Page 97 of False Catch

If we're brave enough to try.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Beckett

The morning air at Lake Hartwell bites with that particular April chill that makes you question your life choices. We left campus at five AM, and after the two-hour drive, seven o'clock still feels ungodly. But here we are, unloading the boat while other crews warm up on the water.

"Northridge is here," Tyler observes, nodding toward their trailer. "And Hampton Hills."

"Good," Gray says, all captain intensity. "We need real competition."

What we need is coffee strong enough to wake the dead, but I keep that observation to myself. Reese is checking her cox box for the third time, a nervous tell she doesn't know she has. Bo hovers nearby, not quite touching her but close enough that everyone knows exactly what's going on there.

Jackson and Eli are in their own bubble, doing their synchronized stretching routine that would be creepy if it wasn't so effective. Zane's actually quiet for once, watching the other crews with an intensity that reminds me he's more than just the team's emotional support human. Cameron's doing his thing where he appears to be meditating but is actually cataloging every detail around us.

And me? I'm pretending everything's fine while my stomach does backflips from pure nerves.

"Hands on," Gray commands, and we lift the boat together.

The thing about rowing is that it strips away all the bullshit. You can't fake it on the water. Either you're connected or you're not. Either you trust each other or you don't. After yesterday's practice, I'd say we're at about sixty percent. Not great, but better than the twenty percent we've been operating at.

"Northridge's boat looks fast," some Hampton Hills rower comments as we pass. "Heard Sable Ridge has been having issues though."

"Heard your mom has been having issues," Zane mutters under his breath, and I have to bite back a laugh.

We get the boat on the water and start our warm-up row to the starting line. Reese's voice through the cox box is steady, controlled. None of the desperation from earlier this week.

"Long and controlled," she says. "Save the power for when it matters."

The warm-up feels... decent. Not our best, but solid. Like we remember how to be a crew even if we're still figuring out how to be a pack.

"Lane assignments," the official calls. "Northridge lane two, Sable Ridge lane three, Hampton Hills lane four."

Middle lanes. Good position. We back into the starting platform, and I can feel the energy shift. Game time.

"Okay boys," Reese's voice comes through clear and fierce. "We've had a shit week. We've been at each other's throats. But right now? None of that matters. For the next six minutes, we're not nine individuals. We're one boat. We move together or we lose together. Your choice."

"Together," Jackson says, loud enough for all of us to hear. It's the most decisive he's sounded all season.

"Together," the rest of us echo.

The starter raises his flag. "Attention!"

We coil forward, loaded with potential energy.

"Row!"

We explode off the line. The first ten strokes are pure power, pure chaos, pure adrenaline. Reese calls them with a fury that makes my blood sing.

"That's it! Show them what Sable Ridge can do! Lengthen out now, settle to base rate. Northridge is even with us, Hampton Hills is half a length up."

The middle thousand is always where races are won or lost. It's not about power anymore - it's about efficiency, sustainability, trust. Every stroke has to be perfect, or at least perfectly together.

"Hold that rhythm," Reese commands. "Tyler, you're setting a beautiful pace. Everyone match his control. We're walking through Hampton Hills."

And we are. Inch by inch, stroke by stroke, we're moving. Not because we're pulling harder, but because we're pulling together. It's been so long since we've felt this that I'd almost forgotten what it was like.

"Five hundred to go!" Reese calls. "Northridge is making their move. Do NOT let them walk through us. This is our water!"