Page 75 of Racing Hearts

Adrian must be thinking the same. If I were in his place—if I’d just found out that the stroke seat of my fastest boat, and best bet for a medal, was injured—I’d be fighting against the chokehold of frustration. He has to be running through contingencies, wondering how he’ll fill Peter’s spot, and contemplating worst-case scenarios. Yet, if he is, he betrays none of it.

“No surgery, though?” he asks.

Peter shakes his head.

“That’s good,” Adrian says. “It could have been worse.”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose with his still-healthy hand, like he’s forcibly trying to tamp down his tears.

“Hey, guys,” Adrian says lightly. “Can you give us some space for a minute?”

The kids—who apparently didn’t get the memo about keeping their expressions neutral—seem to be made of frowns and angst. One by one, they shuffle out of the room, sneakers squealing into the silence. I step away, intending to follow the others, but Adrian’s hand shoots to my forearm, stilling me.

“Stay?” he mouths.

For the first time since we entered this hospital room, I find actual emotion in his face.

My heart dissolves. He’s showing up for Peter—being strong and steady for Peter—and asking me to show up for him, too. I want to do that. I want to stay for him.

So, I nod and retake my position by his side. Although we try to avoid physical affection around the kids, his hand remains clamped to my arm. As discreetly as I can, I brush his fingers with my own.

The door clicks closed as the last boy leaves. Adrian squeezes my arm gratefully and then releases me so he can drag a chair to Peter’s bedside. He sinks down, elbows resting on knees. Peter’s eyes are still squeezed shut, like he’s trying to close out the suddenly too-big world.

“Let’s talk about it,” Adrian says.

Peter tries to take a deep breath, but he chokes on it instead. A tear seeps through his tightly closed eyelids.

Adrian sets a hand on his athlete’s clenched fist. “Rowing will still be here when you’re healed.”

The tear slips to Peter’s chin. “I won’t be able to race again this year.”

“You have another year as a junior,” Adrian says. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but I promise you can come back next year, better and stronger and more resilient.”

Peter blinks open his eyes. His blue irises are rimmed in scarlet. I hate watching him break, watching him accept defeat.

“I’ll lose at least three months of training. That’s what the doctor said—I might only be in a cast for six weeks, but I won’t be able to row again for at least three months. Maybe a lot more.” He inhales shakily. “I’m going to fall behind and I’m never going to catch back up.”

To say I sympathize with this would be an understatement. I can’t stomach losing a single week. A single session, even. Three months is an eternity.

“God, I’m so sorry,” I blurt.

They both turn toward me and my throat seizes. I shouldn’t have said anything, particularly not in that tone that suggests Peter is right to be devastated.

“I mean.” I try to clear the thickness in my throat, but it’s hard with both of them watching me. Peter guarded and Adrian with esteem that I’ll never live up to. “I mean, I know injuries are rough. I know how it feels.”

Peter’s expression shutters.

I wince and mouth “I’m sorry” to Adrian.

I’m about to try to beeline for the exit again, but he squeezes my fingers. “What do you mean, you know?”

My mouth helplessly works. “I probably shouldn’t say any more,” I tell him. “I’m not great at this stuff.”

But Adrian shakes his head, gaze locked on mine. “Tell us your story, Kath.”

“My what?”

“Whatever happened to you. The reason you said you know how an injury feels.”