Page 24 of Racing Hearts

My eyebrows climb into my hairline as I keep reading. Adrian’s program isn’t a “program” so much as it is a Choose Your Own Adventure novel. The sheets are littered with a wild array of matrices, printed text, and handwriting in different colored pens. Big sections have been scratched out with ugly slashes and replaced with nearly nonsensical scribbles. Plan A’s and B’s and C’s abound. There are decision trees scrawled in margins and contingencies mentioned on every other page. It’s all so indecipherable that I give up, trudge back upstairs, and ask Adrian to translate. With that enigmatic smile, he tells me he’s happy to answer any specific questions, but ultimately, I shouldn’t get too “wedded” to any single approach because he might decide later to “adapt” the program as needs arise.

“Adapt,” I say, dripping with skepticism. “A training plan is a plan. It’s based on analysis and evidence. You can’t change it because you feel like it. That’s called winging it.”

He lifts a shoulder like my entire future isn’t riding on the next sixty days. “I prefer to call it ‘intuition.’ ”

“Intuition. Whose? Yours?”

“Yes.” He leans forward, arms crossed on his desk. “And half my team went to Youth Nationals last year, so the proof is in the pudding. Time’s up, by the way.”

I bottle up a scream and power walk home, stomping with every step, but avoid an actual jog lest I fail another one of Adrian’s resting heart rate tests. When I careen through the door, Mom makes a whispered suggestion that I should try one of her yoga classes for relaxation. I tell her I’m in no mood for chanting, then cloister myself in my room and stare at the Olympic rings on my ceiling, feeling farther from my dreams than I have in years.

. . .

“It can’t have been that bad,” Sofi says through my phone, which is leaning against a shampoo bottle.

I’m sitting on a shaggy mat attempting to turn Mom’s claw-foot bathtub into a cold plunge. If I were in the training center, Sofi and I would be sitting in adjacent tubs, as we do every day after strength training. Here in Berkeley, I have nothing but a bucket of ice, a meat thermometer, and simmering rage over my first official workout with Adrian.

“Yeah, it was worse,” I say as I tip another handful of cubes into the already icy surface. “Remind me what temperature it’s supposed to be?”

Sofi sucks in a breath through her teeth, then wades across her sleek, stainless steel contraption held at a constant temperature with a continuous filtration system. She peers at the LED display.

“We’re at fifty-one degrees.”

I glare at my meat thermometer. “Crap. I’m at fifty-four.”

“That should be fine.”

“There are studies on this.” I shovel another few handfuls of ice into the tub. “The temperature needs to be precise.”

Sofi balloons her cheeks as she settles back. “I’m only here because Carla thinks it builds character.”

“Not what I said.” Carla’s voice floats in from the background.

Sofi waves her off. I’m pretty sure she’s the only one with the confidence to tease our coach. To her face, anyway.

“Carla’s there?” I whisper.

Sofi angles her phone so I can see. Carla seems to be dispatching advice to one of Sofi’s teammates. Oh, the irony of missing that woman. I always knew I loved the training center, but I never appreciated how good I had it until now. Real, consistent training programs printed out and pinned to a bulletin board? Specific metrics and predetermined goals? A rowing coach who actually lets me row?

Heaven.

The pair disappear as Sofi sweeps back into view, tugging at her red bathing suit strap to keep it from falling off her shoulder. “So, why exactly was the first practice such a disaster?”

“First of all, it wasn’t even practice,” I grind out. My tub has now reached fifty-one degrees. I dip a foot into the icy surface. Cold slingshots up my leg. I let out an involuntary hiss. When I get myself under control, I stick the next foot in. “It was strength training because Adrian hasn’t deemed me worthy of anything else. And, second, he wouldn’t let me do the right number of sets.”

For some reason I couldn’t fathom, Adrian told me to stop after four sets of squats, instead of the typical six I do during the on-season. But I still felt good enough not just to keep going, but even to add another couple of plates to my barbell.

“Cut it out, Parker,” Adrian growled from across the room, even though his eyes were glued downward as he spotted Peter on the bench press.

I glared at him from over the bar, thoughts seething. He never does this dictator routine with any of his kids. As he cued Rohan on his triceps extensions, he joked about his advice even as he dispatched it. With Peter, he squatted to meet him at eye level and coaxed him through his final reps. When another guy slipped off the pull-up bar and nearly ate it on the rubber mats, Adrian helped him up, drew him aside, and gave him a pep talk about falling that sounded like it was copied straight off a motivational poster.

So, it’s just me that gets domineering Adrian.

Of course.

Adrian turned to cue a kid on the bench row. With his back turned, I racked my weight, curled my fingers around the coarse grips, and dropped below the bar to start my sixth set.

“Parker!” Adrian’s voice bit out over the clangs of iron and thuds of barbells against wood. “Don’t you do it.”