Page 11 of Racing Hearts

Despite my best intentions, my eyes drop to my cracked red, white, and blue toenail paint. I suppose that’s true. I don’t have the breakup to blame for the race in France. Or the ones in Germany.

“Kath.” When I look up, Carla nudges her chin toward the director’s chair. “I need you to sit down.”

My heart freezes. Carla has been my coach for nearly four years and, for all the tough talks she’s given me, she’s never once asked me to sit down. She delivers bad news with the swift precision of a surgeon cutting out a diseased kidney. This woman has never even heard of the word coddle.

“This is about the Worlds team, isn’t it?” I ask.

She shakes her head minutely. “This is about your residency.”

“My…what?”

“Your performance in this regatta has brought down your standing rather significantly.” Her voice is uncharacteristically soft. “You no longer meet the minimum qualification for Olympic Training Center residency.”

These words punch a hole through my center. My scalp tingles and fingers go numb. It’s like my body is responding before my mind even has a chance to process what’s happening.

“You mean…”

“You’re going to have to find somewhere else to train.”

There is no air in this tent. I’m floating, like the sensation that sometimes happens during a race, in those moments when I’m in such intense pain that my mind disconnects from my body as some kind of demonic self-defense mechanism.

The training center is everything to me. Everything. It’s my home, my coaching, the literal roof over my head. The weight room, physical therapy, medical care, all of my meals. I can’t be a rower without the training center. I don’t know where I’ll live without the training center.

“I’ve…You’re telling me…”

How did this even happen? How did I miss that this was a possibility? A few years ago, when I first qualified for training center residency, I was tracking my standing obsessively. But I guess I’ve been so focused on everything else—my sponsorships, qualifying for Worlds, Olympic trials next year—that I started taking what I already had for granted.

“You can re-establish residency at the next qualifying event,” Carla says, not unkindly. “That would be Pan Ams.”

“Pan Ams,” I whisper.

I would have to win the Pan American Games to make a straight qualification there. And winning seems unlikely at best, impossible at worst. I can beat the Argentine and Chilean women when I’m at the top of my game. But the Canadian is like a tank on a Jet Ski. I couldn’t beat her if Carla sprinkled me with fairy-coach magic dust.

My coach squints at me like she’s reading all of this mental calculus. “This isn’t a death sentence. Pan Ams won’t be until the end of September. You have two months to train.”

Train where? My sponsorships barely pay for my travel needs, so I have almost no savings. No money for rent or dues at a top-tier club. Crashing with a friend is impossible—they all live in the training center. “I don’t even know where I’ll go.”

“You’re from Berkeley, right?”

“Yes, but…” I haven’t lived in Berkeley since high school. I’d have no other rowers for pacing, no dining hall for meals, no trainers to tape my shoulders and wrists. I’d have to move back into my mom’s house, which can best be described as the landfall of a tropical storm. “There’s nothing for me there. I’d be all alone.”

“Actually, you wouldn’t.” Carla moves to her desk and flips through a stack of papers until she finds a business card near the top. She hands it to me. “There’s a solid youth club in the East Bay. It’s currently headed up by Adrian Crawford, a very promising coach. I can talk to him for you, see if he’d be willing to let you work with his team. Plus, I think going back home and training in a less demanding environment could be good for you. Get away from the pressure of all this—just for a while.”

I stare down at the plain-looking card—inscribed with the address where I first got on the water. Carla is looking at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to be grateful. I try not to look incredulous. I’ve been living in the training center for four years. Before that, I rowed on my college varsity team. Before that, I made the Junior Worlds team. And, still before that, at the very beginning of it all, I learned to row at this very youth club.

“I’m sorry”—I splutter out—“you want me to train with teenagers?”

Carla purses her lips. “Is there something wrong with teenagers? Are they offensive in some way?” I’m about to stammer out an explanation but she folds her arms and plows forward. “You need a coach and other boats to pace you. The guys will be about your speed when they’re in doubles. And, from everything I’ve been able to tell, this coach is excellent, which is why he’s currently under consideration for a position with the junior national team.”

“Junior national team,” I repeat.

I’m not trying to be arrogant here. Really. It’s just that there is an order to things, a progression. In rowing—in all sports, really—you take certain steps forward, pass certain milestones. I’ve earned my progression. I had to train, race, and win for my spots. Going back to training with a youth club isn’t like taking a step or two backward: It’s like nearing the end of Chutes and Ladders and getting sent back to the start.

To make it all worse, somehow, I’ll have to go from that starting place to winning Pan Ams. In two months. I know Carla believes her athletes can do anything we set our minds to, but right now it’s like she’s saying this Adrian guy in Berkeley will teach me to sprout wings and fly over the course. It’s impossible. It’s—

I remember something. A few years ago, one of the men’s pairs lost their training center residency, but their ornery coach urged USRowing to keep them on anyway. They got to stay.

“Overrule.” I whisper the word like a prayer.