Page 21 of Racing Hearts

This elicits another chorus of reactions. I’m trying to figure out how to dispute Adrian’s claim, to tell them that really World Championships is a more definitive measure of international rankings, when another kid tilts his head and says with a wide grin, “Really? What are you doing training here with us, then?”

Someone laughs and my stomach trips.

Another shout: “Hey, have you been to the Olympics?”

I blink into a sea of silent faces and watchful eyes. These kids look so innocent and yet they’re finding my weak spots like archers aiming for bull’s-eyes.

“No,” I force myself to say. “One day I hope to go.”

Two kids whistle. Someone flashes a thumbs-up. My eyes snag on a kid near the back of the group with knobby knees and pale white skin that looks as if it’s been repeatedly burned into a permanent pink. Through a pair of wire glasses that take up most of his slight face, he’s staring at me so intently it’s almost unsettling.

“Any of you hoping to make it to the Olympics one day?” Adrian asks the group, and I’m thankful that he’s pulled their attention away from me.

The question mostly elicits a chorus of nahs and shakes of the head.

“Too much work!” someone yells.

“I like video games too much,” another supplies.

Some of the kids laugh, but the serious one holds himself completely still, except that, behind his glasses, his eyes widen.

“Isn’t that kind of an unrealistic goal?” His voice is so low that, if I hadn’t noticed him already, I would have missed it.

A kid wielding a phone like a searchlight leaps in front of his coach. He has umber skin and a mess of black hair that’s been shaped into a surprisingly stylish quiff for a teenage boy. “Coach is going to say that no goal is unrealistic. All of us can do anything we set our minds to.”

Adrian playfully punches his shoulder. “Thanks, Rohan. Actually, I was going to say that nearly all of you can do anything you set your minds to. Some of you are beyond hope.”

“Ah!” the phone wielder—Rohan—yells. “Why did you have to say that when I wasn’t recording? Everyone loves a snarky coach.”

“He has to say that, though, right?” The serious kid is still looking at me, like nothing else has been said for the last few moments. “But it is unrealistic.”

The question reminds me of the time I tacked up my first poster of an Olympian. I’d kept it rolled up under my bed for weeks, like my dreams were some sordid secret and if I declared them publicly, they’d never come true. One day, Mom saw the poster peeking out from under my duvet. When I admitted the truth, she took my hands in hers, looked me in the eyes, and told me about the fire. That was back when she danced professionally, and she said among dancers, there were some people who had it and some who didn’t.

“When I look at you,” she told me, “I don’t see a few flames. I see a whole bonfire.”

Mom might not have been great at signing permission slips or remembering to make cookies for bake sales, but she gave me something better: the confidence to tack up that poster and dream bigger dreams.

I’m not saying anything about “the fire” to a bunch of teens, though. Instead, I lift a shoulder and tell them, “Yeah, probably.”

Rohan’s mouth drops open. “That’s what you have to say? ‘Yeah probably’ our dreams are unrealistic?”

“Sure,” I tell him, even though I shouldn’t. I’m too honest with myself and everyone else to be good at these kinds of motivational speeches. “All big dreams are unrealistic. If you care enough, you’ll try anyway.”

A bunch of the kids, including Rohan, bury their gazes in frowns, but Adrian’s eyes catch mine and his lips tweak into a crooked smile. It’s the same look he gave me when I told him I had no thoughts of quitting rowing.

“Nahhhhh.” A voice pierces our pocket of silence, and Rohan lifts his phone toward my face again. “We’re gonna need something way more inspirational than ‘this shit’s hard, but try it anyway.’ ”

Adrian’s eyes shift and he clears his throat. “Okay, that’s enough. You’ll have plenty of time to pester Kath later. Right now, you all need to start getting on the water.”

Rohan groans, but clicks off his phone. The group scatters toward their awaiting shells.

Adrian remains by my side, though, which means we’re alone again. I sink to a seat in one of the empty nylon slings behind me, partly because my legs have been so fatigued lately that they feel as substantial as Jell-O. Also, partly to get out of Adrian’s proximity and the memories it induces. We have exactly one relationship now: coach and athlete. Nothing more.

“It’s going to be great for these guys to train with you this summer,” Adrian says. “Peter, in particular, I think.”

I frown after the mess of heads bobbing down toward the dock. By my account, so far, we’ve only managed to all make one another uncomfortable. “Peter is the serious kid with the glasses?”

“Yeah. He sits stroke seat in my fastest quad. He’s serious about everything, but he’s most serious about rowing.”