Interesting. Gray Lockwood, yielding to someone else's strategy. Our captain, who micromanages everything from our diets to our sleep schedules, deferring to a coxswain who's been here less than a week.
She's good. I'll give her that. Four days of practices and our split times are already down by three seconds. But it's more than technical skill that has every Alpha on this team watching her, whether they admit it or not.
It's her voice on the water, dropping into that resonance that bypasses thought and speaks directly to instinct. It's the way she commands without dominating, leads without forcing. It's something in her very presence that feels... right. Necessary.
I've never been particularly susceptible to Omega appeal. Unlike most Alphas, my preferences have always run toward my own designation – strong, direct, uncomplicated. Like Jackson, who never plays games or feigns weakness. What you see is what you get, however limited the view.
But watching Reese now, the way she holds her ground against Gray's intensity, I feel an unexpected pull. A curiosity that goes beyond analytical interest.
Gray gathers his notes, nodding once. "0500 tomorrow. Don't be late."
"When have I ever been late, Lockwood?" She begins packing up her things.
"There's always a first time."
She rolls her eyes, but there's something almost fond in the gesture. Another surprise. Our new coxswain is softening the glacier.
Gray leaves through the back door, heading for his private room in the annex. Captain's privilege. Reese continues organizing her materials, meticulous as always.
I step into the common room, making enough noise that she notices my approach. Her head snaps up, eyes instantly alert. Fight or flight response. Another tell.
"Stone." She acknowledges me with a nod.
"Long strategy session," I observe, moving to the kitchen for my water. "Gray must be impressed."
"Gray is..." She searches for the right word. "Exacting."
I laugh. "That's diplomatic. Most people go with 'obsessive' or 'dictatorial.'"
"He knows what he wants." She shrugs, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I respect that."
"And when what he wants conflicts with what you want?"
Her blue-green eyes meet mine directly. "Then I make him see why my way is better."
"Simple as that?"
"Nothing simple about it." She zips her bag closed. "But I don't back down just because an Alpha glares at me."
I lean against the counter, studying her. Up close, in the quiet of the nearly empty house, I notice details missed during practice. The faint scatter of freckles across her nose. The calluses on her palms from years of handling steering lines. The way she constantly scans the room, always aware of exits and entrances.
And still, no scent. Not even the clinical soap smell from earlier. As if she's reapplied whatever neutralizing agent she uses.
"I never asked," I say casually. "What made you choose Sable Ridge?"
She tenses almost imperceptibly. "The program speaks for itself."
"So does Westlake's women's team. National champions last year. Yet you left mid-season to cox for us." I take a sip of water. "Most people would call that a lateral move at best."
"Most people aren't trying to make the Olympic development program."
"And you think we're your ticket?"
"I know you are." She straightens, confidence unwavering. "Eight of the last twelve Olympic development rowers came from this program. You have the strongest coaching staff, the best facilities, and a legacy of excellence."
All true, but recited like a brochure. The question is what she's not saying.
"And it has nothing to do with the fact that women's teams tend to have more Omegas than men's?"
