Page 34 of Racing Hearts

“Notwithstanding?” I spin so I can face him down and administer exactly the right level of indignation. “You can’t notwithstand the seminal text on rowing technique.”

“Sure I can. It’s not like you’re losing your eyeline. But you are wasting mental focus fighting what comes naturally to your body.”

I cross my arms and my chin lifts slightly, just the way it does when I’m at the top of a stroke. I force it back down. “With enough time and work and discipline, I can get my body to do what’s right instead of what’s natural.”

Adrian stills his pseudo-swinging and folds his arms over his knee. I avoid noticing the way his forearm muscles crease.

“How many years have you been rowing?”

Ten years, three months, and twenty-two days. “Ten.”

“And for how many of those ten years have you been trying to correct your chin?”

The answer, unfortunately, is all of them. It’s basic technical stuff. I’ve heard this correction from at least five different coaches, even Darlene. Drop your chin. Relax your forehead. Eyes down. One of my coaches even made me hold a rolled-up towel under my chin during endurance sessions.

Admitting all this to Adrian, though, would be like saying that I’ll never have the textbook technique. “I don’t want to give up.”

“That’s fine. I have the rest of the summer to change your mind.”

I gape. “Wait. So, you’re conceding, just like that?”

Adrian nods thoughtfully. “Here’s the way I see it. I’m trying to coach you for the next couple months. So, if it has to do with how you’re training or what you’re doing in that time—it should be my call. At least if you let it. Afterward? That’s squarely your domain. Or, hopefully, Carla’s. And correcting your technique isn’t just about the next two months. It’s about how you row for the rest of your life.”

This is surprisingly reasonable from my wannabe personal dictator. “So, I’m free to keep working on my chin?”

“Yep. And I’m free to keep telling you to let it tilt.” Then he stands swiftly and that wolfish grin returns to his eyes. “And, also, to win this erg test.”

. . .

Adrian wins by four and a half seconds.

I saw it coming. I knew it was happening as soon as he started pulling the handle, legs and arms gliding with strength and precision. The inevitable barreled toward me as I remained frozen on my own seat and the meters ticked down on his display. He’s kept himself in shape, which means that, even though it was close, I was doomed from the start.

When Adrian releases the handle, a mess of emotions strangle my throat. I’ve lost the bet. I have to return to the mercy of his scrawling handwriting and plans B and C. This summer could set me back months if not years. I have goals—big goals. Olympic ring–sized goals.

“Kath?” Adrian’s cheeks are still red from exertion, and a glaze of sweat has dampened the edges of his dark blue Lycra. His concern is palpable.

My eyes sting and I clench my jaw like it’ll force the tears from seeping out. I don’t cry in front of other people, especially coaches. I can’t count how many times I’ve seen my mom break down in front of a confused bank teller or grocery store clerk. I once watched her sob to her boss, clinging to his shoulders in the drizzling rain outside a concrete-lined office building. He stared out over her shoulder, stone-faced, and idly patted her back until she pulled away. I have always promised myself I will never be like that.

Still, I can feel that sharp prick at the back of my nose. Tears are threatening to leak out despite the set of my jaw and the tight balls of my fists. So, I bolt upright, snatch up my gym bag, and start backing away. My calf whacks against the long slide of an erg.

“I need to go,” I say, not looking at Adrian.

“Kath. What’s going on? Talk to me.”

I spin, nearly toppling over another slide, and beeline toward the stairs. Adrian’s footsteps pound after me. I pick up my pace. I know how ridiculous I am, bag thumping as I practically sprint out of the erg room, but the tears are coming.

Just as I drop down the first step, Adrian’s fingers glance against my shoulder.

“I can only help if we talk,” he says softly.

This does stop me. “What do you mean ‘help’?”

Adrian’s hand finds my elbow and he tugs me around, gently, until I’m facing him. Then he drops his hand again.

“I’ll listen. I want to know why this scares you so much. And I want to try to reassure you—in whatever way I can.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling seasick. I didn’t even realize it until Adrian said it, but he’s right. I’m terrified. I’ve felt that way ever since I stood in Carla’s makeshift office and my future crumbled before my eyes. The last few days—being literally locked out from everything I know and love—have only made that fear more palpable.