Page 54 of Racing Hearts

Yet as my massage gun digs into my quads, Adrian’s infuriating smile invades my mind. His forearms as he smoothly glided his oars across the water. The way he so effortlessly and confidently pressed himself upright and the way his eyes danced before he tipped.

Fuck.

To distract myself from both the intensity of the vibrations and this parade of memories, I pull up Carla’s rubric on my phone and grope around on my desk for a set of Post-its. I haven’t made much progress on the evaluation, so I scan the options, resolving to draft at least a couple of responses.

How would you describe Adrian’s coaching style?

My pen hovers above my red Post-it. Two weeks ago, I would have written “domineering” and moved on. Since the erg test, though, it’s become clear that Adrian’s commanding attitude was an act—or, as he would say, a coaching strategy. But that introduces a whole set of other problems. If he’s adapting his style to his athletes’ needs, then what is his style in the first place?

I decide to skip that one for now and move on to the next.

Have you seen any improvements in your performance?

Maybe marginal? That one workout where I beat my own splits comes to mind. But otherwise, I’m basically in the same place I was when I got here. Fortunately, assuming I can actually complete this evaluation, this should be good enough to get top two and win back my spot. Still, in the interest of the objectivity I promised Carla, I should give Adrian most of the summer before I answer this one.

Another skip for now, I guess.

Describe Adrian’s level of interest in the job.

Honestly, we’ve hardly talked about it, which is strange. Adrian is so enthusiastic about so much, especially anything to do with rowing. This job should be a huge deal—a massive step forward in his career. It makes his nonchalance, or even disinterest, confusing. At the same time, I haven’t asked him explicitly if he wants it and I should probably wait to answer this one until I do.

I stare down at my empty stack of Post-its and groan. Clearly, I need a break from Adrian. A real one.

I roll over so I can massage my other quad—vibrations slackening skin and muscles—and flip my phone to Rower’s World to get my daily dose of updates. There’s some news from a few collegiate programs, including next year’s race scheduling and various signing announcements. Then, a lengthy tribute written up about the decorated career of the retiring men’s national team coach. I start reading it, but abruptly flip back to the main screen when I reach an adoring quote from Maxwell. My fingers keep scrolling, desperate to find something interesting enough to distract me from memories of Adrian’s smile.

And that’s when I get my wish.

Not in a good way.

Campeonato Brasileiro de Remo. Updates from the national championships in Brazil, which just wrapped yesterday. When I click on the link for the women’s single sculls final, and have Google translate the page, what I see freezes me.

The winning time. It’s not just good.

It’s Canadian-level good.

I bolt upright, massager spitting out discordant circles on my carpet.

What the hell?

My fingers shake as I click around to see the other times clocked by the winner—Camila Gomes. Surely, the conditions must have been extremely favorable, like some massive tailwind or maybe a slightly short course. Or maybe something got lost in the automatic translation.

I mean, I barely even recognize this name. I think Camila went to World Cups this year, but I remember beating her handily in the heats.

What is even happening?

Maybe it’s something about her lane. When she clocked this ridiculous time in the final, she raced in lane five, but she was in lane three for the heat. On certain courses, some lanes can be considerably faster or slower, depending on current or wind. I could look at the times from the eights to see if there’s a similar pattern. I don’t know offhand how fast the Brazilian eights should be, but I know someone who would.

I switch off the oscillating massager, finally stilling it, and pick up my phone, then pace across my narrow carpet as FaceTime chimes.

“Have you seen the race times from the Brazilian Nationals?” I ask while the video is still loading.

“Good morning to you, too,” Sofi replies. Her camera comes alive and the room around her is dark enough that all I can see is her silhouette, illuminated by the blue light of her phone.

“I woke you up?”

“I should get up anyway.” The sleep is still heavy in her voice and she rubs at her forehead. “I’ve been having trouble waking up from my naps lately, so I probably need the extra time.”

I hum. “Fill that sixteen-ounce water bottle you keep by your bed and put an electrolyte tab in it. One of the pink ones, though. The blue ones will only make you feel worse.”