Page 79 of False Catch

Go to Reese's dorm. Pack her a bag. Clothes for two days, toiletries, whatever. Leave it in my truck.

Three dots appear and disappear several times before: on it

"Where's she going?" Tyler asks, because of course he's been reading over my shoulder.

"Away from here."

"Gray won't—"

"Gray's not in charge right now." The words come out harder than I've said anything to Tyler in three years. "He lost that privilege when he started tearing the team apart."

Tyler's eyebrows rise but he doesn't argue. We both watched Gray nearly come to blows with Jackson again at practice. Watched him bark orders that made no sense, push us through drills we couldn't complete, refuse to acknowledge that we're falling apart.

Two weeks. Torres gave us two weeks to fix this before she recommends suspension. We've burned through two days acting like children.

I walk down the dock to where Reese sits. Her voice is completely shot from trying to cox us through the disaster. She barely managed the last few commands.

"Get up," I tell her.

She looks up, surprised at my tone. "What?"

"You heard me. Get up. We're leaving."

"Bo, I have to—"

"No." I reach down and haul her to her feet. She weighs nothing, this tiny thing who somehow holds eight Alpha rowers together. "You don't have to do anything except come with me."

"Where?"

"Does it matter?"

She studies my face, sees something there that makes her stop arguing. "Let me get my bag."

"Already handled."

"How—" She stops, a ghost of a smile crossing her face. "Zane or Beckett?"

"Zane."

I guide her to my truck with a hand on her lower back. Not asking permission, not giving her space to overthink. Someone needs to take control of this situation, and apparently that someone is me.

"You're different," she observes as I open the passenger door.

"I'm done watching this team destroy itself. And I'm done watching you kill yourself trying to hold us together."

She climbs in without further protest. Progress.

I drive us away from campus in silence, letting her decompress. She's been running on fumes for days. Dark circles under her eyes, shoulders locked with tension, that careful control fraying at the edges. The Thursday afternoon practice was just the final straw.

Twenty minutes out, I pull into a grocery store.

"Stay here," I tell her.

"Bo—"

"Stay."

She blinks at the command but settles back in her seat.