Page 68 of Racing Hearts

“Best practice I’ve had in a while,” Peter says as he braces an oar against his knee and lets his boat drift to the dock.

“Me too.” I heave off my seat and dip both legs into the water by my hull, letting the cool liquid soothe my heated skin. He’s right—this practice was great. Maybe it went so well because I was setting pace for Peter. Maybe it’s my new commitment to Adrian’s coaching cues. Maybe it was corn dogs and mini golf and everything that happened after. “I can tell why Adrian keeps raving about you and your quad. You’re going to kill it at Nationals.”

I think I must have said the wrong thing, though, because Peter’s smile falters.

“What?” I ask.

He still hasn’t gotten out of his boat, and he runs a hand through the water without looking up. An eddy ripples behind his fingers. “What do you do when you think you might fail?”

“I’m not sure I…Sorry, what do you mean?”

Peter frowns at his eddy as the current swallows it. “I’m just—how do you get yourself to keep going when the pressure gets big?”

I swallow because I can’t help but think about the way this conversation echoes the one I had with Adrian last night. “Is someone putting pressure on you?”

“No. No. It’s just like…my dads keep getting calls from coaches at all these big schools, big names, and they’re saying they’ll be there at Youth Nationals, watching. And Coach Adrian and my parents are great—just happy for me and everything. But I feel like…what if I’m not as good as everyone thinks? Does that make sense?”

The high-pitched screech of a seagull rings through the still morning air.

“Yes,” I say. “That makes sense.”

“What do you do?” he presses. “When it feels that way.”

Peter looks up at me full of hope and crushing expectation and, god, how do I live up to what he needs? Talking to Adrian about this stuff is one thing, but a seventeen-year-old kid is something else entirely. I don’t know the right thing to say. That everything will be okay, win or lose? That he should be proud of second place even if he expects to get first? Those would be lies and we’d both know it.

The truth is that the pressure only increases. Winning only makes losing that much harder. Striving for excellence means never being satisfied. Sometimes, the price we pay for success is giving up our contentment.

“Rowing is rough,” I say, trying to find a way to tell the truth without being disheartening. Besides, a variation of this line seemed to help Adrian yesterday, so why not Peter? “Sometimes that’s just how it’s going to feel.”

Instantly, I know I’ve said the wrong thing because Peter’s eyes slip from mine. The sheen of expectation in his face dulls.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is. I still love it, though.”

“Of course,” I say, floundering to find better words. “I’m sorry. I’m sure your coach has better advice on this stuff.”

He nods. “He tells me he believes in me all the time. That helps.”

“Good,” I say. At least someone knows what they are doing with this kid because it definitely isn’t me. “That’s good.”

Peter lifts himself from his boat and hoists it out of the water.

“Thanks for practicing with me,” he says, before stepping over his oars and striding up to the boathouse.

. . .

I’m still haunted by that conversation when I scale Mom’s porch steps. The warm chorus of my childhood awaits me on the other side of the door: a whistling tea kettle, Mom’s feet dancing across the hardwood floors, and a symphony of chimes piped from her ancient stereo.

A peal of Mom’s laughter rises from the kitchen, tinkling in near harmony with the music.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says as I close the front door. She has her phone cradled on her shoulder so she can pour a cup of tea. “I’m not flexible enough for that pose.”

I toe off my sneakers and move past the kitchen, aiming for the stairs. Adrian will be back from his recruiting event in a couple of hours and, since I didn’t have much time to think on the water, I still haven’t decided what to say to him. Plus, I didn’t see Mom when I came home to change before practice and she’s sure to have noticed I didn’t spend the night in my bed. I might be an adult, but it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever done something like that.

Despite my best efforts, though, the creaky floorboard by the couch announces my presence.

Mom spins, facing me with lavender-colored eye masks. Abruptly, she tells the person on the line that she needs to go.

“Kath.” She lets her phone drop to the counter. “Good morning.”