Page 133 of False Catch

Five hundred meters in, we're moving through Northridge. The connection in the boat is unlike anything I've felt before. It's more than technical perfection. It's eight Alphas rowing for their Omega, and everyone can feel it.

"Moving on Northridge, two seats up!"

Gray's stroke rate is metronomic, perfect. Behind him, Bo powers through each stroke with controlled intensity. Jackson's form is flawless, Eli's timing precise. Tyler's calculating our split times in his head, I know, while Cameron keeps us balanced with subtle adjustments.

"Thousand meters! Open water on the field!"

We're flying. The boat sings through the water, that distinctive sound when everything is perfectly balanced. This is what we're capable of when we stop fighting ourselves.

"Five hundred to go! They're coming back, but they can't catch you. This is ours!"

Hampton Hills makes a move, their stroke rate jumping. Northridge responds. But we don't panic. We trust each other, trust the rhythm, trust what we've built.

"Final twenty! Everything you have! For Sable Ridge!"

They empty the tank. Eight bodies moving as one, pulling with everything they have left. The finish line rushes toward us, and I'm screaming into the cox box.

"Ten more! Drive! Drive! DRIVE!"

We cross the line a full boat length ahead.

The official time comes over the announcer: "Lane four, Sable Ridge University, six minutes, eighteen seconds. A new course record!"

The boat erupts. Oars slap the water in celebration. Zane actually whoops. Even Jackson is grinning. We didn't just win. We demolished the competition and set a record doing it.

"Holy shit," Beckett gasps between breaths. "We actually did it."

"Paddle it in," I manage to say, though I'm grinning so hard my face hurts. "Nice and easy."

We row back to the dock where Coach Bennett waits, and for the first time in weeks, he's actually smiling.

"That," he says as we approach, "is what you're capable of when you row as a unit."

The dock is chaos. Other teams are launching for later races, but everyone stops to watch us. We just shattered a course record that's stood for eight years. As a mixed-designation crew under investigation. While preparing to form an eight-way pack bond.

We've made our statement.

As we lift the boat from the water, careful hands steadying the shell, I catch Gray's eye. He nods once, a silent acknowledgment. We're really doing this. All of it.

"Next race in two hours," Coach Bennett announces. "Rest, hydrate, stay warm."

The morning flies by in a blur of hard-fought races. We win the open eight by half a length after a brutal sprint. Take the championship eight by three seats in a race that has us all gasping. By the time we line up for the final race of the day - the grand final that determines the overall regatta winner - we're undefeated but exhausted.

"Last one," I tell them as we settle into the starting blocks. "Win this and we've swept the regatta."

"When we win this," Gray corrects.

The final is our best race yet. We win by a length and a half, pulling away in the last 500 meters when the other crews have nothing left. The announcer can barely contain his excitement as he calls our time - just two seconds off the course record, remarkable given how many races we've already rowed today.

Back at the dock after our victory lap, the team is electric with energy.

"Reese!" Zane calls out, and before I can respond, eight sets of hands grab me.

"No!" I shriek, but I'm laughing. "Don't you dare—"

They toss me into the lake.

The water is freezing, but I come up laughing, pushing wet hair from my face. It's tradition—cox gets thrown in after winning the whole regatta. They're treating me like I belong. Like I'm really theirs.