"Push off."
Bo and Tyler extend their arms, leveraging us away from the dock in one smooth motion. The boat drifts into open water, and I feel a familiar calm settle over me despite everything else happening in my body.
The water is different today, choppier than during our practice run, a light wind creating small ripples across the surface. Clouds build on the horizon, promising the rain forecasted for later. We'll need to adjust our strategy accordingly.
"Let's take it up, half-slide warm-up," I direct, my cox voice dropping into its commanding tonality. "Ready all—row."
The boat surges forward as eight oars catch water simultaneously. We fall into rhythm easily, the shell cutting through the water as we make our way toward the starting line. I scan the course ahead, making mental notes of current patterns, wind direction, potential obstacles.
Officials signal us toward our lane. The stands are filling with spectators, creating a blur of color and noise that I filter out. Nothing exists outside this boat, these eight men, the water beneath us.
Through the officials' launch, I spot the same three regatta officials from earlier, now equipped with binoculars trained on our boat. One speaks into a radio, undoubtedly reporting our approach.
"Looking good, gentlemen," I say, keeping my tone calm but confident. "Remember, strong start, maintain rhythm through the crosscurrent, power through the turn. This is our race to win."
Gray sets a perfect warm-up pace from stroke position, his form impeccable as always. Behind him, the team follows his lead, a living machine of synchronized power. Whatever tensions exist between them on land disappear on the water.
My hand trembles slightly on the rudder line. Not from nerves, but from the suppressant wearing off faster than it should. Tyler calculated I'd have coverage through the afternoon, but my body is burning through the medication more rapidly than expected. The proximity to so many unbonded Alphas, the stress of competition, the confrontation with Westlake: all accelerating the process.
I shake off the stress. One race at a time. Get through qualifiers, worry about finals later.
The officials' launch approaches. "Two minutes to start positions," the judge announces through a megaphone.
"Let it run," I command, and the rowers lift their oars from the water, allowing the boat to glide toward the starting blocks. "Bow pair, check your point."
Cameron and Eli make small adjustments, perfectly positioning us within our lane. The other crews move into position around us. Bayside to our right, Harborview to our left. All business now, all focus.
I feel, more than see, Gray's energy shift, that controlled intensity that makes him such an effective stroke. The rest of the crew feeds off it, a collective sharpening of focus rippling through the boat.
Along the shoreline, I catch movement from the Westlake area. Andrea and Kinsley have positioned themselves with a clear view of our lane, phones ready to capture whatever they hope will be my public breakdown. Like two sharks sensing a distressed seal. Waiting to make a meal out of my floundering.
"Stern four, back it down," I direct, guiding us toward the starting platform. "Easy... easy... hold."
The boat settles perfectly into position. A race official steps onto the platform, megaphone in hand.
"Crews, attach to the starting blocks."
Cameron reaches forward, securing our bow to the starting mechanism. Across all five lanes, other crews do the same.
"Final adjustments," the official announces. "Lock on in ten seconds."
I check our position one last time. Perfect alignment. In my peripheral vision, the monitoring officials position themselves with optimal viewing angles, their attention focused entirely on our boat.
The officials raise the flag.
"Attention."
The boat goes absolutely still, eight bodies poised like coiled springs, waiting for the signal. My heart pounds in my chest, but my voice will be steady when I need it. It always is. At least I can say that much.
The horn blasts, sharp and sudden.
"Row!"
Eight oars bite into the water simultaneously. The boat leaps forward, breaking from the starting blocks with explosivepower. All the months of training, all the early mornings, all the pain and sacrifice, channeled into this perfect moment of synchronized strength.
"Power ten in two," I call. "One, two – drive!"
They respond instantly, legs pushing, backs swinging, arms pulling in perfect harmony. The boat surges forward, accelerating through the crucial opening strokes.
