Shamrock felt the pang low in his chest. He knew the lifeguard. The Academy grad. The brother who’d walked through fire for them. This surfer? That was something else. Something Surf understood better than he ever had. Fucking Gallagher.
The memory hit him hard then. The storm. The panic in Fly's eyes when the waves turned on him. The sheer, stupid luck that Shamrock had been close enough to grab him. "He's a god in the water," he said quietly. "I agree." He shook his head, trying to dislodge the image. "I pulled him out of the water four years ago, right here. He got caught in a storm and cost us the win in the Paddle Around the World."
His chest tightened a little. That day was such a blur with the exhaustion of Hell Week, but what was crystal clear was how Flynn Gallagher burst into his life, and Shamrock truly found the kind of friend few get to have. BUD/S was tough, no doubt, but operating was the fuel that ignited Shamrock with turbo power. The brotherhood was something he hadn't expected when he'd joined, when he'd suffered through BUD/S. Maybe he'd been looking for a less stressful, less dysfunctional family, and fuck, he found it.
Easy shifted his hips in the swivel chair and slid forward. "I thought there was something there. You're treating him like any other tadpole."
Shamrock nodded, forcing the instructor persona back into place. It was a mask that felt heavier every day. "Damn, straight, lad. If they're not brotherhood material, they go. Him included." He had to believe that. For Fly's sake, and for his own. Friendship was a liability here. He had to burn it out of himself.
"What about his shadow?" Surf asked.
"Locklear is no one's shadow," Easy said firmly, his shoulders tightening. "That guy. He's the real deal."
Shamrock stayed silent. Easy was right. Than wasn't a shadow. He was the anchor. The only question was what happened when the current turned hard enough to test it.
Concrete finally looked up, the grin gone. “Then keep pushing both of them. Hard.” He tapped the table once. “Let’s see who they are when the ocean and the grinder agree.”
Shamrock nodded, the weight settling back into place.
The IBS felt light under them, a good sign. Fly sat in the front, his eyes studying the water fifty yards out. He was reading the sets, timing the intervals, feeling the shift in the swell before it even formed. The ocean was speaking to him, a language he’d learned before he could walk. His boat crew, Vance, Miller, Chen, O’Malley, and Reyes, felt the tension in his posture and waited. They didn’t talk. They’d learned fast that Fly’s silence meant he was working. A cold wind cut across the water, making the wet fabric of their PT gear cling like a second skin.
“Big set coming,” Fly said, his voice crisp and low. “Three waves. We’re going under the first, over the second. Paddles deep. Vance, you’re high. O’Malley, you’re low.”
“You keeping us guessing on the third, sir?” Reyes asked.
Fly chuckled. “Wouldn’t want any spoilers ruining our fun,” Fly responded.
The wave tried to fake him out, curling a little as if it was going to break, but Fly waited.
“Sir?” Miller shouted.
“Steady!” He watched the tricky bastard, feeling the draw as the wave grew. If they had surged into the beginning of the crest, it would have been a wipe-out. His whole body tingled as if the water was testing him. “Now!”
The crew adjusted instantly, their bodies shifting to balance the boat. Fly didn’t look back to see if they’d complied. He knew they had. He dug his paddle in, the pull clean and powerful, setting a pace that was aggressive but sustainable. The first wave loomed, a wall of dark green. “Down!” he yelled. They flattened themselves against the floor of the boat, letting the wave crash over them, the IBS bucking like a wild thing. Icy water sluiced over them, a brutal shock that stole their breath, but the boat stayed upright. They came up sputtering, shivering as the wind hit their soaked bodies.
“Up!” Fly commanded. They were back on their paddles before the foam had even cleared, driving hard toward the second wave. This was the one. “Up and over! Full power!” Fly shouted. He timed his stroke perfectly, pulling hard as the boat hit the face of the wave, driving them up and over the crest. They landed in the trough on the other side, clean and fast, spray flying into their faces, already pulling away from the other boats that had been crushed by the set.
“Up,” he shouted for the third wave, and with the same teamwork, they cleared, spun the boat, and headed back to shore.
They won the race by half a boat length, a clean victory that felt effortless. They hit the beach, dragging the IBS up the sand, chests heaving, their bodies trembling from the cold and exertion, but faces set with the satisfaction of a job well done.
Surf was waiting for them, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “Sloppy, Gallagher. You’re relieved. Coates, you’re up.”
The five guys all exchanged glances, some narrowing their eyes, others frowning. One swore under his breath. Coates, a quiet but competent candidate, stepped forward, looking confused, the only survivor of the bell when his whole crew rang out.
Fly just said, “Yes, Instructor Surf.” He moved into the back of the IBS without a word of protest, keeping his face a mask of calm. Coates took the front.
As his knees hit the sandy floor of the boat, the cold water a familiar shock, his mind was already working. Sloppy? The word echoed, sharp and out of place. He replayed the last race in his head, every paddle stroke, every command, every correction. He was able to recall every detail. His crew’s performance had been clean. Fast. Efficient. They’d dominated. Sloppy didn’t compute.
He settled into the rear position, his hands gripping the gunwale, the muscles in his back tensing not with anger, but with cold, sharp focus. They wanted to see what he’d do when stripped of his authority. When had he ever needed permission to speak his mind in any situation? He always did things on his terms. The challenge was real, and he was already three moves ahead.
They ran into the surf at the start of the next race, the IBS feeling heavier now, more awkward. The cold was a deep, gnawing ache by now, their muscles screaming. Fly contained his internal dissection of how he had performed.
“Surf doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Miller panted, his paddle digging into the water. “We won.”
“What the hell was that?” Vance grunted, his teeth chattering.
Fly just said, “Focus. Those waves are going to come fast.” He was already reading the water, and Coates was struggling. The new skipper was strong but hesitant, his commands coming a second too late, his adjustments reactive instead of proactive.
