Page 8 of False Catch

The paddle back is torture. Every stroke means looking at her. Every breath means being close enough to touch but not allowed to reach out. Every second is a reminder of what we had and what we’re pretending we didn’t lose.

As we dock and begin cleaning equipment, I catch her watching me. Just for a second, when she thinks I’m not looking. There’s something in her expression that makes my chest tight. Regret, maybe. Or just exhaustion from fighting a battle we’re all going to lose.

“Afternoon practice, four-thirty,” she announces as we finish up. “Don’t be late. And team meeting tomorrow, six AM before morning practice. We need to figure out how to make this work.”

She walks away, but I notice she’s careful to circle wide around me. Maintaining distance. Playing the part.

But I was stroke seat today, which means I spent forty minutes staring at the woman who called what we have ‘biology.’ Forty minutes watching her fight not to look at me. Forty minutes of torture disguised as practice.

And in six hours, we get to do it all over again

I head for the showers, needing the hot water to wash away the tension coiled in my shoulders. But I know it won’t help. Nothing will, not as long as we’re pretending that what happened between us was just hormones and heat.

Not as long as I have to sit in that stroke seat, facing her, remembering exactly how she looked at me when I was inside her.

Not as long as she keeps calling it biology when we both know it’s something else entirely.

The shower water runs cold before I’m ready to face the world again. But I shut it off anyway, grab my towel, and prepare for another day of pretending.

Another day of looking at her without being allowed to see her.

Another day of being her stroke, following her commands, while we both pretend it doesn’t mean anything.

Biology. Right.

If that’s what she needs to call it to sleep at night, fine. But we both know the truth. What’s between us isn’t biology.

It’s inevitability.

And no amount of suppressants or team meetings or professional distance is going to change that.

CHAPTER THREE

Reese

The Business Strategy classroom smells like nothing.

No pine. No ocean salt. No leather or cinnamon or clean cotton. Just industrial carpet, whiteboard markers, and the faint chemical tang of whatever they use to clean the desks. I arrive fifteen minutes early, claiming a seat by the window where fresh air might dilute any lingering scents clinging to my clothes.

I spent ten minutes in the bathroom before this, trying to air out my jacket. Even with suppressants working overtime, even with being careful, I know I carry traces of them now. Eight distinct Alpha scents that have somehow started to layer into something uniquely us.

The other students filtering in don't seem to notice. Or maybe they're too polite to mention why I smell like I've been wrestling the entire hockey team.

"Rough morning?"

I glance up to find Sierra, one of the few other females in the business program, sliding into the seat beside me. Her nose wrinkles slightly, and I know she's catching the scent cocktail.

"Something like that," I say, aiming for casual. "Early practice."

"With the rowing team, right?" She pulls out her laptop, but I catch her giving me a sideways look. "That must be... intense. All those Alphas."

"It's fine." The lie comes automatically. "They're just teammates."

Sierra makes a noncommittal sound that suggests she's not buying it, but Professor Hawthorne walks in before she can probe further.

"Alright, everyone, settle down." Martinez is an older Beta who treats all students with the same detached professionalism. "Today we're starting the semester project. Forty percent of your grade, so choose your partners wisely."

A collective groan rises from the class. I sink lower in my seat. Group projects are complicated enough without having to explain why I might need to miss meetings for practice, or why eight overprotective Alphas text me every thirty minutes.