Page 72 of False Catch

But as we paddle toward the starting line, I can feel it—the disconnection. Nine bodies moving through the same motions without any of the synchronization that makes a boat fly. We're just going through the mechanics, missing the thing that made us dangerous.

The thing that made us a pack.

"Two minutes to start," the official announces.

Gray rolls his shoulders, that pre-race ritual I've watched a hundred times. But there's something different about it now. Less preparation, more resignation. Like he's already accepted we're going to lose.

Maybe Jackson is right. Maybe we do need new leadership.

Or maybe we just need our captain to remember why he started fighting for this team in the first place.

"Northshore's stroke is watching us," Eli observes. "Thinks we're weak."

"Prove him wrong," Reese says simply.

But as we line up at the start, I wonder if we can. Wonder if we're too fractured to find our way back to what we were. Wonder if Jackson's claim changed us too fundamentally to recover.

The official raises his flag.

"Attention... Row!"

We explode off the line, eight oars hitting the water in something approaching unison. For a few strokes, muscle memory takes over. We're not perfect, but we're moving.

Then reality sets in.

Something's rushing the slide, pushing the pace like he's trying to prove something. Gray's trying to control it from stroke seat, but without his usual authority. The middle four is just trying to survive, and I'm in bow watching it all fall apart stroke by stroke.

"Stabilize!" Reese calls out, voice cutting through the chaos. "Breathe together! Move together!"

But we can't. Because breathing together means trusting each other, and that trust is gone. We're eight individuals who happen to be holding oars, not a crew.

Northshore starts pulling away at the 250-meter mark.

Bayside follows at 300.

By the time we hit the 500, we're half a length behind and falling apart with every stroke.

And we still have 1500 meters left to completely destroy ourselves.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Reese

"Way enough!"

My voice cracks on the command, throat raw from ninety seconds of screaming us across the finish line. We drift past the markers, eight chests heaving, nobody celebrating. Third place. By two feet. The narrowest qualifying margin in Sable Ridge history.

"Oars across," I manage, though it comes out as more of a rasp.

They comply in ragged sequence—Cameron first, then Tyler, the others following without their usual crisp precision. Gray's oar comes across last, and he won't look at me. Hasn't looked at me once during the entire race.

Northshore's crew glides past us toward the dock, their stroke calling out, "Better luck next time, Sable Ridge." The condescension in his voice makes my hands clench around the rudder strings.

"Ignore him," Bo says quietly from seven seat, but even his usual protective energy feels muted.

We paddle toward the dock in silence. No one's asking about our time or split comparisons. No one's analyzing what went wrong. We all know what went wrong—we're nine individuals sharing a boat, not a crew. The only reason we qualified at all was a desperate final sprint where I screamed myself hoarse and they responded on pure muscle memory.

"Hold water," I call as we approach. My voice barely carries three feet.