Page 7 of False Catch

“It’s like you’ve never seen each other before,” she continues, finally breaking eye contact to address the rest of the crew. “Jackson, you’re three beats behind everyone else. Tyler, your blade work looks like you learned to row yesterday. And Beckett... are you even trying?”

“Hey,” Beckett starts, but she cuts him off.

“No. I don’t want to hear excuses. I want to know why eight guys who won Riverside just days ago suddenly can’t row in a straight line.”

Her eyes find mine again. Challenging. Daring me to say what we both know.

“Gray.” The way she says my name is sharp enough to cut. “You’re stroke. Get them together.”

I lean forward slightly, closing the distance between us just enough to make her breath catch. “Maybe the problem isn’t technique.”

“Then what is it?” She doesn’t back down, doesn’t lean away. If anything, she lifts her chin higher.

“You tell me.”

We’re locked in a staring contest now, the boat gently rocking beneath us. I can see her pulse jumping in her throat. Can see the way her hands clench around the rudder lines. Can see everything she’s trying not to feel written across her face because we’re too close for her to hide it.

“Fine,” she says finally, voice low and dangerous. “If you can’t row like a team, we’ll work like individuals. Pairs only. Bow pair, take it away.”

Cameron and Eli push off, and I’m left sitting there, nothing to do but stare at the woman in front of me who’s pretending we’re strangers. She keeps her eyes fixed on the bow pair, rating their strokes, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s hyperaware of my gaze.

“Three and four,” she calls.

Jackson and Zane take their turn. Still, she won’t look at me.

“Five and six.”

Tyler and Beckett find their rhythm. I watch her watch them, notice the way she unconsciously leans away from me like proximity hurts.

“Seven and eight.”

Finally. Something to do besides sit here drowning in awkwardness. Bo and I push off together, and I pour every ounce of frustration into the strokes. Hard. Fast. Punishing.

“Better,” Reese says, and now she has to watch us, has to look at me to gauge our timing. “Full crew, let’s try a piece. Rate twenty-two for twenty strokes.”

We line up again, eight blades poised above the water. She’s right there, so close I can smell the faint trace of her shampoo beneath the lake air. So close I can see the shadows under her eyes from not sleeping.

So close I could lean forward and—

“Attention... go.”

We’re off. And for the first ten strokes, it almost works. The boat begins to move properly, finding that sweet spot where resistance disappears. I keep my eyes locked on hers, letting her see everything I’m not allowed to say. The anger. The hurt. The desperate need that suppressants can’t touch.

She stares back, and for a moment, her mask slips. I see her. Really see her. The girl who’s just as lost as the rest of us, just as scared, just as desperate to make this work without destroying everything we’ve built.

Then Jackson catches a crab.

The oar digs deep, handle flying up and back. The shell lurches, momentum gone.

“Way enough,” Reese calls, tearing her gaze from mine.

The moment breaks. Whatever connection we’d found dissolves back into professional distance. I look back to see Jackson fighting with his blade, jaw clenched in embarrassment and anger.

“You good?” I ask.

He nods, but won’t meet my eyes. Just like he’s been avoiding everyone since the kitchen confrontation.

“Let’s head back,” Reese announces. “We’ll work on this at afternoon practice.”