of us or none of us. And Reese has to want it too."
"She's got Jackson's bite. She's sleeping with Bo. She held us together through all of this." Tyler adjusts his glasses again. "I think she wants it more than any of us."
"Maybe."
We head toward our cars in companionable silence. The weight of captaincy feels different somehow. Not lighter, but shared. Like maybe I don't have to carry everything alone.
"Gray?" Tyler says as we reach his Honda. "That was a good practice."
"It was better," I agree. "Not good yet. But better."
"Better might be enough for tomorrow."
"It has to be."
I drive back to the team house, Tyler following in his own car.
When we pull into the driveway, I can already hear voices coming from the house.
Zane in the living room, his voice animated as he explains something to someone.
Probably another one of his documentary obsessions - last week it was competitive tickling, this week it's historical rowing victories.
"No, but seriously," his voice carries, "the 1936 US Olympic eight - all working-class guys from Washington who beat Hitler's crew in Berlin. Tell me that's not the perfect underdog story."
Reese's laugh follows. "So we're the underdogs now?"
"We're something," Zane responds, and there's a thoughtfulness in his tone that people miss if they only see his golden retriever energy.
Normal sounds. Pack sounds, if I'm honest.
My phone buzzes. My father. Again.
Father: Your mother mentioned you haven't RSVP'd for the Marshall's charity gala. The youngest daughter is a lovely Omega, very accomplished.
I delete it without responding. There's only one Omega I'm interested in, and she's currently roasting Beckett about his form during power pieces, her voice carrying that edge of authority that makes my Alpha instincts stand at attention.
"You coming?" Tyler asks, turning around on the steps to look at me.
"Right behind you."
He nods and walks inside. I stay at my Rover for another minute, looking up at the team house. Through the windows, I can see movement - my pack gathering, existing in the same space without pretense.
Tomorrow everything could change. The investigation could escalate. We could fail at the regatta. The team could implode completely.
Or we could win. We could prove that a mixed-designation pack can dominate on the water. We could choose each other officially, formally, legally.
The thought terrifies me more than failure.
But for the first time in months, it also feels possible.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Reese in the team group chat.
Reese: Team meeting after dinner. Not optional. We need to talk strategy for tomorrow.
Strategy. Sure. But I can tell what she's really saying. We need to be together. All nine of us. Pack.
Gray: I'll order pizza.
Zane: Already got film loaded up - found footage from Oakwood’s victory last year if anyone wants to scout
Beckett: Film study? Who are you and what did you do with fun Zane?
Zane: I contain multitudes, Monroe
Jackson: Just everyone show up.
Bo: Already here.
Eli: On my way back.
Cameron: I’m out on the deck. You can literally see me.
Even Cameron's responding. That's how I know things are really changing.
I head inside, where the scents of eight Alphas and an Omega trying to coexist hits me full force. But underneath the noise and movement, there's something else. Connection. Purpose.
Pack.
My father would hate it. The administration would fight it. The rowing world would be scandalized.
But watching Reese command the room with just her presence, seeing my team respond to her like she's their center of gravity, I think Tyler might be right.
This might actually work.
If we're brave enough to try.