Fly grinned. “Looking forward to it.”
Jessica flashed him one last heated look before jogging to catch up with her friend, who shot her an envious glance that wasn’t subtle at all.
Fly kept walking, amused. Attention came easy. Always had. But it didn’t touch him the way it once did. Not the way the quiet bond with Mei and Than did.
Closer to the sailing center, a group from the offshore team lounged by the rigging crates. One of them cupped his hands to his mouth.
“Gallagher! Tell me you’re not steering Valor tomorrow. I like winning.”
Fly shot him a look over his shoulder. “You should’ve picked a safer boat.”
The group groaned dramatically while one shouted, “Cocky bastard!”
Fly grinned. “Truth hurts.”
A secondie, slang for a second-class midshipman, leaned out of the shed door. “Hey, Gallagher! Heard you aced Silverman’s final. We lighting candles for you or for the rest of us who didn’t?”
Fly shrugged. “Careful. She might just materialize. The One Who Shall Not Be Named.”
That earned a chorus of laughter.
The interactions rolled around him effortlessly, waves of warmth, ribbing, familiarity. He loved it, but more than that, more than anything, made the path to the waterfront feel like home.
He spotted Lieutenant Carson James Hollis standing near the whiteboard outside the sailing shed, arms folded, sunglasses perched on his head. He was in khakis, too, but somehow looked like he’d tried a little too hard, posture just a shade too confident, smile a touch too practiced as he spoke to two juniors.
Fly paused. Nothing obvious. Nothing he could point to. But something about Hollis’s energy rubbed wrong, like a strong current just beneath calm water.
When the juniors cleared out, Fly approached.
“Sir,” he said, respectful but steady.
Hollis turned, smile tightening a fraction. “Gallagher. You’re early.”
“Wanted to go over the course together before we brief the crew,” Fly said.
Hollis lifted one brow, amused. “Of course you did.”
Fly ignored the tone. “I reviewed the projected wind shifts. Looks like a south-to-southeast drift by mid-race. Harvard’s going to want that early push at mark one.”
A flicker crossed Hollis’s face. Respect? Irritation? Hard to tell.
“You’re not wrong,” Hollis admitted. “Their skipper’s aggressive. Likes to force unprepared boats into bad tacks.”
Fly nodded. “Wouldn’t mind knowing who we’re up against instructor-wise, too. Just so I know the coaching style on their side. Last name’s Hollis, too.” Hollis’s jaw ticked. “Sir,” he added lightly, “Any relation?” He already suspected the answer, but the pause confirmed it.
Hollis’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Older brother,” he said shortly.
Fly absorbed that. “Didn’t mean to step on anything, sir.”
“No stepping.” Hollis waved it off, but the tightness in his tone sharpened. “He’s always been that way. Naturally gifted. Things just come easier for some people.” Hollis gave him a bitter look, his words like cuts of a too-familiar blade. “You know all about that, don’t you, Gallagher?” He shrugged like it didn’t matter
Fly felt the familiar sting anyway. He knew that tone. He’d heard it his whole life, as if Fly’s intelligence meant nothing cost him, as if success came easy. It never had.
There were some who resented him, and he couldn’t help that. He’d never take the easy way out and the people like him challenged him every day, the determined students, the exceptional instructors pushed him, demanded things from him, he had never known he was capable of giving.
Worth was for others who needed it. The trials, the bruises, the late nights were not about simple pride or proving anything to anyone. They gave him what he had always been searching for. Meaning. Purpose. A place to serve. A chance to be part of something larger than himself.
He kept his voice even. “Maybe he feels people judge him by their standards and not the ones he holds for himself. Maybe it’s about finally being challenged and living up to that potential instead of coasting…sir.”
