Page 1 of Eight Count Heat
chapter ONE
Reese
The scent of lakewater fills my lungs as I watch Sable Ridge University's elite men's rowing team slice through morning mist that has yet to burn off the glassy surface of Bellwater Lake. The light of the morning sun is just beginning to crest the distant treeline in ribbons of gold and amber, crepuscular rays reaching up through the last of the night's storm clouds. I stand on the weathered wooden dock, its planks still slick with dew, my heart in my chest as I watch how the team moves.
My new team. If they accept me.
Eight muscular bodies move in perfect sync. Sunlight catches on sweat-slicked shoulders and arms as they pull through each stroke. Most wear practice tanks that cling to torsos sculpted by years of brutal training, though a couple have already stripped down to just shorts in the morning heat. The gleaming carbon-fiber shell skims the water's surface, leaving a perfect V-shapedwake behind it. They work together nearly perfectly, like the elite team that they are, but there are slight flaws in their timing. In their control.
They clearly don't need another rower – but theydoneed a coxswain.
They needme.
"You sure about this, Callahan?" Coach Bennett asks, arms crossed over his chest. "These boys aren't known for their hospitality."
I grip my stopwatch tighter. "I didn't transfer here for the hospitality, Coach."
What I don't say is: I transferred because my previous team discovered what I am. Because suppressants failed me once, and I won't let it happen again. Because Sable Ridge has the best rowing program in the Southeast, and I need to prove myself here if I want any shot at nationals.
The men's eight glides back to the dock, water sluicing off carbon fiber. Eight pairs of eyes lock onto me, ranging from curious to outright hostile.
"Who's the girl?" A blond guy with a lazy smile asks, jumping onto the dock with the casual grace of someone born into his body. Water cascades from his honey-colored hair as he pushes it back from his face. Seat six, according to the roster I memorized. Beckett Monroe.
"Your new coxswain," Coach Bennett says.
Silence drops like a stone.
"Bullshit."
The word comes from the stroke seat as he rises to his full height. Gray Lockwood. Team captain. Six-foot-four of pure, controlled aggression. Unlike most of the others, his practice tank is still on, the black fabric clinging to a torso that looks carved from marble. His jaw clenches as he steps onto the dock, sweat sliding down powerful thighs. Everything about him radiates cold calculation, from his perfectly cropped dark hair to his steel-gray eyes that narrow as they scan me from head to toe. His lips curl into something between a sneer and a snarl, revealing a glimpse of straight white teeth. A rich Alpha, with all the arrogant confidence that comes natural to people like him.
"We don't need a coxswain," he says, voice like gravel. "We need Davis."
"Davis quit," Coach Bennett says flatly. "Finding a replacement willing to cox an all-Alpha crew isn't exactly simple. The university already has concerns about mixed-designation team dynamics." He gestures toward me. "Callahan here has three years competitive experience, two championships, and the best race strategy I've seen in a decade."
"She's tiny," another rower says. This one has shaggy dark hair falling into his eyes. Jackson Reed, seat three.
I step forward. "Five-foot-two is the perfect height for reducing drag. My weight will shave four seconds off your time."
"Your weight won't matter when you can't control a boat full of Alphas," Gray says.
My heart stutters but I keep my face neutral. They don't know. They can't. My suppressants are top-grade, my fake Beta registration paperwork flawless.
I stare directly into Gray's steel eyes. "I don't need to be an Alpha to command one."
He narrows his eyes almost imperceptibly, but keeps his mouth shut.
"Two-week trial," Coach says, ending the debate. "Callahan coxes, or you guys forfeit the Riverside Invitational. Your call."
A collective grumble passes through the team. Only one of them, a guy with warm amber eyes and a hint of a smile, gives me an encouraging nod. Zane Hollis, seat four.
"Fine," Gray finally says. "Trial run. But when she screws up, I want it on record that I opposed this." His steel eyes narrow as he looks between Coach Bennett and me. "The administration is already watching this team closely after our performance last season. We don't need additional complications."
"Noted, Lockwood," Coach says dryly. "Now get back on the water. Callahan, take the helm."
My stomach tightens as I approach the boat. The cockpit where I'll sit is at the back, or stern, while I face the rowers. My eyes sweep over them as they settle into their positions, recognizing each from my research.
Gray Lockwood, the stroke in seat eight. Reputation for perfection and meticulous control. Cold as ice.
