Page 23 of Racing Hearts

I slap the screen and drop my hand. “That could be from the travel and the time change.”

“Yeah? What’s the number, then?”

Before I realize what he’s doing, Adrian reaches toward me and envelops my wrist with his long fingers. I’m so caught off guard I do nothing but stand limply as he gently swivels my watch upward again, drawing my hand toward him. My heart takes off at a gallop. The watch face careens through colors—dark yellow, then bright orange.

I yank back my hand.

“That’s not—” I splutter. “It doesn’t matter what my heart rate is.”

Adrian finds my eyes and my chest lurches like the traitor it is.

“Of course it matters,” he says.

I shake my head, some combination of defiance and embarrassment moving my chin before conscious thought. My heart wouldn’t be dancing around in my chest like a rhythmic gymnast if we hadn’t arm wrestled or danced. If I hadn’t tried to kiss him. If he didn’t have those eyes or those damn shoulders.

“I’m ready to get back on the water,” I say firmly. “This is my call.”

Adrian’s eyebrows squeeze together as he studies me again. This time, though, he’s not examining anything on my face or my body, but something deeper. Something that sends another shiver right through my spine.

He clicks his tongue and his body language shifts—arms crossed, back straight, smile gone.

“Rest, Parker. You need rest. And then you need to do something else. Something fun. Don’t think about rowing. And that’s not your call. It’s mine.” With that, he turns and strides down the hill toward the docks. “You can get back on the water when you can stand upright and the watch stays green.”

I gnash my teeth even as I let myself slide back into the sling. Kids filter down to the docks, shells lofted high on shoulders. One by one, they pile onto their seats, push off, and stroke away.

As the boats recede into pinpricks, I run through mental math. I have sixty-one days until Pan Ams. It might sound like a lot, but in training terms, it’s nothing. A blink. Plus, to get my heart rate down to baseline, I’ll need days off. So, Adrian is saying I should skip—what—twelve percent of my on-water sessions?

I can’t give up that much precious training time if I want to beat the unbeatable Canadian.

Resolved, I march into the boathouse and hunt for a shell that no one will miss. I find my prize crammed into the back. Its faded gray cover is thick with dust, and it has a cracked footplate and a missing bow ball.

Better than nothing, I think as I settle my boat into the water, strap in my feet, and push my fingertips off the dock.

Eight

60 Days Until Pan Ams

After I’m berated for “using club property without permission,” Adrian starts locking the bay doors when his team gets on the water. In answer, I start pacing the shoreline until I can pepper my so-called coach with questions, like: “When will you release me from this purgatory?” and “Is this some kind of conspiracy to tank my performance?” and “Are you secretly a Canadian plant?”

My questions barely faze him. In fact, they seem to fuel his resolve. I don’t know what happened to the enthusiastic smiles and kind words. Now, he’s all crossed arms and wordless shoulder shrugs. He even snorted when I asked him about being a Canadian plant. Snorted. He then retorted that the Canadians are winning plenty of medals without an ounce of his help. Frankly, I find this offensive given that I have to beat one of them to get my damn life back.

I’ve spent hours hatching a plan to break into the boathouse, heist-style. Most of the windows are firmly locked or, I don’t know, sealed shut with grime and dust, but there’s a possibility I can scale the wood siding and get in through one of the small ones up high. Yet, after picturing myself getting stuck like Winnie the Pooh, resulting in a broken ankle or, even worse, a rescue from Adrian, I shoot down the idea.

Instead, I manage to convince Peter—the serious kid with the glasses—to leave a set of dumbbells outside the weight room so I can do weighted lunges. This earns me my second reprimand from Adrian, who’s all scowls and finger pointing as he wrests “East Bay Rowing property” out of my hands.

“You said I can get back to strength training!” I protest as I relinquish the dumbbells. “Today!”

“I said,” Adrian growls as he hoists them onto a shoulder, “that I would consider letting you join us for the weight room session this afternoon. The one I have programmed. Where I will be present. But now you’ll have to wait until tomorrow at least.”

“WHAT?” I scream at his tight shoulders as he strides away. Adrian keeps saying stuff about “mental health” and “emotional bandwidth” but never acknowledges this actual torture he’s putting me through. “What about a racing shell? When do I get one of those?”

He points a finger toward the road. “Get some rest, Parker. Have some fun.”

Terrified he’ll add yet more time to my sentence, I stop stalking the bays.

Instead, I stalk his office.

At the very least, I argue, he should let me read his training program. Ostensibly, I’ll be doing this program for the next two months and I need to mentally prepare. After much cajoling, Adrian begrudgingly agrees to give me an hour with it and forks over a stack of papers. This is the first red flag. Back home, my programs are on electronic spreadsheets where they belong. With raised eyebrows, I heft the jumbled pile to the team lounge and prop myself on one of the faded couches.