Page 78 of Eight Count Heat
Riverside at dawn is a cathedral of fog and silence, the lake surface mirror-smooth beneath a canopy of low-hanging clouds. Our footsteps crunch on gravel as we move in synchronized formation, eight pairs of hands balancing the shell above our heads with the dexterity that comes from months of repetition.
I check my watch: 5:47 AM. Thirteen minutes until our scheduled launch time. Everything proceeding according to plan, which should satisfy the part of me that demands order and control. Instead, I feel the familiar pre-race tension coiling in my chest, amplified by variables I can't calculate or manage.
Reese walks beside the stern, her cox box clipped to her jacket, eyes scanning the water conditions with the focusof someone reading tactical intelligence. She looks composed despite everything that happened yesterday with her parents. Professional. But I've been watching her long enough to recognize the subtle tells: the way she favors her left shoulder, the slight tremor in her hands when she thinks no one's looking, the careful distance she maintains from the rest of us.
Something's off. Has been since we arrived.
"Water's perfect," Bo observes as we approach the dock. "No wind, minimal current."
"Temperature's fifty-six degrees," Tyler adds, consulting the weather app on his phone. "Optimal for muscle response."
I nod, cataloging the information automatically while my attention remains focused on our coxswain. Reese moves with her usual economy of motion, but there's something different about her this morning. An alertness that goes beyond normal pre-race nerves.
We set the boat in the water smoothly, each man knowing his role in the process. Riggers adjusted. Oarlocks checked. Foot stretchers confirmed. The familiar ritual that transforms eight individuals into a single racing unit.
"Equipment check," I announce, though it's unnecessary. Everyone knows the routine.
Reese begins her own preparations, testing the cox box, adjusting the rudder cables, settling into the stern with movements that should be automatic but seem somehow deliberate today. Like she's forcing herself to focus on the mechanics rather than whatever's distracting her.
"Stroke rate for warm-up?" she asks, and I catch the slight rasp in her voice.
"Eighteen to start," I reply. "Build to twenty-two over a thousand meters."
She nods, making notes in the waterproof notebook she keeps clipped to her thigh. Her handwriting is smaller than usual, more controlled, like she's compensating for something.
"Gray." Coach Bennett approaches from the equipment trailer, clipboard in hand and wearing the expression that means he's about to deliver information I won't like. "We need to talk."
I follow him a few steps away from the team, close enough to keep Reese in my peripheral vision while we speak.
"What's the problem?"
"Got word from the regatta officials. There's been a complaint filed about our team composition." His voice stays low, but the words hit like cold water. "Someone's questioning Reese's eligibility."
My jaw tightens. "On what grounds?"
"Designation verification. They're requesting documentation to confirm her registration status."
The implications cascade through my mind like dominoes falling. If someone's challenging Reese's paperwork, it means they suspect something. It means yesterday's confrontation with her parents might have triggered more than just family drama.
"Who filed the complaint?"
"Westlake's coaching staff." Coach Bennett's expression darkens. "Specifically, someone with detailed knowledge of Reese's transfer situation."
Andrea Sloan. Has to be. The Westlake coxswain who was probably feeding information to Kinsley, creating a coordinated attack designed to remove Reese from competition.
"What's our response?"
"Her paperwork's in order," Coach says. "University verified her status when she transferred. But if they push for additional verification..."
He doesn't need to finish the sentence. Additional verification would mean deeper scrutiny of her transfer, her reasons for leaving Westlake, whatever complications she's been trying to keep private.
"How long do we have?"
"Officials want documentation before race time. That gives us about ninety minutes."
I glance back at our team, where Reese continues her pre-race preparations with mechanical focus. She doesn't know about this latest threat, and telling her now would destroy any chance of her coxing effectively today.
"What do we do?" I ask.
