Page 76 of Racing Hearts

He gives me another encouraging smile, like I have something worthy to say. And, god, even though I’m positive I’ll never live up to this man’s esteem, he makes me want to try. So, I nod and steel myself.

“I made the Junior Worlds team,” I say softly, “but I never went.”

Peter blinks open his eyes and watches me with a daunting mix of solemnity and respect that would level me with uncertainty if Adrian weren’t still holding my hand. He runs a finger across my knuckles and I keep talking.

“I broke my ankle,” I explain. “We were doing a trail run a few weeks before we were scheduled to leave. I slipped on a wet rock and twisted my ankle. It was such a simple thing. It should have been a mild sprain. Freakishly, it wasn’t.”

I smooth a hand over my braid, remembering that soul-crushing day. A thick coach with an even thicker mustache crossed his arms and, voice heavy with disappointment and frustration, told me I needn’t bother getting on the plane with the team. That I might as well go home instead.

“I never went to Junior Worlds,” I say, “because the next year, I turned nineteen, and I was no longer eligible.”

Peter winces, perhaps contemplating the reality of an even worse situation than his own.

“It sucked,” I say honestly. “It was the first—and last—time I’ve seriously considered quitting. I lost a huge amount of fitness in those months. And I felt so alone with it.”

I hadn’t met Sofi yet and my mom tried to help, but she didn’t really appreciate just how monumentally devastating it all was. She kept insisting everything would be fine and would get better with time, but for months, it only felt like the world was ending.

And then, almost suddenly, it didn’t.

I started walking and then cycling and then I got back on the water and, yes, it was slow and frustrating, but I just kept going because life was better with rowing in it. The early mornings. The discipline. The routines.

In my darkest moments, I was never able to internalize what my mom was saying, about how things would change, about how this too would pass. But maybe, at some level, those words did penetrate the recesses of my mind, because eventually it was okay. Mom was right. It did pass.

I continue: “Ultimately, I didn’t quit because I couldn’t. I’m bound to this sport.” I’ve thought of a way of saying it, in the days since Adrian and I talked about this. An eloquent way to put my feelings into a single sentence. “In my life, a rowing shell has been a lifeboat.”

Another tear has tripped down Peter’s cheek, but his mouth has turned up, and his eyes are fixed on mine.

“I don’t know,” I continue, “whether you feel that way or not. If you decide to quit after this, you can. That wouldn’t be a bad choice or the wrong choice. But if you decide you want to keep going—well, just know that this injury doesn’t erase your future. It wasn’t the end for me. It doesn’t have to be the end for you, either. Not if you don’t want it to be.”

Peter swallows and nods ever so slightly.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

And, oh, he’s looking at me like I finally did something right. Maybe I haven’t erased all the fear, but I’ve managed to plant a small seed of hope.

I glance down, ready for Adrian to fill in the rest. But he’s not looking at Peter. He’s still twisted in his seat, staring up at me.

The intensity of his gaze—the mix of adoration and maybe even reverence—might crack me in two. A splintering, shearing sensation grinds through my chest. Adrian’s fingers inch up my hand, circle my wrist.

“Can you call in the others?” Peter asks.

“Okay,” Adrian says, but his voice is thick.

“And tell Rohan he can get out his phone again,” Peter adds. “I didn’t want him to, before. But I can take it. Besides, our TikToks aren’t just about happy stuff. We want to be real, too.”

Adrian smiles, like this is all the confirmation he needs that Peter will be just fine.

We swing open the door to find the kids piled outside in a mob of anxiety. An adult—one of Peter’s dads, probably—nods at us from across the hall. Adrian exchanges a few sympathetic words with him before we duck out the way we came, back down the halogen halls and into a lamplit courtyard.

My watch buzzes even as I register the deep darkness outside. I’m supposed to get into bed in the next fifteen minutes so I can get at least two hours of REM sleep before midnight. Yet I’m also wondering if Adrian needs a sounding board to work through the big questions presented by Peter’s injury.

I tap his elbow, drawing him to a stop. “Do you want to talk about the quad?”

He turns, pushes his hand through his hair, and I finally see the mess of anxiety and indecision that I’d expected in the hospital room. Still, his eyes cut to my watch. “Don’t you need to go?”

I drop onto a stone bench in the courtyard and pat the empty seat next to me. “This seems more important.”

Adrian sinks down. “Thank you. And for the story. That was extraordinary.”