Page 28 of False Catch

"It's early season rust," I say before Gray can respond. "We're still finding our rhythm after winter break."

Carmine's attention shifts to me. "Mr. Wu. You've been with this crew for three years. Is this level of dysfunction normal?"

Dysfunction. She's already made up her mind.

"All teams have adjustment periods," I say carefully. "We're working through ours."

"By having your new female coxswain run novice drills?" She makes another note. "Interesting approach."

"Actually," Reese speaks up, "I suggested the drill to refocus on fundamentals. Sometimes going back to basics is the best way forward."

"Smart strategy," Carmine says, though her tone suggests she's not convinced. "Let's see if it works."

This is bad. This is very bad. Gray's still radiating tension, and I can see Quinton on the shore, still filming with his phone while his teammates do their stretches. He's not saying anything, just watching, but his presence is like salt in Gray's wound.

"We should continue the workout," Coach Bennett interjects, clearly trying to defuse whatever is building.

"Of course," Carmine agrees. "Please, continue. I'm particularly interested in seeing how you perform under pressure."

We start rowing again, but now it feels like a funeral march. Every stroke is watched, measured, judged. The synchronization we found in the tanks feels miles away, buried under the weight of observation and Gray's radiating hostility toward Quinton.

"Steady state to the bridge," Reese commands. "Then we'll turn and do pieces on the way back."

Standard workout. Safe. Boring. Exactly what we need to look normal.

Except nothing about us is normal anymore, and the harder we try to fake it, the more obvious it becomes.

My brain keeps trying to solve this like an equation. Eight Alphas plus one hidden Omega plus external observation plus unknown Gray-Quinton conflict equals what? What's the solution when all the variables are working against each other?

"Focus up," Zane says quietly from behind me. "We just need to get through this."

He's right. We just need to survive the next hour. Show Carmine we can function. Keep our interactions hidden. Maintain the facade.

But as we approach the bridge, I see Quinton still filming from the shore, his lacrosse teammates fucking around, their stretches forgotten, while obviously watching us. He’s still smirking, but it doesn’t look the same as it did when Reese was around and I can't shake the feeling that surviving isn't going to be enough.

Something's coming. Something worse than administrative oversight.

And we're rowing straight toward it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Reese

We manage to finish the practice without completely falling apart, which feels like a minor miracle given how it started. The pieces back from the bridge are marginally better - not great, but competent enough that Carmine stops taking quite so many notes.

When we finally dock, she's waiting on the shore with Coach Bennett, her tablet clutched like a weapon.

"Adequate," she pronounces, like the word tastes sour. "Barely."

We stand in a line, still dripping with sweat and lake water, waiting for the verdict.

"The administration's concerns appear to have merit," she continues. "Team dynamics are clearly affecting performance. Therefore, effective immediately, Sable Ridge Men's Crew is on probationary status."

My stomach drops. Behind me, I hear Bo's sharp intake of breath.

"What does that mean exactly?" Gray asks, his captain voice steady despite everything.

"It means," Carmine says, pulling up something on her tablet, "that you'll have supervised practices. I'm assigning Assistant Coach Torres from the women's team to observe your daily sessions. You'll have weekly check-ins with me to assess progress. Any signs of inappropriate conduct or further performance degradation will result in immediate suspension of competitive privileges."