When I return to the team house, sweaty and momentarily empty of thought, the first thing I see is Callahan's notebook onthe common room table. She must have left it after reviewing race footage with Gray.
I should leave it alone. Should respect privacy.
Instead, I find myself flipping through pages of precise handwriting. Technical notes on each rower. Course diagrams. Race strategies.
And tucked between the last pages, a small paper calendar marked with red X's. At the bottom of the page, a note:Order refills by 3/15. CRITICAL.
My stomach drops as the pieces click into place. The careful distance. The neutral scent. The watchful eyes.
I close the notebook, replacing it exactly as I found it.
So that's her secret. The one Eli suspects. The one I've been sensing but refusing to acknowledge.
Our new coxswain isn't a Beta.
She's an Omega on suppressants.
And if her calendar is accurate, she's going to run out in less than two weeks, right in the middle of our first competition of the season.
chapter EIGHT
Eli
The door slams asJackson leaves, the sound echoing through my room like a punctuation mark. Period. End of discussion. Typical Reed exit strategy when emotions get too complicated.
I stretch carefully, cataloging the pleasant ache of well-used muscles and the less pleasant awareness that we're circling some unspoken truth neither of us wants to acknowledge. Not just about us, but about our new coxswain.
The sheets beside me still hold Jackson's body heat. I trace the indentation with my fingers, mind calculating the variables of our situation with the same precision I bring to race strategy.
Three years of whatever this is. Three years of "just blowing off steam" and "helping each other out." Three years of pretending it's nothing more than convenience between teammates.
And now Reese Callahan arrives, upending the careful equilibrium we've established.
I push myself up, wincing slightly at the soreness. Jackson was rougher than usual tonight, but I'm not complaining. I like him that way. Intense, focused, letting his guard down in the only way he knows how.
The shower beckons, and I spend longer than necessary under the hot spray, allowing myself the luxury of not thinking for once. Not analyzing. Not strategizing. Just feeling the water pour over tired muscles.
When I step out, towel around my waist, I check my phone. A text from Tyler about tomorrow's quiz in Advanced Statistical Methods. Nothing from Jackson, not that I expected anything. He'll return from his run, slip into his room without a word, and tomorrow we'll be teammates again. Nothing more, nothing less.
It's a pattern as predictable as the stroke rate Gray sets in the boat.
I dress and head downstairs for water, pausing at the foot of the stairs when I hear voices from the common room. Gray and Reese, still reviewing race footage. Their heads are bent close together over her tablet, both focused with that singular intensity they share.
"You need to call it earlier," Gray is saying. "Here, at the thousand meter mark. We're losing ground on the turn."
Reese shakes her head. "If I call the power ten too soon, you'll burn out before the final push. Look at your heart rates from the last race."
I hang back, watching them. From this angle, their profiles are sharply defined in the lamp light, Gray's hard angles and rigidposture, Reese’s smaller but equally uncompromising form. Two alphas in a standoff, except she's supposed to be a Beta.
I've had my suspicions from day one. The way she holds herself, always aware of exits and escape routes. The careful distance she maintains. The complete lack of scent, which isn't just unusual, it's a red flag.
Beta females have subtle scents, noticeable up close. Reese smells like nothing. Clinically,deliberatelynothing.
"Fine," Gray concedes. "We'll try it your way in tomorrow's practice."
Reese's satisfied smile is brief but genuine. "You won't regret it."
"I better not." But there's no real bite in his tone.
