Page 19 of Racing Hearts

“That’s not new for you.”

“Yeah.” With a sigh, I add, “I took a chance on Maxwell. We see how well that worked out.”

“You must have seen something in him.”

She says it like she agrees with Sofi—like she’s not quite sure why I dated him in the first place. She met Maxwell only once, at a race in Oakland. We got dinner afterward—at a dim sum restaurant Mom suggested—and Maxwell spent about a half hour deliberating over which orders would meet his precise dietary specifications. At the time, even though I knew Mom was a bit annoyed, I took it as evidence of how well we were going to work for each other.

The truth is that kind of behavior, as cringeworthy as it was to other people, was the reason I dated him in the first place. It wasn’t that I had particularly deep feelings for him. He was never the one I wanted to talk to after a tough race—that’s always been Sofi—or the one who pushed me to find my secret reserves of strength—that’s Carla.

He did, however, want to talk about rowing all the time. He never flinched when I customized my orders at restaurants. He was always up to compare notes on journal articles and go over training logs to find patterns and better methods for recovery.

“I thought he was the right match for me,” I say finally.

“How so?”

“Well, you know how Dad was about your dancing career?”

She half laughs, half snorts. “Of course.”

“Right. Well, Maxwell was the opposite. We shared the same ambitions. He was just as invested in my success as he was in his own.”

“You need someone who supports you.”

“But he did,” I say. “And it still didn’t work.”

“No, not like that. Not someone invested in your success. You need someone who can fill in your gaps. Someone to pick you up when you fall.”

I shake my head. Like I told Carla, the breakup wasn’t the only problem. It was the relationship, too. If I hadn’t ceded so much control over my emotional state to Maxwell, my performance wouldn’t have derailed. I’d be in the training center right now, probably drinking a specialty smoothie in the dining hall and laughing at something Sofi said. Not here, trying to clear my mom’s kitchen of holiday decorations, further from my dreams than I’ve been in years.

My phone buzzes. I fish it out and swipe open an email from Adrian.

You need a few days off, at least. We can talk in my office once you’ve had a chance to rest, get some extra sleep. Maybe do something fun? Get your mind off rowing for a bit.

I release a groan. Maybe Adrian thinks I have unlimited time for resting and diversions, but I’m at a huge disadvantage and time is running out. If I’m going to beat the unbeatable Canadian, I can’t afford to lose a single session.

“We’ll see about that,” I mutter to myself as I shove the phone away.

It doesn’t actually matter what he says. I’m going to morning practice whether Adrian likes it or not.

Seven

61 Days Until Pan Ams

I arrive at the rickety old boathouse just as the first splashes of orange sunrise soak the horizon. Although someone has given the place a new coat of paint recently, it’s otherwise just as I remember: all cupolas and gables and ancient wood siding, dotted by white-trimmed and thinning windows. It’s a far cry from the sleek lines and shiny aluminum infrastructure of the training center. Maybe I should feel at home here, like cozy or nostalgic. Instead, I have that Chutes and Ladders feeling again, like I’ve been sent back to the starting line.

The bay doors are still firmly padlocked, but I’m glad to be the first one here. It means I have at least a few minutes to do a dryland warm-up with visualizations before the team arrives. As a freshman in high school, I started stretching daily on a grassy knoll, under the sprawling branches of a copper beech-tree, that overlooks the expanse of water spilling into the San Francisco Bay. My quiet moments alone by that tree, listening to the gentle lapping of waves against the shore and the call of a seagull overhead, became a meditation for me. A peaceful place away from the whirlwind of my mom’s life. A place that belonged just to me.

The tree is still here, and I find a flat section of sandy earth where I can finish my pre-workout drink while I run through my warm-up routine. As I sink into a hamstring stretch, I picture my oar dipping into the surface of the water, a spray of water kicking off the blade. Then, a micro-pause at the base of my stroke, and—

Discordant music assaults my ears.

I whirl to find a gaggle of high school rowers descending the rickety wooden stairs from the upper levels of the boathouse. They’re yelling and dancing to a cacophony of music—a pelting mixture of pop and rap—blasting from portable speakers clipped to their backpacks. At the bottom of the stairs, one kid holds his phone up to snatch a video as two others perform some kind of fake boxing match.

“This is what’s wrong with teenagers,” I mutter under my breath, like I could go back in time and land the perfect comeback to Carla. “Maybe they’re not offensive, but they definitely aren’t serious.”

I scan youthful faces and lanky bodies, searching for an adult. Adrian doesn’t seem to have arrived yet, so I root through my bag until I find my earbuds. Then I jam them into my ears, crank the volume, and focus on my lunges. If I turn my back to the group, all I can see is the trunk of the beech-tree and a stretch of placid water. It’s not quite peaceful, but it’s almost like being alone.

That is, until I’m bent in a calf stretch and someone slams into my back.