Page 27 of False Catch

"Pick it up to three-quarter pressure," Reese calls.

We increase power, and that's when I see them. The lacrosse team has circled back on their run, and they've stopped on the path that runs parallel to our rowing lane. Quinton stands at the front, and he's pulled out his phone. He's recording us. That's not normal. That's not supportive interdepartmental observation.

That's evidence gathering.

"Gray," I say quietly, not breaking stroke. "Quinton's filming."

Gray's rhythm stutters for just a second. "Focus on rowing," he says through gritted teeth.

But I can feel his anger radiating through the boat. The other Alphas are picking up on it too, their own territorial instincts responding to their captain's aggression. The boat starts to rush, our timing getting aggressive, almost violent.

"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.