Page 100 of Racing Hearts

“Coach Crawford’s technical skills are as strong—in many cases stronger—than every other national team coach I’ve ever known. He’s up-to-date on the literature, not just in rowing and sports science, but in related fields. He applies the research to his programming with energy, enthusiasm, and excellent attention to detail.”

The phone starts shaking so hard that the words are blurring. But that was the easy part. The objective part. I take a breath and push forward, trying to keep my voice level.

“But it isn’t Coach Crawford’s hard skills that make him exceptional. It’s the soft skills where he truly shines. He’s passionate. He treats his athletes with kindness and respect. He understands individual needs intuitively and deeply. Then, instead of asking his athletes to change for him, he adapts himself to them. He knows when to push, when to ask, and when to cajole. He puts his athletes first, no matter how he’s feeling. Possibly to his own detriment.”

I hear Adrian take a shaky inhale, but I plow forward.

“I am undoubtedly a better athlete for having trained with him. He has made me a stronger and faster rower. He has made me a better person.

“I can only begin to imagine what he could accomplish at the service of USRowing. And so, it is in the strongest possible terms that I recommend him for this position.”

I stare at those final words for another long moment, afraid to raise my gaze. I can hear Adrian breathing, though. Deep, even breaths.

When I finally find the courage to look up, his eyes are still fixed on my screen, his thumb running laps over the calluses across his fingers. His expression, however, is unreadable. Lost in thoughts that I can’t see.

“I appreciate the recommendation,” he says with a voice that is carefully neutral.

My heart sinks.

“I didn’t—” My throat closes over the next words and I try again, unsteady. “Adrian, you are more capable than you think you are. You once told me I was extraordinary, that you wanted me to see myself like you see me. Well, I know you’re extraordinary, and I just wish you could see that, too. I wish you could see yourself like I see you.”

He inhales slowly, holds it. “I don’t think there’s anything left to say.”

He’s shutting down again, and I need to accept it. His future isn’t my concern, anyway. It never was.

I step back beyond the edge of the threshold, everything melting at the edges like it’s been doused in acid.

“Okay. Yeah. I guess not.” I try to find his eyes, but he’s staring resolutely at the door handle. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this couldn’t be more. I’m sorry I don’t have more to give.”

Before Adrian can answer—before I start to regret this enough that I change my mind—I turn. And I walk away.

Thirty-One

5 Days Until Pan Ams Final

Away from Adrian, time and space warp like I’m watching the world through a fun house mirror. My chest aches as I do squats in the airplane’s cramped bathroom. Tears well in my eyes as I get back on the water in Toronto and start my first of three days of acclimatization. Eggs turn to ash on my tongue in the morning before my heat.

Every moment that passes, I tell myself I’m forgetting his face a little more. The ripple of heat from his touch. The way electricity charged through my bones when he looked at me.

It’s just that every night, when I’m lying in bed willing myself to sleep, I can feel the flutter of his breath against my shoulder and the pressure of his arm against my chest.

Then the tears come storming back.

. . .

“You haven’t sent me that recommendation yet,” Carla says.

I’m midway out of her tent when her words bring my dragging feet to a stop.

We’ve just finished going over my race plan for the final. When the week began, I was petrified that the heartache would kill my performance. I was convinced the relationship—and the end of it—would make me lose. Yet, evidence is mounting to the contrary. On Thursday, I placed second in my heat, but only because the Canadian was racing in the lane next to me. Today, I won my repechage by more than a boat length, placing me squarely in final territory.

On Saturday, I’ll race in the final and, today, Carla and I talked strategy. Throughout our conversation, I went through the motions. Stroke rates, race plans, analyzing the tape from the Brazilian’s heat. It matters to me because I still desperately, unequivocally, want to go home. Yet in the wake of my loss, everything else has lost its sheen—the buzz of nerves and anticipation that normally fills my mind in the days leading up to a big race isn’t there.

Instead, I’m empty and aching.

I spin and face Carla full on. “I know. There’s a question I’m not sure how to answer.”

It’s the truth, but it’s also a lie. It’s true I don’t know how to describe Adrian’s interest in the job, now more than ever. But that’s not the reason the recommendation is still sitting in my email drafts. Every time I think about sending it, I hear Sofi’s voice in my mind.