Page 51 of Racing Hearts

Without further instruction, one of the rowers in the bow seat of a quad gathers his oars in one hand, tucks his feet in close to his chest, and begins to stand. The boat rocks slightly, sending a ripple of waves vibrating off the hull, but it’s still relatively stable with the other three bracing. Once he’s upright, the lanky guy in two starts going vertical, as well.

Rowing shells are built for speed, not balance. Standing in them is difficult—more like trying to stand on a floating log than a surfboard. I haven’t tried since college—not after I saw some guys in a double doing it and one of them had a very close call involving his nose and a misplaced oar.

Adrian maneuvers his launch until he’s close to my blade. The hum of the engine dampens as he shifts to neutral.

“This isn’t in the program,” I say. “This isn’t even in your contingency notes.”

I crane my neck to look at him. Above me, his mess of brown hair, flecked in glistening droplets, is framed by an endless blue sky.

“This exercise transcends the program,” Adrian says as Peter—who sits stroke seat in this quad—tucks his feet under his torso.

“What does that mean?”

Adrian grins back. “It means I like to make it a surprise.”

With his three other teammates nearly vertical now, Peter’s shell rocks and teeters, at this point closely resembling a mechanical bull with four crouching riders.

“LET’S GO!” Rohan shouts. In the last few minutes he has raced back to the docks, and is now jumping from foot to foot, phone aimed at the rebelling quad. “You’ve got this, Pete!”

Some of the others yell encouragement and friendly taunts. Peter’s teammates, each hunched and wobbly, stare at the horizon in concentration. Peter pauses for a moment more before drawing himself higher. Cheers ring out. Rohan whoops and pumps the fist not holding the camera.

“There it is!” Adrian yells.

Peter flexes, but the motion is too much. The boat lurches. The guys spill out in a cascade of arms and legs, the shell flipping upside down as they hit the water with splashes and half-panicked laughter.

“Can you do it?” Adrian asks me as the guys swim their boat toward the dock, hollering for another crew to try.

“Of course,” I say. “But I don’t see the point. Explain your reasoning?”

It’s a new thing between us. Ever since the erg race, whenever Adrian catches me off guard with a new training strategy, I ask for an explanation. As promised, he always delivers. Although I don’t always agree with his logic, at least I can see where it’s coming from. On rare occasions, his explanations are even compelling.

Though I doubt today will be one of those days.

Adrian starts ticking off points on his long fingers. “It tests balance. It will help you get out of your head and connect with the boat on a more subconscious and intuitive level. And…”

“And?”

“And it’s fun.”

I side-eye a double now wobble-standing, grins plastered to their faces as they brace for the inevitable crash. “What about the potential for injury?”

“You’ve seen someone get hurt doing this?”

“No,” I say, “but I saw someone almost get hurt.”

Adrian chuckles. “Let’s not live our lives overly worried about ‘almosts.’ ”

I frown. “Does that mean I have to do it?”

The way Adrian’s lips lift has me forcing my eyes away from him. I hate that, even when we’re arguing, I find his smile infectious.

“Yes, Parker. You have to.” Another cry rings out as more guys flail and stutter. Water crashes yet again.

“Fine,” I say and snatch up my oars. I haven’t tried in years, but one advantage of the loaner boat I’m using is that it’s wider than my normal racing shell and therefore a bit more stable. “My turn.”

The guys cheer as I paddle toward a clear section of water, away from Adrian’s launch and the other boats.

Rohan trains his phone on me as I angle my stern toward the docks. “Get it, Kath!” he screams, fist pumping again. “The people want to see you fuck this up!”