Page 29 of Racing Hearts

Rohan throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Ma’am! I said ma’am! That was a hundred percent respectful.”

Adrian nudges his athlete away with an elbow. “I think you’re making it worse, dude.” He holds the box toward me once more, voice hardening. “StrokeCoach, Parker. I’m not asking again.”

Heat rises up my neck as watchful eyes track my every movement, but I still unlock the device from its mount and drop it into the box. Then I turn and march down to the water, boat firmly on my hip and left hand facing away from the team.

Because Adrian didn’t ask for my watch.

The first interval goes poorly. Even though my body feels light, I’m opening my trunk too early and missing water at the catch. I also have to keep angling my wrist so I can surreptitiously glance at my watch. Every time I see a number that displeases me, my next stroke falters, and I fight to regain momentum.

All in all, this practice is going exactly as well as I’d have expected considering I lost multiple days of training and I don’t have my most important tech.

“Damn it, Parker!” Adrian yells from his launch as I finish the second-to-last interval. I’m hunched over, elbows crushing my knees as I suck in air, trying to calm my burning lungs.

His boat accelerates toward me in a storm of wake and roar of engine.

“What?” I yell, even though I know exactly what. I hit a button on my watch moments before Adrian’s outburst.

He kills the engine and strides to the edge of his platform, towering form casting a long shadow that nearly reaches my deck.

“Watch,” he demands. “No more games. Give it to me now.”

“I told you—”

“No.” He points a finger at it. “No more. Take off the watch.”

There’s actual pain in my jaw from how hard I’m clenching my teeth. My mind flits back to that rubric and I can’t wait—I cannot wait—to tell USRowing exactly what kind of coach Adrian is.

“Now, Parker,” Adrian says again.

I refuse to look at him as I unclasp the band and throw the watch at his chest. He catches it with one hand before tucking it into his pocket.

“Thank you,” he says, tone lower. “We’ll start again in a few minutes.”

I channel my rage into my last interval.

Every time Adrian’s green eyes flit into my mind, I jam my legs harder, driving the boat forward with strokes as vengeful as they are powerful. My blades splash under each precise catch, my core flexing as I drive, my lats and biceps burning with the finish. A salty breeze swirls around me as the oars glide back and forth. Catch, drive, feather, recover. Over and over until it isn’t just a rhythm. It’s a poem.

We hit the halfway point, and my breaths start coming in harder. There’s acid building in my limbs, but I’m so focused, so intent, I barely feel it.

I glide, skating on the water like a kid on a swing: light, weightless. I’m floating, each stroke propelling me forward, taking me feet instead of inches, like my boat has a life of its own. Like my equipment weighs half as much as it should. The pain is there—always there—but it’s overshadowed by joy.

This right here. It’s one of the reasons I love rowing. Yes, there’s the control and the routine and the life I get to live because of my devotion to the sport. But there’s also this feeling. Like I’m flying. I never get to choose when it happens, but when it does, it’s magic.

We finish the last interval in a whirlwind of sweat and pain and breathtaking exhilaration. I brace my elbows against my knees, droplets of sweat and briny water dripping from the tip of my nose. Instantly, I turn my wrist, searching for my phantom watch. My gaze flicks up to Adrian’s launch a few boat lengths away. He’s grinning.

“Time?” I ask with my next lungful of air.

His smile widens.

. . .

Adrian makes me wait until all the guys have left, filtering away to idling cars in the parking lot, before he’ll share the last interval time with me.

“Want to guess?” he asks, a devilish grin playing across his lips.

I swallow a heavy sigh. I take my splits way too seriously to play these games. Even worse, I’m annoyed by the way his eyes dance when he’s smiling.

“Can’t you just tell me?”