Page 75 of False Catch

"Will it?" The question seems to encompass more than just my vocal cords.

Before I can answer, we're interrupted by laughter from Northshore's crew walking past. Their coxswain, a Beta named Luis who I've competed against before, slows down with a shitty-ass smirk on his face.

"Rough race, Callahan," he says with false sympathy. "Maybe you guys should consider the B boat next time. Less pressure."

Jackson's head snaps up from where he's working, his body tensing. Eli puts a warning hand on his arm.

"We qualified," I say evenly, though my destroyed voice undermines any authority.

"Barely." Luis’s eyes glitter with amusement. "Though I guess that's what happens when your stroke and three-seat are trying to kill each other mid-race. We could see the tension from three lanes over. Maybe they’re too busy fighting over something off the water." His eyes move slowly over my body and I have to fight the revulsion that tries to shiver down the length of my spine.

The air shifts, becomes electric. All eight of my guys have stopped what they're doing, turning toward us with varying degrees of threat in their postures. Even Gray has emerged from his isolation, taking a step forward with his spine straight. At full height and with all the attention of his Alpha aura focused on one person, we’re all reminded of why he’s Captain.

"Walk away," Cameron says quietly from behind me. I hadn't even heard him approach. "Now."

Luis looks around at eight Alphas all focused on him with predatory intensity. Despite their fractures, despite the disaster of a race, they've all moved to position themselves around me. Not quite a pack formation, but close enough to make Luis step back.

"Just making conversation," he says, but he's already retreating. "See you at regionals, Sable Ridge. If you make it that far."

He leaves quickly, his crew following. The moment he's gone, the temporary unity dissolves. Jackson turns back to the boat without a word. Gray returns to his spot by the trailer. The brief glimpse of the united, protective, powerful unit we could be vanishes like smoke.

"We should go," Tyler says, ever practical. "We have a two-hour drive back before we have to figure out how to fix this in a week."

The thought of getting back in the boat this afternoon makes me want to cry. But that's what we do. We keep going, keep pretending, keep fracturing a little more each day.

As we finish loading, I catch glimpses of our dysfunction. Jackson "accidentally" shoulders past Gray reaching for a strap. Gray's jaw clenches but he says nothing. Eli positions himself between them like a buffer. The middle four work in careful silence, nobody wanting to choose sides. Cameron watches it all from his perch on the trailer, cataloging every crack in our foundation.

"Vans leave in five," Coach Bennett calls out.

I climb into the second van, unsurprised when the seating arrangement reflects our current divide. Jackson and Eli take the back row. Gray sits alone in the front. The others distribute themselves carefully in the middle, maintaining neutral territory.

I end up in a row with Bo and Tyler, grateful for their steady presence even as I feel the weight of what needs to happen. Two weeks. Coach's timeline matches what Torres is probably thinking. Two weeks to either embrace what we're becoming or lose everything.

My phone buzzes. A text from Quinton: Heard you guys had a rough race. You okay?

I stare at it, not sure how to respond. How does he always know? It's like he has informants everywhere, always appearing when I'm vulnerable.

Fine, I type back. Just tired.

If you need to talk, I'm here. Coffee later?

I delete the text without responding and lean my head against the window. Outside, the other crews are preparing for their races, moving with the coordination we've lost.

"Hey," Bo says quietly beside me. "We'll figure it out."

"Will we?" I echo his earlier question.

He doesn't answer, but his hand finds mine, squeezing gently. A simple gesture of support that makes my throat tight with more reasons than just overuse.

As we pull away from Lake Hartwell, I can see our boat strapped to the trailer behind us. Eight seats that should move as one. Eight oars that should breathe together. Eight Alphas and one Omega who should be something revolutionary.

Instead, we're just broken pieces held together by habit and my failing voice.

But Coach Bennett's words echo in my mind: "Stop pretending you're just a coxswain."

Maybe he's right. Maybe it's time to stop pretending and start becoming what we're meant to be.

Even if it terrifies me.