Page 7 of Eight Count Heat
My heart pounds against my ribs. He can't know. My documents are perfect. My suppressants are working.
"Not runningfrom. Runningto." I set down my coffee. "National championship. Olympic development program. My resume needs Sable Ridge, not the other way around."
Gray watches me for another long moment, then nods once. "Fair enough."
Relief floods my system, but I know better than to show it.
"Let's get on the water," I say. "Single scull for you. I'll coach from the launch."
"No."
"No?"
"I need to feel it in the eight. Full crew experience." He picks up his coffee again. "They'll be here soon."
My stomach drops. "You invited the whole team? At five AM?"
"Problem?" His brow lifts in challenge.
"No problem." I grip my mug tighter, recalculating. A full practice means eight Alphas in an enclosed space. Eight scents. Eight potential triggers if my suppressants falter.
But it also means I'm not alone with Gray Lockwood, which might be safer for entirely different reasons.
Sure enough, headlights begin appearing in the parking lot. One by one, the team arrives. Zane and Tyler with Bo in his massive truck, Beckett's sleek convertible, Jackson's motorcycle, and Eli's BMW. They slowly get out of their vehicles and trudge toward us with various levels of consciousness, from Tyler's quiet focus to Zane's zombie shuffle.
"This better be worth it, Lockwood," Beckett grumbles, golden hair sticking up in all directions. "Some of us need beauty sleep."
"Clearly," Bo drawls, drawing a halfhearted middle finger from Beckett.
Cameron arrives last on a black crotch rocket, walking towards us silent as a shadow. His slate eyes flick to me, then away, expression unreadable as he rakes his hand through his messy dark curls. Something about the bow-seat rower unnerves me. Like he sees right through my carefully constructed walls.
"Callahan's going to fix my timing issue," Gray announces once they've gathered. "Which means we're all improving our synchronization."
No protests. Just nods. They follow him without question, true pack behavior even without formal bonds.
"What's the drill, Cox?" Zane asks, giving me a sleepy smile that crinkles the corners of his amber eyes.
The nickname feels like acceptance. I return his smile before I can stop myself.
"We'll start with technique drills. Pause at the catch position, that's where Gray is rushing. Then we'll work rhythm in pairs."
As they prep the boat, I pull Gray aside. The boathouse is quiet except for us - the JV and novice crews won't be here for another hour. "You could have warned me."
"Would you have agreed if I had?"
"Probably not."
"Then consider it strategic omission." His lip curls into what might be amusement.
The early morning practice becomes surprisingly productive. Gray's catch timing improves visibly within an hour. The whole boat feels more connected, more alive. By the time the sun begins painting the eastern sky in gold and crimson, we've made measurable progress.
"Let's wrap it up with a power piece," I call from my position. "Five hundred meters, race pace."
The boat surges forward, eight bodies moving as one organism. The smooth glide of carbon fiber cutting through water is poetry in motion.
"That's it," I call, my voice dropping into its coxing tone. "Together now. Through the legs, back, arms."
They respond to my commands like they've been rowing under me for years, not days. The synchronicity is intoxicating. This is what I live for, this perfect machine of muscle and motion under my control.
