Page 4 of Eight Count Heat
But I know the numbers. I've seen the improvement myself. The way she steers through corners, saving us precious seconds. The way she calls for power exactly when we need it, like she can read the water. And according to Coach Bennett's notes, which I may have accidentally seen, she's technically sound enough to cox at national level.
The knowledge bothers me. I shake it away.
"Let's hit the water."
The team falls into our usual routine, carrying equipment to the dock. When we reach the water, Reese is already waiting, stopwatch in hand. Her blue-green eyes, sharp as always, sweep over us. They linger on me for half a second longer than the others.
"Morning, gentlemen," she says, and I notice again how she keeps her distance, always maintaining several feet between her and any Alpha on the team. Like any smart Beta would.
There's a chorus of responses ranging from Beckett's cheerful greeting to Jackson's grunt. Jackson, our most scent-sensitive Alpha, always seems on edge around her. Another oddity.
"We're running sprints today," she continues, unfazed by my silence. "Four hundred meters, six reps, thirty seconds rest between sets."
"That's not the workout Coach posted," I point out.
She meets my gaze directly. "I adjusted it. You're all collapsing in the third quarter of your races. We need to build your anaerobic threshold."
"And you decided this based on what? Two days of watching us?" My Alpha tone slips into my voice, the one that makes lesser men bare their throats.
She doesn't flinch. "Two days of watching you, plus reviewing your race footage from the past season. Your stroke rate drops by an average of two beats per minute at the fifteen-hundred-meter mark. Costs you about three seconds per race."
The fact that she's right only makes it worse. A Beta who doesn't back down to an Alpha challenge. Unusual, to say the least. Most Betas defer automatically, biological imperative overriding personal will.
"Coach approved it," she adds, before I can argue further.
Bo chuckles beside me. "Sounds like she's got your number, Captain."
I ignore him and motion toward the boat. "Let's get on the water." The sooner we finish this practice, the sooner I can review the university's updated guidelines on mixed-designation teams. There have to be additional restrictions I can invoke.
Boarding is routine, each man finding his seat, adjusting his oarlock, checking his slide. I settle into stroke position, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility. From here, I set the pace. I dictate the rhythm. I lead.
Until Reese slides into the coxswain position, and suddenly I'm just another body responding to her commands. The feeling grates on my nerves like fingernails on carbon fiber.
"Push off," she orders, and the boat glides away from the dock.
As we warm up, I find myself listening for flaws in her call pattern, weaknesses in her strategy. There are none. Every word is calculated, every command timed perfectly. When we hit our first sprint, the boat flies.
"That's it," she calls. "Together now. Power through. Hold your form."
Her voice drops slightly when she coxes, something I noticed that first run. It becomes more commanding, more... something I can't define. Something that makes me respond before my brain can interfere.
"Lockwood, I need more from you at the catch."
I grimace, focusing on my technique. She's right, but I'll never admit it.
"Better," she says a few strokes later. "Now hold that."
The sprints are brutal, exactly what we need. By the fourth rep, my lungs burn, sweat pours down my face, and my muscles scream for relief. But her voice keeps us moving, keeps us together. I hate how well it works.
"Last two hundred," she calls, intensity building. "This is where you break. This is where you fold. But not today. Not this crew. Drive through it. Now!"
The boat surges forward, eight men pushing past their limits, responding to the command in her voice like it's hardwired into our biology, which should be impossible. Betas don't possess that kind of influence over Alphas.
When we hit the finish line of our final sprint, I'm gasping for air, muscles trembling. But something else thrums beneath the exhaustion. Pride. We've never hit times like this so early in the season.
"Well done," she says, and there's genuine approval in her voice. "Especially you, Lockwood."
I don't acknowledge the compliment, but something inside me responds to it, hungry for more. I crush the feeling immediately.
