Now that's interesting. I glance at Reese, who's standing slightly apart from the group, checking something on her phone. She's been quiet this morning, quieter than usual, which is saying something. The past few days have taken their toll—shadows under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide, a careful way of holding herself like she's bracing for the next crisis.
"Strickland and Wu in the back row," Gray continues. "Reed and Blake in the second. Stone, you're up front with me."
Eli accepts this with a nod, but I catch the quick look he exchanges with Jackson. Something's been off between those two all week, tension crackling whenever they're in the same room. Add it to the growing list of weird team dynamics lately.
"Hollis, you're with me and Stone up front," Gray adds, and I realize he's splitting up potential chaos-makers while keeping protective eyes on our coxswain.
Coach Bennett slams the equipment compartment shut and climbs into the driver's seat. "Everyone on board. We're on a schedule here."
I grab my duffel and the cooler bag I packed with snacks—because unlike some of these animals, I actually plan ahead for long trips. As I pass Reese, I notice her struggling slightly with her equipment bag.
"Need a hand, Cox?" I offer.
"I've got it," she says, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.
"Course you do. But let me help anyway." I take the bag with an easy smile. "Team bonding and all that."
She looks like she wants to argue, then just nods. "Thanks, Zane."
The use of my first name instead of "Hollis" hits differently than it should. Most of the team still goes by last names, the formal distance that competitive athletics demands. But lately, the barriers have been shifting.
Assistant Coach Wilder appears beside us with her clipboard, checking off the team roster. "Bus leaves in two minutes. Everyone accounted for?"
I do a quick headcount as the team files aboard. Eight rowers, one coxswain, two coaches. Plus enough nervous energy to power the entire trip.
The team settles according to Gray's master plan. I slide into the front seat next to Eli, who immediately pulls out his tablet to review race footage. Behind us, Jackson and Cameron occupy the middle row—the two quietest guys on the team, practically guaranteed to spend the entire journey in contemplative silence. In the back, Bo settles in with Tyler, already discussing optimal stroke rates for tomorrow's conditions.
Which leaves Beckett and Reese in the third row. I can see them in the rearview mirror as Coach Bennett starts the engine, Beckett immediately launching into what's probably his most charming conversational mode.
"Three hours of this," Eli mutters, nodding toward Gray, who's already pulled out his own tablet. "He's going to micromanage our hydration levels."
"Could be worse," I point out. "Remember last year when he made us practice visualization exercises for the entire drive?"
"The meditation thing?" Eli shudders. "Jackson nearly strangled him."
The bus pulls away from campus, rain still falling steadily as it has been for days. It's been a wet week leading up to Riverside, and the weather doesn't look like it's cooperating for tomorrow either. Too bad I can't shake the feeling that we're driving toward some kind of storm—and not just the meteorological kind.
An hour into the drive, I hear Beckett offering Reese a shoulder massage. I glance back to see her considering it with the wariness of someone who's had too many surprises lately.
"Professional services only," Beckett adds with exaggerated innocence. "Ask anyone—I'm practically licensed."
"That's a terrifying thought," she replies, but there's humor in her voice.
Watching them interact is like observing a careful dance. Beckett deploys his considerable charm while respecting her boundaries, and Reese gradually relaxes under his genuinely skilled hands. It's sweet, actually, seeing her guard come down even slightly.
"Think she's okay?" I ask Eli quietly.
He glances back, then returns to his tablet. "Define okay. Physically? Probably. Emotionally? That's above my pay grade."
Sometimes Eli's analytical detachment is helpful. Sometimes it makes me want to force-feed him empathy lessons.
Two hours in, we stop at a rest area to stretch our legs. I watch the team dynamics shift as we exit the bus—Gray immediately positioning himself near Reese, Bo flanking her other side, therest of us forming a loose protective circle without any conscious coordination.
"You guys look like a Secret Service detail," Coach Wilder observes dryly.
"Just good teammates," Gray replies, but his eyes are constantly scanning the area.
During the stop, I notice Reese checking her phone repeatedly, her expression growing more tense with each message.
