Page 101 of Racing Hearts

How could you possibly be unbiased, Kath?

And yet. I can’t come clean. If I tell Carla about my relationship with Adrian, I’m almost certain I’ll lose her deal. That would mean I’d need to race tomorrow on my own merit. I’d have to beat both the Canadian and the Brazilian. I’d have to win.

“Which question?” Carla asks.

She’s staring at me intently, more intrigue in her expression than I’d have expected. Does that mean she already knows?

I wipe my sweaty palms against my spandex shorts, hoping she doesn’t see the truth in my eyes. I can barely say Adrian’s name without getting pummeled by sadness. “The one about his interest in the job.”

“And what’s the issue?”

I pause, heart thudding, considering how much to say. I don’t want to undermine Adrian’s chances, but I don’t think he’d want me to lie, either. I also don’t know how much he shared with me as his evaluator versus his confidant. I don’t know where the line is anymore.

“I’m not sure how much he wants it,” I say, trying to keep my explanation simple. “I asked and—his answer was complicated. I never got a straight response.”

Head tilted, Carla crosses her arms and taps an index finger against her elbow. “I think you should leave it blank, then.”

“Oh,” I say, stunned by the simplicity of that solution.

“You’ve filled out the rest?”

“Yes. It’s unequivocally positive. On every metric, Adrian is the most impressive coach I’ve ever worked with.”

It hurts to say. That doesn’t make it untrue.

“Present company excluded?” Carla asks.

Even as my mouth goes dry, I lift my chin, thrust my chest forward. Carla never shies away from telling us the truth and I know she’d expect no less from me. “Coach, I think he’s even better than you.”

She stares at me as my heart thuds against my rib cage so hard it’s almost painful. For a long moment we’re accompanied only by far-off sounds of the finish line announcer and the occasional roar of the crowd.

Then Carla’s lips crack in the slightest smile. “That’s just what I hoped you’d say.”

. . .

The final is tomorrow.

I still have an hour until my bedtime routine, which means I’m in the hotel’s restaurant, trying to shovel down a salad with chicken breast and sweet potatoes. Sofi is having her tried-and-true pre-race dinner of steak and potatoes. My lemon bar sits between our plates.

Since I arrived in Toronto, Sofi has been my only constant. When I got off the plane, she let me dissolve into tears in the crowded terminal, rubbing circles on my back as I sobbed. Despite our disagreement back in Berkeley, she steadfastly refused to let me spend the last dregs of my savings on my own hotel room and made me share her double. When I won my repechage with my cheeks streaked in tears, she pretended it was a perfectly valid emotional response to a victory.

She also, blessedly, hasn’t questioned me further on that recommendation. Despite my conversation with Carla, I still haven’t sent it. There’s only one reason for that now.

“How are you feeling?” I ask Sofi.

Like me, her final is tomorrow. Her eight is the three-time defending Pan American champion, which puts a whole different kind of pressure on her crew. Victory is expected. Anything less will be falling short.

She swallows a bite of potatoes, and sets down her fork, expression carefully neutral. “Good.”

“Sofi,” I say firmly. She’s been avoiding talking about herself all week, and I haven’t pushed her on it because I know she doesn’t like that. But at the same time, I don’t want her to hold back if she’s worried about affecting me. “You can lean on me, too. I can take it.”

Sofi turns her water glass in its ring and then takes a drink without looking at me. “Not now. Not when your problems are bigger than mine.”

“Yes, even now.” I reach across the table and grab hold of her forearm. “Maybe there will come a day that I will be so broken I can’t find a way to lift you up, but that’s not today. I’m here for you. And that’s my decision. Not yours.”

“Even if what I have to say could make everything even harder?”

“Even then.”