Page 33 of Racing Hearts

Then I put my hands on the smooth, plastic handle. And it all gets easier because I’m lost.

In fluid motions, I move. My quads flex as I press down, powering into my first stroke. As I round the top, my abs tense, shoulder blades pinch, and hands snap into my torso, sharp and quick. I hit a microscopic pause. Then I release it all in a rush of air and breath, now barely audible under the purr of the flywheel. In an instant, I’m pulling again, inhaling back up the slide in motion after glorious motion.

Press, flex, pause, repeat.

It’s a song. A prayer. The pain builds, but I’m in the zone now. Committed. It’s not just this moment on the line, but the next eight weeks. Control over my own program and an end to the otherwise endless cycle of frustration and consternation. If I give in to the burning in my lungs and the fire in my legs, I’ll lose it all forever.

So, I pull with everything I have. Sweat slicks my face. My breath heaves in fiery inhales. Up and down, I glide. I fly.

Seconds tick. I push my legs harder. On the display screen, meters blur like sand flowing through an hourglass. Press, flex, pause, repeat. I’m nearly there. Two hundred meters to go. A hundred. The last burning ounces of pain extracted like a sacrifice to a sadistic god.

My neck lifts out of neutral and I hear Carla’s voice screaming at me to get my chin down. I force myself to drop it. Chest up. Heart forward. Pull. Again. And again.

I let out a gasping yell. And cross the finish.

My hands release the handle. I gulp down air, forcing my lungs to relax, before swiveling to examine the display. It’s far from my personal best, but it’s the best I could have hoped for today.

I glance up, suddenly remembering Adrian is here, too.

He’s staring. Lips slightly parted. Hands limp by his sides. Chest rising and falling, like he’s also out of breath.

The heat that had just eased from my body rushes back like a swollen river overtaking a bank.

Memories of our night in Italy spring from their carefully contained box: A bead of sweat descending Adrian’s collarbone. Our synchronized movements in the deep thrums of bass, bodies glued together from chest to knees. My arm curling around his neck as his knuckles trail along one of my triceps.

“That looked good,” he says.

He steps toward me and crouches next to my erg. Every inch of my skin is magnetized, like I can feel the molecules of air humming over me.

“Except for one small issue.” He hooks his index finger under my chin and tilts my head up. My vision fills with nothing but his face. “Your chin rises when you’re pushing hard.”

He’s so close. I’m breathless, quivering from head to toe like a tuning fork. Adrian is imparting technical advice here, but all I can think about is the pressure of his finger, gently lifting my chin. And his lips, soft and just a shade lighter than red. I wonder how they taste.

“I—” I clear my throat. Try to get a grip. “I’m working on it.”

“Don’t,” he says softly.

“Don’t what?”

Adrian releases me. Air rushes back into my lungs and reality floods my system.

Coach. He’s my coach.

Despite our brief but memorable history, I can’t let my mind wander into musings on what he tastes like.

Probably citrus, though.

“Stop trying to fix it,” Adrian explains. “It works for you. It’s like you’re looking to the sky for your power. Like you can’t be contained to just the water and the boat. Why not let it tilt?”

I squint at his forehead. With some distance between us, I can finally put my tumbling thoughts into a coherent order. The fact that I have to explain this doesn’t bode well for Adrian’s level of knowledge or my future recommendation to USRowing—and that’s not to mention the strange nonsense about sky and power.

“Because that’s not proper technique,” I explain. “The chin is supposed to remain neutral throughout the stroke to keep the athlete’s airway open, maximizing the efficiency of breath.”

Adrian snorts as he pushes himself onto the seat of the erg across from me. “Did you just quote verbatim from The Rower’s Guide?”

Okay, never mind. If he knows where the quote came from, then he knows the technique advice. “Yeah. Which is exactly the reason I’m trying to do it.”

“Well, notwithstanding The Rower’s Guide”—he lets himself glide down the slide, crashing into the base like a kid riding a swing—“sometimes you need to do what feels right instead of what the textbook says.”