Page 87 of Racing Hearts

“A senior. So, you graduate next summer. And then what’ll happen in September?”

“I’m hoping to get into UC San Diego with early admissions, but I’ll have to see.”

“And are you trying to make the varsity team at UCSD?”

Rohan lifts a shoulder. “I haven’t decided yet.”

I let out a long breath. “Right. So, let’s say Adrian doesn’t take this job. And, for a while, everyone is happy and together. Then, in less than a year from now, you’ll leave for college, right? But Adrian will stay.”

Rohan’s eyes slip to his shoes.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure you already know this, but your coach cares about your feelings a lot. Maybe even more than he cares about his own.”

“I didn’t think of it that way.”

“That’s okay,” I say, tamping down my frustration until it dissolves. “You get to feel your feelings, too. They are just as important as anyone else’s. But I also hope you’ll think about his. Because there might come a day that Adrian needs your support. When that day comes, I hope you and the other guys will rise to the occasion.”

Rohan swallows, scuffs a toe against the ground. “I’ll think about it.”

My phone vibrates in my fanny pack. I stand and fish it out. “That’s all I can ask.”

We head back toward the bays and I click open the screen. Then nearly plow face-first into the bow of a boat.

Maxwell.

I press hard on the message, and hit the delete button. But not before I see the first few words.

Can we talk?

The words set off a montage in my mind with scenes from that day in Varese. Sitting on the dock and blinking at my freshly minted ex-boyfriend. The race. The finish—a tornado of despair and pain and ache.

“Kath?” Adrian, outside the bays, holds his hand like a visor and squints against the sun.

I shove the phone away. “Hey.”

He smiles as I reconnect with him, our eyes snapping together in easy contact. “Your hull has a scratch, too. Want me to start on it while I wait for my epoxy to dry?”

“That would be really nice,” I say, following him back into the quiet darkness of the boathouse, trying to ignore the tendril of anxiety that’s coiling around my stomach.

Twenty-Seven

20 Days Until Pan Ams

Over the next couple of weeks, my progress becomes undeniable.

My erg tests get faster. My splits improve. I finally feel good. My boat slices instead of dragging. My oars are light in my hands. Even my mind feels unburdened. Like when I start an interval, I’m able to focus on the swing of my strokes instead of getting lost in a quagmire of thoughts.

Through it all, Adrian has been there to scream encouragements on the water and whisper affirmations off it.

Last Thursday in the erg room, after the kids went home, I was midway through an interval, quads pumping, breaths coming in hard and fast, and I panted out: “It feels so good I could scream.”

Adrian bent low and said, barely above a whisper, “Excellent. Because you look so good I could scream.”

I nearly abandoned the erg right then and there. I only kept tethered to the machine because I was on fucking fire.

After I set down the handle, I swiveled toward Adrian’s shining eyes and beaming smile and all I could think was: You are brilliant.

I nearly asked him, yet again, about the job. But I stopped myself. I’ve resolved not to push about it anymore. Just like he’s my temporary coach, I’m his temporary girlfriend—it’s none of my business what he decides to do with his life after we go our separate ways. Besides, these kinds of mental boundaries are the reason I’m able to keep my role as his evaluator separate from our romantic relationship.