Page 6 of Racing Hearts

“What happens if you lose the last two sponsors?” he asks.

“My friend and I”—I tip my chin toward Sofi—“we live in the training center in Southern California. That covers our living expenses and coaching. But we have to pay for everything else ourselves, like travel and equipment.”

“Hence, sponsors.”

“Right.”

The stranger traces a finger across the edge of his notebook, considering. “So you’re saying that winning this race isn’t just about the thrill of victory?”

I swallow, considering how openly to answer. Unlike Sofi, who competes with a team, I race alone. While Sofi always internalizes far more of the boat’s mistakes than she should, she’s still training and racing with eight other women. In my case, it’s just me and the boat and the pain. I have no one to blame but me. I have no one to answer to but me.

I suck in a long breath through my nose, trying to let the ambient scent of espresso and sugar calm my nerves.

“I don’t race to win,” I say. “I mean, winning is good. It feels good. But, for me, a race is always more than a race. Because a loss is always more than a failure.”

The stranger sits back, some other emotion unspooling onto his face.

“That’s more compelling than I expected,” he says.

“Are you going to tell me your reason, then?” I ask. “Since I shared.”

He drums his fingers against his book, perhaps weighing his response. Like me, deciding how much to reveal to a stranger in an unfamiliar place.

“My dad always expected a lot from me,” he says finally. “And he was never much of a coddler. So, I didn’t always get much…”

He pushes a hand through his hair.

“Anyway. You get the idea. But once in a while, when I was going through something tough, he bought me a lemon bar. The last one was about two years ago. When he went into the hospital for the last time.”

Holy shit. My problems suddenly feel so small.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“I didn’t tell you that for—I only told you because I didn’t want you to think I was being a jerk.”

He closes his eyes briefly and rolls his shoulders. When he opens his eyes again, the expression that meets mine is clear and light, all traces of consternation erased.

“How about we split it?” he asks.

It’s a fair and decent offer. The problem is that I’ve tried it. Ahead of the demoralizing heat in France, I was so nervous I could barely choke down a few bites before my stomach revolted. Clearly, I paid for that mistake.

“It only works if it’s the whole bar,” I say, sincerely apologetic. “And your reason is really good. As much as I hate to say it, better than mine.”

He frowns. “Why do you think it’s better?”

“You have that whole dad thing…”

He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have played the dead dad card.”

“It’s a good card.”

He chuckles. “That’s why it was unfair. But I have an idea.” With an index finger, he slides one of my euros to the middle of the table. “We’ll flip for it.”

I frown. “I know that sounds good, but I’m not a fan of leaving stuff like this to chance. Random chance is just random. Not divine.”

He nods like he might have been expecting that. “A competition, then. Rock, paper, scissors?”

“Still pretty much just luck.”