Page 2 of Racing Hearts

It’s a solid question. The last time I was caught without food pre-prepared was probably in high school before I started insisting Mom let me handle our groceries.

Still, I hesitate before answering. The truth is sure to open up an argument.

“I did bring a stash on the flight,” I say finally. “But, Maxwell threw the last one away.”

“He WHAT?”

I grimace. The fact that my best friend and boyfriend don’t get along is probably the greatest source of discomfort in my life right now. Except, of course, for my monthlong string of spectacular defeats that are putting my entire future in jeopardy.

The whole Maxwell situation is yet another reason tomorrow’s final needs to go well. Whether I win or lose, Maxwell always goes through videos of my races with me—pausing after key moments to lecture me about stroke rates and connection. I used to look forward to our debriefs, but now that my performance has started spiraling, these conversations have become more stressful than helpful. Inevitably, I end up snapping at him, and he’ll throw up his hands and storm out of the room. Once I get back to normal, we can get back to normal.

Sofi bumps a rain-slicked elbow against mine. “Seriously, Kath, what was Maxamillion thinking?”

“Maxwell.”

She snorts. “Right, right. What was Maxwellington thinking?”

I repress a laugh. When they first met, Maxwell made a big show of correcting Sofi for calling him “Max,” and she refuses to let it go.

“He said”—I pause as we zoom around a towering statue—“that he forgot about that particular superstition of mine.”

Sofi releases a signature groan. You know how some people have a way with words? Sofi has a way without them.

I would cross my arms if we were standing still but instead resign myself to pumping them even harder. “Even you’ve been saying you can’t keep up with my ‘rapidly expanding list of neuroses.’ ”

“I have expressly prohibited you from adding yet more superstitions to your list,” she says pointedly. “A decree you have flagrantly disregarded.”

She’s not wrong—since I first qualified for Worlds last year, I have tacked on one or ten more. Still. “Because they’ve all been solid additions! And you agreed daily affirmations are a good idea.”

“None of this excuses Maxattack’s behavior. The lemon bar thing is one of your oldest and most sacred superstitions.”

“To be fair,” I say, “he had a good reason. Namely that it’s not a good idea to eat so much sugar before a race.”

Sofi rolls her eyes and, honestly, I can’t blame her. Maxwell is usually quite helpful—he goes over my pre-race checklists with me, shares his own sponsor-provided supplements, and even bought me a top-of-the-line sports watch for my birthday—but it still frustrates me that he’s always been skeptical of my superstitions, especially those he’s deemed illogical.

“He only did it because he cares about my success,” I argue, as much to myself as her.

“Maybe too much,” she mutters.

My eyes whip toward her. Sofi’s suddenly absorbed by her footwork, as though this pace requires concentration. Cobblestones aside, this girl can run for miles without getting winded.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

My phone instructs us to turn right. As we bank hard past a street vendor huddled under a wide canopy, Sofi’s lips snap open and closed, like she’s fighting with herself about how to answer my question.

Finally, she says, “Don’t you ever think he cares a bit too much about whether you’re winning or losing?”

I consider this for long enough to do it justice, waiting for Sofi’s usual wisdom to seep in. It doesn’t. Like me, Maxwell is disciplined and hardworking. We both care about rowing—and making it to the Olympics—more than anything else. Maxwell pushes me to be a better athlete instead of questioning my dreams. The fact that he wants me to succeed is literally the reason I started dating him in the first place.

“I don’t see why that’s bad,” I say.

“It’s bad if he doesn’t want that for you, but because he sees your success as a reflection on him.” She watches me as she says the next part, clearly choosing her words carefully. “Things have been rocky between you two for a month now—ever since that first regatta. I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

I purse my lips, unswayed. So what if Maxwell cares about my success for selfish reasons? He still cares about my success. It’s far better than the alternative: a man who forces you to choose between the person you love and the thing you love to do. I should know. I’ve had a front-row seat to that kind of relationship disaster.

“Things will get better,” I assure her. “Once we’re back in the training center and in our normal routine.”

Sofi nods, resigned. Besides, the thick smell of sugar and dough has heralded our arrival. Beyond an expanse of slightly fogged glass, clustered café tables dot a terrazzo floor. I use a finger to squeegee rainwater off my forehead as Sofi yanks open the door.