Page 82 of Eight Count Heat
"Perhaps," Father continues, "we should discuss who had access to my daughter's private medical information and how they obtained it. I'm sure the Department of Education would be very interested in that conversation."
The officials exchange nervous glances. What started as a simple eligibility challenge has become a potential federal investigation into privacy violations.
"Given that Miss Callahan's documentation is clearly in order," the head official says carefully, "and given the... questionable... nature of the allegations, I see no reason to delay her participation in today's competition."
"Excellent," Father says, standing. "I trust this matter is closed?"
"Yes, sir. Miss Callahan is cleared to race."
As we exit the tent, I catch sight of Andrea and Kinsley near the Westlake area. Their expressions have shifted from smug satisfaction to horrified realization. Whatever game they thought they were playing just backfired spectacularly.
"Father," I begin as we walk toward my team's area.
"Not here," he says quietly. "We'll discuss this later."
But he doesn't remove his hand from my shoulder, and his protection feels genuine despite our disagreements about my future.
"Thank you," I say simply.
"You're my daughter," he replies. "No one attacks my family without consequences."
As we approach my team, I see eight worried faces turn toward us with relief and anticipation. Gray steps forward immediately, his steel eyes searching my face for answers.
"All clear," I announce. "Let's go race."
The cheer that goes up from my teammates drowns out everything else. In this moment, surrounded by people who value me for who I am and protected by a father who won't let anyone diminish his daughter, I feel invincible.
Time to prove just how hard it is to keep a Callahan down.
chapter TWENTY-THREE
Reese
"Hands on," I call, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "Ready to lift."
Our boat rises in perfect unison, eight pairs of hands supporting its weight as we prepare to launch for our qualifying heat. The dock bustles with activity, teams loading and unloading, coaches shouting last-minute instructions, officials checking equipment.
I spot Westlake's crew returning from their heat, faces flushed with satisfaction. That can only mean one thing: they qualified. We'll face them in finals if we advance.
Andrea catches my eye as they pass, her expression hardening. We were friends once, before I transferred, before everything fell apart. Now she looks at me like I'm the enemy. Beside her, Kinsley Adams mutters something that makes Andrea's smile turn sharp and predatory.
The grandstand is packed with families, and I catch sight of my parents in the front section. My father has put away his phone and is watching intently, while my mother sits rigidly upright, her expression unreadable behind designer sunglasses. The weight of their expectations settles on my shoulders, but there's something else now too: the knowledge that when it mattered, Father stood up for me.
Near the officials' dock, I notice three regatta officials conferring in low voices, occasionally glancing in our direction. One of them holds a clipboard that looks suspiciously like the documentation challenge from earlier. Father got me cleared to race, but they're still watching.
"Focus, Callahan," Gray murmurs from behind me, startling me back to the present.
I nod, turning my attention back to our team. "Walk it down."
We move as one unit toward the water, our rhythm practiced and certain. Despite the chaos around us, the nerves twisting in my stomach, this part feels right. Natural. The weight of the boat shared among eight bodies, the silent communication of movement and balance.
"Easy down," I direct as we reach the edge of the dock. "Starboard side in first."
The shell kisses the water with hardly a sound. One by one, the rowers take their positions, sliding into the narrow vessel with the ease of countless repetitions. I wait until everyone is settled before taking my own seat at the stern, hands immediately finding the rudder lines, feet bracing against the foot stretcher.
From my peripheral vision, I catch Andrea and Kinsley positioning themselves along the safety launch route, phones inhand. They're documenting something, waiting for me to falter in front of the cameras and crowds.
"Clear," I call, checking that our path away from the dock is unobstructed.
