Page 76 of False Catch

Even if it destroys us.

Because the alternative—this slow dissolution, this painful fracture—is destroying us anyway. At least if we try, if we leap, we might discover we can fly.

Or we might just prove everyone right and crash completely.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Reese

Tuesday afternoon practice feels like watching a slow-motion car crash. We're marginally better than this morning's complete disaster, but that's like saying a broken leg is better than a severed limb.

"And... let it run," I call through the cox box as we finish our final sprint, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice.

Eight oars drop to the water, but Eli catches a crab on the finish, sending spray across the boat. The shell lurches to port before Gray can correct with his steering.

"Fuck," Eli mutters, hauling his blade clear.

The word hangs in the air, summing up exactly how we all feel.

"Easy?" Bo pants from seven-seat, but there's nothing easy about the way Tyler's shoulders are locked with tension or how Jackson's stroke is consistently half a beat behind the rhythm.

Tyler checks his SpeedCoach and grimaces. "Six-twenty-eight for the five hundred. That's... not good."

"Statistically embarrassing," Eli corrects flatly. "The novice eight split faster than that yesterday."

Gray's jaw works like he's chewing glass. "We need to figure this out."

Coach Torres makes notes from the launch, her expression unreadable behind sunglasses. She's been taking a lot of notes this afternoon. Too many notes. Which either means we're worse than I thought or she's building a case against us for the administration.

"Take us back," I say, trying to keep the defeat out of my voice. "Easy pressure, rate eighteen."

The paddle back to the dock is tense, quiet. I can hear fragments of whispered conversations. Bo and Beckett discussing whether the timing issues are technical or biological. Tyler muttering calculations about split times and championship qualifying standards. Jackson and Cameron maintaining their usual silence, but it feels more strained than meditative.

Normal crew dysfunction, except it's not normal at all. Every mistimed stroke, every moment of lost synchronization, feels like evidence of something deeper breaking down.

The instincts we're all fighting are making everything harder. Instead of moving like one organism, we're nine separate entities trying to coordinate while our bodies pull us in different directions.

After we rack the boat and complete our usual post-practice routine, the atmosphere remains strained. The guys cluster in their usual protective formation, but there's an edge to it now. Gray stands apart, arms crossed, radiating frustration. Jackson lingers near the equipment, yanking each rope coil tighter than necessary while keeping me in his peripheral vision.

Torres approaches, and the tension ratchets up another notch. Eight pairs of eyes track her movement, but it's wary vigilance rather than confident protection.

"Callahan, a word?"

The protective response flares immediately. Bo takes a half-step forward, Gray's posture shifts into something more aggressive, and even Tyler looks up from coiling ropes.

"I've got this," I tell them, trying to project confidence I don't feel.

Torres waits until we're out of earshot, walking toward the equipment shed where the late afternoon shadows provide privacy. Her pace is unhurried, but there's purpose in her stride. She's here to observe and report, not to coach us.

"Concerning day," she observes, leaning against the shed's wooden siding.

"How so?"

"This morning your crew rowed like strangers. This afternoon they rowed like strangers who actively dislike each other." She removes her sunglasses, revealing sharp brown eyes that seem to catalog every failure. "At this rate, you'll be lucky to qualify for conferences."

I choose my words carefully. "Sometimes it takes time to find rhythm as a unit."

"Unit." She repeats the word like she's tasting something sour. "That's a generous description for what I observed today."