Page 1 of Racing Hearts

One

1 Day Until World Cup Final

There’s nothing but a lemon bar standing between me and financial ruin. That’s why, the evening before my last World Cup final, I’m powering over quaint garden parks and through sweeping alleyways, light mist glossing my face. If I don’t get that bar, it won’t matter if I sleep like a rock, or crush my pre-race routines, or wear thirty pairs of lucky Powerpuff underwear—I’m losing the final, the rest of my sponsors, and all my remaining income.

My foot snags on an irregular cobblestone and I glare at it as I speed past. I can’t afford to face-plant in a piazza full of Italians sipping wine.

Sofi, a few paces behind, leaps over the threatening stone. “I always knew one of your superstitions would be the death of me. What I didn’t predict was that it would happen while sprinting to a bakery in Varese.”

“Okay, first off,” I say, falling into step beside her. She’s usually faster than me—both on and off the water—but this evening her wildly impractical strappy sandals are holding her back. “Our pace clearly puts us in the ‘power walking’ category. And second, as I was told on my fourth call to one of these places, the preferred term is pasticceria.”

“I notice you’re not taking issue with my untimely demise.”

“Oh, this situation is absolutely going to ruin us both,” I say. “You because of those shoes. And me because of my ridiculous Olympic dreams.”

Sofi sighs. “Your Olympic dreams will be fine.”

“If I choke again tomorrow,” I say, ticking off fingers as I list my points, “I won’t make the World Championships team and then my last two sponsors will dump me. I’ll have to work a part-time job between practices. I won’t properly recover. My performance will keep spiraling. And I’ll never make it to the Olympics.”

When I stop, I notice that my heart rate has accelerated despite my world-class cardiovascular fitness. Maybe it’s because our route has started to curve uphill. Or it’s that laying it out makes it feel even more real.

Sofi lowers her chin. “Okay, then. Let’s do this thing.”

“Thanks, Sof, but I think we’re already doing it.”

“Nah. Before, I was here for aesthetics and comic relief. Now, I’m committed.”

“Aesthetics?”

She swivels and jogs a few steps to the side so she can motion at her outfit. “Aesthetics.”

I laugh. Even though she’s one of the fastest rowers on the planet, and has the stacked quads and chiseled back to prove it, Sofi’s muscles have a softness that allow her to look conventionally feminine, especially when she’s not wearing spandex. It’s a feat I never even try to pull off, thanks to my high forehead, angular jaw, and hips so straight you could use them like a giant ruler. That’s not to mention my hair, which has basically been ironed onto my head in the shape of a French braid. But, as I glance at her again, I notice that tonight Sofi’s also wearing earrings, a flowy skirt, and golden eyeshadow that looks like stardust against her brown skin.

“You look good, but right now my only priority is speed.” I swivel my wrist to glance at my watch. “Although we are making decent time.”

“How long ’til they close?” Sofi peeks around my elbow at the electronic display. “Wait, you have the watch set to training mode?”

“I needed to actively monitor our progress!” I slap the screen with my palm, darkening it, and move my hands back into walking position. “I’ll delete the data later.”

We skitter around a set of café chairs and Sofi vaults over a sidewalk planter to evade a woman walking a dachshund at approximately the speed of a sedated turtle.

“They’ll still be open for a couple of hours,” I say when we’ve cleared our obstacles. “The problem is that lemon bars are some kind of rarity here, so it took me approximately a billion calls to find a place that sells them. Also, the lady mentioned they had only one left and she ‘definitely won’t hold it,’ no matter how many times I asked.”

“Did you try begging?”

“Repeatedly. Also cajoling and a little insisting. I think that made it worse.”

“I mean, fair,” Sofi says. “Americans are already obnoxious and you are…”

“A carefully curated brand of neurotic and inflexible?”

“I was going to say ‘determined.’ ”

I snort. “That’s kind of you.”

The good news is the hill has leveled out and we’re really cruising now—leaping over sidewalk edges and zipping around motorbikes. The bad news is our mist has turned into a light drizzle.

“So,” Sofi asks, “why didn’t you already have a lemon bar with you?”