Page 86 of Racing Hearts

“Why are you so convinced of that?”

He doesn’t answer, just tucks his sandpaper away and pulls out a popsicle stick, which he uses to brush on a thin coat of epoxy.

I let out an impatient sigh. This might be the most infuriating conversation I’ve ever had with the man, and I have no idea why. “If you’re so set against it, why not withdraw?”

“I’m not set against it,” Adrian protests. “I just—I don’t want to withdraw. It would crush my mom. Staying in the running is my way of doing this one thing for my dad.”

I tilt my head, still not understanding.

“For the last few years before he died,” he explains quietly, “I stopped trying to make him proud. I shut down the conversation every time he brought up anything to do with rowing or my career. I disappointed him. And now he’s gone and I need to at least put in the effort to do things that would have made him proud. Even if I ultimately fail, I’ll have done what I should have been doing all along.”

“I see,” I say.

“Do you?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious. “You seem so…blissfully unconcerned by your dad’s feelings. I mean that in a good way.”

“Yeah,” I say. “But it wasn’t always like that.”

It took me years to get over the crush of disappointment every time I was supposed to see my dad, but something came up and he said he couldn’t. Eventually, I started fighting back against the idea of visiting with him at all, but only because I wanted to stop feeling that way, not because I didn’t care. As a junior, every time I finished a race or stood on a podium, for just a moment, I’d wonder what he’d say if he were there. Even after all the times he wasn’t. I’ve had about two decades to learn to separate my emotions from my dad’s choices. Adrian has had only a couple of years.

Adrian nods, but he’s still frowning. Maybe I’ve taken all of this too far. The whole reason he never dated a rower before was because he didn’t want to be pressured by someone he cared about.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know you don’t want me to push you. I’ll drop it.”

Adrian stares at the popsicle stick clenched in his fist. “But you wish—You would rather that I had a better job.”

“No,” I say, angry with myself for eliciting this reaction. I grab Adrian’s hand, popsicle stick and all, pinning it in mine so he can’t escape the sincerity of what I have to say. “Absolutely not. I don’t care about your job description or your team’s medal count or whatever the hell else. I like you because you are an enthusiastic, caring, and supportive man and that will be true no matter what title you have.”

He smiles and looks up at me and my heart flutters with it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I let go. “Sorry I took your high-tech tool hostage there.”

“I kind of liked it,” he says with a wink, before hunching back over.

Even though he’s focusing on his patch and this conversation absolutely could have gone better than it did, my chest feels reassuringly light. Not only because of the way Adrian looked at me, but also because we had a disagreement that didn’t leave me feeling like I want to flop on a couch and sob into a balled-up napkin.

Behind me, I hear a shuffle of footsteps. I glance around to find Rohan peeking at us from behind an open bay, concern apparent in his brown eyes.

My eyes cut to Adrian’s hunched shoulders, but thankfully he’s still absorbed in his task. Trying to keep it that way, I murmur something about needing a calorie deficit and forge toward Rohan’s concerned face. When I reach him, I tap his elbow and angle him wordlessly toward the stairs at the side of the boathouse, out of sight and earshot from his coach.

“How much did you hear?” I ask when I’ve planted myself in a seat a few steps above his eyeline.

Rohan remains standing, arms crossed, head tilted. Unnecessarily defiant. “He’s leaving?”

Well, I guess that answers that. “Probably not. But if he were, would it be so bad?”

“I just moved up boats.” Rohan’s voice is barely more substantial than a whine. “It’s hard enough with him around. I can’t do it without him.”

“I realize this isn’t ideal but—”

My words snag as Rohan’s eyes stab me accusingly.

“I wouldn’t have even agreed to move up if I’d known I had to do it without my coach,” he says.

My jaw clenches as I appraise him, realization setting in. If there’s something holding Adrian back, maybe it’s this. Maybe he knows how his kids would react and, even if it’s completely unfair, he’s willing to sacrifice his own future to avoid temporary pain for them.

“What grade are you in?” I ask.

Rohan’s forehead crinkles. When I don’t elaborate, he says, almost hesitantly, “I’ll be a senior in the fall.”