Page 79 of Eight Count Heat
"I'm going to fight this," Coach says firmly. "Her paperwork's legitimate, and this smells like a coordinated attack. I'll talk to the head official, make some calls if I have to."
"And if they don't back down?"
The question hangs between us like a blade. If Reese can't race, we forfeit. Three months of training, the season we've built together, ends here on a technicality designed to humiliate her.
"Then we deal with that when it happens," Coach Bennett says. "But I'm not letting them railroad one of my athletes without a fight."
He heads back toward the officials' tent, leaving me to rejoin the team with the weight of this new crisis pressing against my shoulders.
"Everything okay, Captain?" Eli asks as I return.
"Just logistics," I reply smoothly. "Nothing that affects our race plan."
But Jackson's sensitive to stress in ways the rest of us aren't, and I catch him glancing between me and Reese with an expression that suggests he's picking up on more than ambient tension.
"Let's get on the water," I announce. "I want a full warm-up before we check in with officials."
The team responds immediately, sliding the boat into deeper water as Reese climbs into the coxswain's seat. I take my position at stroke, feeling the familiar weight of leadership settle over me as eight oars dip into the still water.
"Sit ready," Reese calls, her voice carrying across the quiet lake with authority that betrays none of whatever internal struggle she's fighting.
We push off from the dock in perfect unison, the boat responding to our collective power like a living thing. This is what I live for: the moment when individual effort becomes something greater, when eight separate bodies move as one organism driven by shared purpose.
"Arms only," Reese commands. "Let's feel the water."
The boat glides through morning mist, oars cutting clean paths through the surface. Behind me, I can hear the steady breathing of my crew, the quiet splash of blades entering and leaving water, the subtle adjustments Reese makes to keep us moving in a straight line.
"Looking good," she calls after we've established rhythm. "Half slide now. Find your length."
I extend my reach, feeling the muscles in my back and shoulders engage as we transition to the longer stroke. The boat lifts slightly, riding higher on the water as we find our groove.
This is what matters. Not designation politics or family pressure or university bureaucracy. This. Eight men and one woman working in perfect coordination, pursuing excellence through shared effort and mutual trust.
"Full slide," Reese announces. "Let's build this piece. Rating twenty in two strokes."
The boat surges as we increase pressure, power flowing through carbon fiber and into forward momentum. I can feel the crew settling into race rhythm, each man finding his place in the complex timing that makes us fast.
"That's it," Reese says, and there's satisfaction in her voice now. "Hold that feeling. This is your speed today."
For the next twenty minutes, we work through our warm-up sequence systematically. Starts, steady state pieces, race pace intervals. Everything designed to prepare our bodies and minds for the competition ahead.
But even as I focus on technique and timing, part of my attention remains fixed on Reese. Her calls are sharp and confident, but I catch moments when her voice wavers slightly. When sheadjusts her position in the seat like she's fighting discomfort. When her breathing becomes more pronounced than usual.
"Let's head back," she announces as we finish our final piece. "Time to race."
The return trip to the dock passes quickly, anticipation building as other crews take to the water around us. Riverside in full competition mode is controlled chaos: athletes warming up, officials coordinating schedules, spectators gathering along the shoreline. The energy is infectious, pushing pre-race nerves toward excitement.
But as we approach our assigned dock space, I spot Coach Bennett standing with two regatta officials and a woman I don't recognize. Their body language suggests serious conversation, the kind that doesn't end well for anyone involved.
"Clean landing," I call to the crew, keeping my voice steady despite the knot forming in my stomach.
We dock smoothly, hands reaching out to guide the boat safely to rest. But instead of the usual post-warm-up routine, Coach Bennett approaches with an expression that confirms my worst fears.
"Reese," he says quietly. "We need you to come with us for a moment."
She looks between Coach and the officials, confusion clear on her face. "Is there a problem?"
"Just verification procedure," Coach replies, but his tone suggests otherwise. "Standard protocol."
