Page 74 of False Catch

"Well, I suspected. Didn't know someone had actually claimed you until just now." He rubs his face, looking tired. "Jackson?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"And Gray's losing his mind over it."

Another nod.

"Christ." He looks out over the water where other crews are warming up for their races. "Twenty years ago, I coached a mixed eight at Washington. Three Alphas, four Betas, one Omega in bow seat. They were magnificent when they clicked. Won nationals twice."

"What happened to them?"

"Politics. Administration got nervous about the dynamics. Split them up senior year." His jaw tightens. "They never rowed as well apart as they did together. Broke my heart watching them try."

He turns back to me. "Here's what I know, Callahan. I don't give a damn about university policies or designation politics. I care about boats going fast. And right now, you're letting personal dynamics destroy what could be the fastest crew I've ever coached."

"I don't know how to fix it."

"Sure you do." He crosses his arms. "Same way you fixed it in the tanks. Stop pretending you're just a coxswain. Stop letting them tear each other apart over position. You're the center of whatever this is becoming—own it."

"If the university finds out—"

"They already know. Torres has been watching you like a hawk for a while now." He jerks his chin toward the officials' tent where I can see Torres standing with her clipboard, observing everything. "She's just waiting to see what you do with it."

"She could shut us down."

"She could. Or she could be waiting to see something that hasn't existed in forty years—a true pack crew." He leans against the van. "You know what makes pack crews unbeatable? It's not the physical strength or the Alpha aggression. It's the synchronization. When the bonds are right, you don't need to think. You breathe as one, move as one, win as one."

"We're nowhere near that."

"Because you're fighting it." His voice gentles. "Jackson claimed you but you're still hiding it. Gray's trying to lead through authority instead of accepting the pack structure. The others are choosing sides instead of choosing unity."

"It's not that simple—"

"It's exactly that simple." He cuts me off. "You've got maybe two weeks before this either comes together or falls completely apart. Torres will file her report, the administration will step in, and that'll be the end of it."

"You're giving us an ultimatum?"

"I'm giving you the truth. You can keep pretending this is just about rowing, keep letting them destroy each other over who's in charge, keep hiding behind what's left of those suppressants." He meets my eyes. "Or you can accept what you're becoming and show everyone what a real pack crew can do."

He starts to walk away, then pauses. "If it means anything, I think you could be extraordinary. All of you. But only if you stop being afraid of it."

"Coach," I call after him. "What if we can't figure it out?"

He looks back with a wry smile. "Then you'll join the long list of crews that had all the talent in the world and wasted it on bullshit. Your choice, Callahan. But choose fast, because that," he points to where our boat sits on the trailer, "is painful to watch."

He leaves me standing there by the van, the weight of his words mixing with exhaustion. When I turn back toward the dock, I see Torres by the officials' tent, clipboard in hand, watching our team with that sharp gaze that misses nothing. She catches my eye and gives the slightest nod—not approval, just acknowledgment. She saw what happened out there. She's watching. Waiting.

My team is loading the boat in fractured groups. Jackson and Eli work on the bow section, their movements synchronized in a way that speaks to their deeper connection. Bo and Zane handle the middle, talking in low voices. Beckett and Tyler manage the stern rigging while Cameron stands apart, methodically checking the straps.

And Gray—Gray stands by the trailer's wheel well, alone, staring at nothing.

"Reese." Bo materializes beside me, concern written across his face. "You okay? Coach looked intense."

"Fine," I lie, pulling my jacket collar higher to hide the mark. "Just discussing strategy."

His eyes flick to my neck anyway. Southern boys might be polite, but they're not stupid. "Your voice sounds wrecked."

"It'll recover."