Page 78 of False Catch

"Because if you don't figure it out in the next week or two," Torres continues, and now her voice carries genuine regret, "I can't protect you anymore. I have to turn in my report. I hope I'm able to give them something good."

I stare at her, processing the implications. "You're giving us a chance."

"I'm giving you reality." She straightens, shuttering her expression. "Two weeks to prove you can manage what's happening without creating a liability for the university. Two weeks to show me that this pack formation enhances rather than compromises your competitive performance."

"And if we can't?"

"Then I report what I observe, and the administration makes decisions accordingly." She replaces her sunglasses, the gesture somehow final. "Your choice, Callahan. Figure it out, or lose everything."

She starts to walk away, then pauses.

"Just so we’re clear," she says without turning around, "I've never seen eight men more unified in protecting something they all care about. They’re devoted to you whether or not any of you realize it. Don't waste that."

Then she's gone, leaving me standing in the shadows with the sound of “two weeks” echoing in my ears.

When I finally make it back to the team, they're loading equipment into the boathouse like they can't escape fast enough. Gray doesn't meet my eyes. Jackson is methodically checking oar locks, examining each mechanism twice, then again, clearly stalling. The others move around each other maintaining deliberate distance, avoiding accidental contact.

"Everything okay?" Bo asks, but his voice carries strain. The protective drive is there, but it's fighting against exhaustion and frustration.

"Fine," I lie, because what else can I say? That we have two weeks to figure out how to function as a crew before Torres reports our biological dysfunction to the administration? That we're falling apart in real time and I don't know how to fix it?

"Bullshit," Zane says, but there's no cheer in it today. "You look like someone just cancelled rowing season."

"Maybe they should," Tyler mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The silence that follows is deafening.

We split up from the boathouse in our usual fractured groups. Jackson and Cameron head for their bikes, the engines roaring to life in stereo. Gray stalks toward his Range Rover without looking back. The rest pile into Bo's truck and Tyler's sedan, maintaining the same careful distance they held while loading equipment.

I end up in Bo's passenger seat, watching Jackson's bike disappear around the curve toward main campus. Behind us, Zane slumps against the window while Beckett stares at nothing.

Two weeks.

Torres's deadline echoes in my head as Bo navigates the familiar path back to the house. Two weeks to prove we can manage what's happening. To show that pack formation enhances rather than destroys us.

The sun sets over the lake, painting the water the color of old blood. Tomorrow we'll be back here, trying again to find a rhythm that keeps slipping through our fingers. Nine people who used to move as one, now barely able to occupy the same space without fracturing.

Bo parks outside my dorm where I’ve been trying to avoid everyone, but nobody moves. We sit in the gathering darkness, each lost in our own thoughts about what happens if we can't pull this together.

And the pressure builds.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Bo

The team house feels like a powder keg after Thursday afternoon's disaster of a practice. Gray storms out first, slamming his car door hard enough that we hear it from the dock. Jackson and Eli disappear together without a word. The rest scatter like shrapnel.

Reese sits on the dock edge, staring at the water. She hasn't moved in ten minutes.

"That's it," I mutter, pulling out my phone.

Tyler glances over from where he's hosing down oars. "What's it?"

"Someone needs to make a decision before this team completely implodes."

I text Zane: Need you to do something. No questions.

His response is immediate: what do you need?