Page 30 of Racing Hearts

“Did it feel faster or slower than the others?” Adrian prods.

I don’t have to think about it, because it doesn’t matter how it felt. For the last few months, whenever I’ve done this workout, the pattern has always been the same. The second interval is slower than the first and the third is slower than the second.

“Slower,” I bite out. “So, what was it?”

Very slowly, and with that damn grin spreading even wider, Adrian shakes his head, maintaining eye contact like he needs to witness my reaction. “Faster.”

“Faster than the second?”

“No,” he says. “Faster than both.”

I stare at him for another beat, trying to figure out if he’s lying or exaggerating. “Sounds like a mistake.”

He hands his clipboard to me. “See? Resting. Getting out of your head. It works. Are you ready to start taking my method seriously?”

I tilt the page. It’s filled with notes and times layered together with errant observations about conditions and technical cues. Adrian reaches over to tap a finger against my initials near the bottom. I squint at the numbers scrawled there.

“The second interval is off by about a second,” I say, slapping the clipboard against his chest.

He frowns at the paper, then up at me. “That’s about how much time it would take you to look at your watch. Besides, you beat your time by almost ten seconds on the third one, so we’re well outside a margin of error.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but now I don’t know if I can trust your notes.”

Adrian leans his head back and stares at the boathouse rafters for so long I wonder if I’ve taken this too far. It wouldn’t be the first time a coach quit on me. During my senior year of high school, I started refusing to do my coach’s elementary, often recycled on-water programs. After some months, that coach, Darlene was her name, stopped fighting me. Eventually, she stopped coaching me entirely. I think I might lose my deal with Carla if Adrian actively quits on me, though.

Just as I’m about to try to, gently, take a step back, Adrian’s eyes sink to my face. He blows out a long breath, gaze softer than it has been in days. “Maybe I’m taking the wrong approach here.”

“What does that mean?”

“Maybe I’m coaching you wrong.”

“I don’t understand.”

Adrian folds his arms around his clipboard and tilts his head. For the last few days, his expression and demeanor have been filled with visceral authority, demanding and stern. But…his body language has shifted again. More open somehow.

“I thought you might be an athlete who does well with rules and boundaries and firm lines,” he says. “I also thought you’d change your mind if I gave you clear reason to do so. Like today, without technology getting in the way, you were able to connect with your body instead of being so fixated on all the tangential stuff. It worked, too, or at least I can see that it did. But you still haven’t changed your mind about me or my coaching. So, maybe it’s time to switch gears.”

Connect with my body? Technology “getting in the way”? It all sounds suspiciously like something my mom would say, but with less talk of chakras and healing spirits.

“What do you mean ‘switch gears’?” I ask.

“Coach you differently. Quit doing the iron fist thing.”

My brain stumbles. “Wait, sorry. ‘Iron fist’ thing? You’re saying you’ve been acting?”

He frowns, but his tone remains more open than stern. “No, I’ve been coaching. Different athletes need different styles. Some need firm rules and limits. Some need smiles and pep talks. Some need high standards and specific praise. I’m trying to figure out what you need.”

I blink at him. I’ve trained with a lot of coaches and, yes, they all had different approaches, but that was about them as individuals. Carla has sky-high expectations that most people fight to try to meet. Darlene doled out praise like candies while my varsity coach withheld it except in the rarest of occasions. Those styles work better or worse for different athletes. But I’ve never seen a coach change themself.

I shake my head.

“You don’t believe me?” he asks.

“It doesn’t sound possible.”

Adrian regards me for another beat, finger tapping against his clipboard. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t? How about for the evaluation?” I ask.