Page 6 of False Catch

“Fine.” I grab my water bottle from my bag. “Let’s go.”

But as we move toward the dock, I catch Bo watching us with something that might be pity. Jackson won’t meet my eyes at all. Even Zane’s usual energy is muted, like someone died.

Maybe something did.

The boat feels different as we carry it to the water. Heavier. Like we’re all thinking too hard about where to put our hands, how close to stand, what’s appropriate between teammates who aren’t supposed to want each other.

“Hands on,” Reese calls as we reach the dock.

We flip the shell and set it in the water with the kind of careful precision that comes from years of working together. Except today, it feels forced. Mechanical.

“Good,” she says, but her voice is flat. Professional. “Load up.”

I settle into the stroke seat, adjusting my foot stretchers while deliberately not looking up. Because I know what I’ll see. Reese, directly in front of me, close enough that I could reach out and touch her if I extended my arm. Close enough that I’ll spend the entire practice staring at her whether I want to or not.

That’s the curse of stroke seat. You face the coxswain for every single stroke, every single meter, every single practice. No escape. No reprieve. Just her, right there, commanding you while you try not to think about how she commanded you three nights ago in an entirely different way.

Behind me, the boat rocks as the others get situated. Bo’s massive frame in seven. Beckett joking with Tyler in six and five, but the humor sounds hollow. Zane trying to lighten the mood from four and failing. Eli’s careful movements in three, Jackson’s tense silence in two, Cameron’s ghost-like presence in bow.

Eight guys who used to function like a machine. Now we can barely look at each other.

Except I have to look at her. That’s my job.

“Ready all,” Reese announces from her seat.

I finally lift my eyes, and fuck, she’s right there. Less than three feet away, those blue-green eyes deliberately focused on her cox box, on the water beyond me, on anything but my face. But she has to look at me, eventually. Has to watch my stroke rate, my form, my timing. That’s her job.

“Row.”

We push off from the dock, oars finding water with varying degrees of success. I stare past her left shoulder, fixing my gaze on the tree line behind her, trying to find a focal point that isn’t her face. But peripheral vision is a bitch, and I can see every micro-expression, every shift of her weight, every time she bites her lower lip in frustration.

“Set the boat,” Reese calls, and now she has to look at me, checking my blade height, my body position. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before she jerks her gaze away.

But that fraction is enough. I see the flash of hurt she’s trying to hide. The exhaustion from fighting her own instincts. The same rage I’m carrying, directed inward.

“Rate twenty for ten strokes,” she announces, voice carefully neutral. “Building pressure each pair.”

I set the stroke, long and controlled, keeping my eyes locked on a point just above her head. Behind me, I can feel the boat struggling to find rhythm. We’re all fighting ourselves, fighting each other, fighting the very thing that usually makes us strong.

“That’s not together,” Reese snaps, and now she’s looking directly at me because she has to, because she needs to read my face to understand what’s wrong with the boat. “Bow four, you’re early on the catch. Stern four, you’re muscling the finish.”

Her eyes bore into mine as she says it, and I can’t look away. Can’t pretend I don’t see the accusation there. *You’re the stroke. Fix this.*

“Take it from the top,” she says, still holding my gaze. Professional. Distant. Like she didn’t sob my name into my shoulder when she came. “Rate twenty, building by pairs. And this time, listen to stroke seat.”

The irony burns. Listen to me. Follow me. Like she did three nights ago when I commanded her to get on her knees. Like she did when I told her exactly how I was going to take her.

We try again. I force myself to focus on technique, on the mechanical perfection of the stroke. Legs, body, arms. Arms, body, legs. Don’t think about her watching every movement. Don’t think about how her pupils dilate slightly when she catches me looking back.

Still sloppy. The boat rocks as someone rushes their slide. Someone else misses water entirely.

“Stop.”

We sit up, oars squared and resting on the water. Now she’s glaring at me openly, no longer pretending to look elsewhere. The silence stretches between us like a live wire.

“What the hell is wrong with you people?” she asks, but she’s looking at me when she says it.

Nobody answers. I hold her stare, refusing to be the first to look away.