Page 38 of Racing Hearts

Very slowly, with almost painful deliberation, he shakes his head, eyes locked on mine like he needs to see my recognition.

“No,” he says. “That night. Right now. I find you nothing short of extraordinary.”

A breath gusts out of me. Adrian’s gaze drops to my lips. Something thumps over inside my chest, a heavy, rhythmic movement like a boat keeling to one side. I’m suddenly aware of the already too-narrow space between us. He’s so close I could touch him with less than a step. So close I can see his chest rising and falling with each breath.

The Skee-Ball alley lets out a high-pitched ring.

I startle backward, glance up at the screen.

“It’s going to time out,” I say, voice disintegrating.

Adrian pauses, gaze tracing my face. Then he lets out a breath that sounds like half a sigh. He steps back. Turns to pick up his ball.

It rumbles up the alley, skips wide. For the first time, Adrian doesn’t sink any of the higher-scoring cups.

With his back turned, I release a shaky exhale.

Three balls later, a respectable score of 220 flashes in red above the alley. Adrian sank a few forties, and otherwise had an assortment of tens, twenties, and one thirty. He never went for fifty, not even once.

Now that I’ve had a moment to collect myself, I know how I’m going to beat him. Yes, playing this game straight and consistent is the right strategy. But winning is about taking the occasional risk. You have to wait for the magic moment when everything aligns and success feels imminent. This isn’t controllable—the opportunity either arrives or doesn’t. But when it happens, you slam the gas.

Adrian steps to the side. He doesn’t insult me by offering any technique advice, as Maxwell would have done. He just wordlessly waits for me to fulfill my promise. Despite my jitters and all the ways my new coach throws me off like a compass confronted with a roomful of magnets, I know my true north.

Victory.

I close my hand around the soft, almost leathery surface of my first ball and soak in that earthy smell. Then I set my foot and let the ball fly.

The ball skips off the edge of the forty pocket and buries into the twenty. I allow myself a single moment of disappointment before I sink back into my racing zone—a state of mind that hovers above emotions, positive and negative, only achievable under the right circumstances. With a clear mind, I grab another ball, loosen my wrist, and fling it forward. It rumbles aloft, pitches off the edge and arcs, landing in the forty.

My chest purrs. And then I’ve grabbed the next ball, satisfaction forgotten, focused anew.

Thirty. Ten. Forty.

The next ball feels light in my fingertips. The neon lights fade, whirring sounds quiet, and the lingering smell of basement musk recedes. Anticipation pricks over my forearms. Magic.

I adjust my aim higher and loose the next ball.

It lands with a satisfying plunk.

Fifty.

I’ve stopped caring about the score. It’s just me and the alley. It’s the same feeling I get in a great race—when everything drops away. The world narrows to a pinprick and there are no competitors, no spectators, no finish line. It’s just me and the boat. And we’re dancing.

I sink another. And another.

When the last ball disappears, I step back. Above me, my score blinks in red. 250.

“YES!” My arms fly above my head.

Behind me, Adrian claps. “Impressive as hell, Parker.”

I spin and he puts his hand up for a high five. I slap it with relish, so hard my palm stings. When our hands drop, Adrian’s middle finger hooks into mine.

“You leave me no choice but to ask for a rematch,” he says. Ever so softly, he runs his thumb over the back of my knuckles. My skin tingles under the feathery touch. “A chance to redeem myself.”

“I can do this all night,” I whisper.

He nods, another smile unfurling, and releases me. My chest feels two sizes too large for my rib cage.