Page 32 of Racing Hearts

“This,” I told her through panted breaths. “I want to keep doing this.”

That night when I got home, it didn’t even matter that Mom was still asleep, snoring softly on the couch. I tucked a blanket over her toes, made myself dinner, and searched for rowing videos on a laptop in my room. In the soft glow of that screen, I watched, mesmerized, as oars skimmed the surface of placid water in the same regular, rhythmic movements I’d just made on that whirring machine.

In the erg room now, I sip on blue liquid from my blender cup and consider the room. So much has changed and yet so little. Despite all the difficulties and hurdles and unending heartache, rowing has always felt like an escape and a privilege. It’s just as true now as it was when I was fourteen.

Now, I just have to win this erg race to get it all back.

The stairs creak. The door cracks open and Adrian bursts into the room.

And, oh shit.

He’s donned a spandex unisuit, but he has the top folded down so he’s basically wearing nothing but fitted shorts. Clearly, he’s kept himself in shape. Not the gym rat way with bulging (read: useless) biceps. He’s got the long muscles of an athlete: defined abs, broad, muscular shoulders. He even has that deep V shape cut into his lower abs that trails into the top of his shorts. My god, in Italy, I ran my hands over those abs and I had no idea what was lingering right under his dress shirt.

More bad news.

It’s not just Sofi’s prodding or my alcohol-soaked memories. Adrian isn’t just objectively attractive.

I’m attracted to him.

“Do you want to go first?” he asks, startling me from my train of thoughts.

Okay, even worse. I’ve been staring. Also, my mouth is open.

I snap my lips closed and lift my gaze to his face. His eyes dance with another devious smile. So, he caught me staring. This has actually become the worst-possible-case scenario.

“I—” Shit. Shit. Shit. “I’m so sorry.”

Adrian sucks in his bottom lip and furrows his eyebrows in exaggerated confusion. “For what?”

My cheeks might be made of fire now. This man is supposed to be my coach. “You know.”

“I really don’t.”

“I’m sorry for…” I hate this. But when I’ve been on the receiving end of this kind of thing, I’ve wished the dudes and occasionally ladies would fess up and apologize. So, I take a deep breath and say, “I’m sorry for ogling you.”

Adrian’s smile draws wider. “Ogling? I thought you were merely perusing.”

My gaze sinks to my neon yellow running shoes. “I regret everything.”

“I, for one, am nothing but thrilled.”

“Do you accept my apology or not?”

“Oh, yes. Apology accepted.”

“Do you want to, uh…” I point a tentative finger at his upper body. “Put the top part up? Just so it doesn’t happen again.”

I’m not sure I’ll be able to pull straight if I know Adrian’s exposed abs are in the same room as my eyeballs.

When I peek up from my shame-stare, Adrian has obliged. The problem is that the top of his suit is so tight I can still make out the ridges of his muscles. I force my eyes back down.

“Better?” he asks.

Sort of. I nod at the ground. “I can go first.”

I take a breath and try to get my head in the game. So, Adrian has been keeping himself in shape, but that doesn’t mean he’s guaranteed to win. I have some control here. I can still choose my own destiny.

With as much confidence as I can muster, I peel off my sweatshirt, set the erg’s heel cups, and strap my shoes into place. I take a deep breath and—to the best of my ability—push thoughts of Adrian’s abs out of my mind.