Page 22 of Eight Count Heat
I shrug. I'm quiet every day. That's my brand.
Gray follows my gaze to where Callahan discusses strategy with Bo and Beckett. "Something bothering you about her?"
"No," I lie.
Gray studies me. Weighing, calculating. "You'd tell me if there was?"
"Yes." Another lie.
I've known Gray for three years. He knows I'm lying. I know he knows. But Gray Lockwood also understands boundaries, and mine are heavily fortified.
He nods once and moves away, leaving me to my thoughts. To the memory of another coxswain, another team. Before Sable Ridge. Before everything fell apart.
"Alright everyone, on the water!" Callahan's voice rings with authority that someone her size shouldn't possess.
We take our positions, sliding the boat into the water smoothly. Eight bodies moving as a single unit. I keep my focus on my oar, on the back of Zane's head in front of me, on anything but the small figure settling into the coxswain position.
"Back it up," she calls.
We respond, pushing backward from the dock.
"Way enough. Ready all, row."
The familiar rhythm begins. Catch, drive, finish, recovery. My body knows this dance, even as my mind wanders. Water streams off my blade with each stroke, droplets catching afternoon sunlight. Beautiful, if you're into that kind of thing.
"Seat three, you're rushing the catch."
I snap back to awareness at her call. She's watching me, those sharp blue-green eyes missing nothing. I correct my timing, resenting the flush of heat that rises in my neck at being singled out.
"Better," she says. "Let's run the start sequence. We need a faster first twenty."
For the next hour, she drives us through drill after drill, her voice slipping into that lower tone that feels like it bypasses my brain and connects directly to my muscles. It's a good quality in a coxswain. Annoying as hell in a woman I'm trying to ignore.
When we hit our final power piece, something happens. The rhythm changes, the boat lifts. Eight bodies in total sync, cutting through water like we're part of it.
Swing.
Even Gray looks surprised by how smoothly we're moving.
"Thirty more strokes," Callahan calls, intensity building in her voice. "Push through it. This is where you find out what you're made of. Where you prove who you are."
My muscles burn, sweat stings my eyes, but something primal responds to her call. We surge forward, finding another gear.
When we finally ease back, chests heaving, I realize we've hit a split time we've never reached in practice before. I sneak a glance at Callahan. Her face glows with exertion and satisfaction.
For just a second, as a gust of wind blows across the water, I catch something beneath the neutralizing soap she uses. Something sweet and warm that makes my pulse jump. Then it's gone, leaving me wondering if I imagined it.
Back at the dock, the team buzzes with energy. Nothing bonds rowers like shared suffering followed by surprising success. Even Gray looks marginally less murderous than usual.
"Good work today," he acknowledges as we rack the boat. From him, it's gushing praise.
I hang back, waiting for the showers to clear. I hate the crowded locker room after practice. Too many scents, too much noise, too many bodies in too small a space. Better to wait.
Turning to grab my gear, I nearly collide with Callahan, who appears silently at my side.
"Sorry," she says, stepping back quickly. Too quickly. Like she's afraid to be near me.
Smart girl.
