Page 8 of Racing Hearts

I raise the pastry bag like I’m making a toast. “Already planning on it.”

Three

Day of World Cup Final

My pre-race routine goes almost flawlessly. According to my watch, I hit my sleep metrics like a champion bowler bagging strikes. Then, this morning, I somehow convinced the hotel’s kitchen staff to let me cook eggs on their industrial stove. I boiled the eggs for seven minutes and twenty-two seconds before shoveling them down with two pieces of wheat toast and four ounces of banana. That breakfast is exactly as delicious as it sounds—that is, not at all—but it’s tradition.

Like I said, it goes almost flawlessly. The problem is Maxwell.

He was supposed to meet me by the trailers before I head down to the lake. A month ago, Maxwell would have been there ten minutes early, notebook at the ready, prepared to impart last-minute advice. Sure, these pep talks have recently been devolving into laundry lists of the problems with my technique and race strategies, but his support is still vital, nearly as important as a lemon bar.

When I arrived, though, I found only Sofi—coffee cup clutched in one hand and a cardboard sign reading KILL IT, KATH in the other. Twenty minutes later, I’ve finished my dryland warm-up and had a final conversation with my coach about my race plan. As I make my way to the docks, boat lofted on one shoulder, I still haven’t seen a single hair of Maxwell’s perfectly coiffed head.

Heart skittering, I set my boat in the water and tap the oarlocks six times for good luck. Despite the encouragement from Sofi, my stomach churns like a washing machine set to high. I’m just lowering myself onto my seat, taking another breath to ease my jangle of nerves, when I hear my name.

I look up to find a familiar spike of gelled hair and neon green sunglasses descending toward the dock.

“Maxwell,” I say, exhaling his name like a sigh of relief.

The dock bounces slightly as he steps across it, then he crouches low next to my hull, resting an arm against a knee so his bicep muscles bulge. Maxwell isn’t racing today, but he’s still wearing a unisuit like he might need to spring into action for an emergency training session.

“Hey there,” he says.

I search his expression for remorse or anxiety but find neither. He looks neutral, almost like he’s steeling himself in indifference. “Why weren’t you at the trailers?”

“I—” He flexes his shoulders. “I came, okay? I’m here now.”

“Okay?”

I roll a hand against my oar grips as I wait for him to impart some words of wisdom or tips for the race to come. Instead, he keeps staring at me, mouth working like he’s chewing on his words.

“Any thoughts you want to share?” I ask. “Advice on my race plan?”

He pauses. I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but I swear I can feel him roll them. “I can’t keep wasting my time giving out advice that you’re only going to ignore.”

“I don’t ignore you.”

He frowns. “You haven’t fixed your chin—”

“That’s unfair,” I say, interrupting him. This is not the time to bring up my worst technical issue. “You know I’ve been working on that for years.”

“All the more reason you should have fixed it by now.”

I slap the surface of the water, sending a splash across the dock. “I can’t just change my technique halfway through the World Cups!”

He frowns at my outburst. “And that’s why I can’t do this anymore.”

I look from his face to a group of four rowers marching toward the dock, a shell lofted on their shoulders. Behind them, a race official is frowning at me, probably wondering why I haven’t pushed off yet. “You can’t give me notes?”

Instead of answering, Maxwell lets out a long exhale that’s tinged with a sigh. That’s the noise he makes when he’s going to lay out one of his “difficult truths.” I know you’re working hard, he said after we watched the tape of my heat in France. But some rowers peak in their twenties. Maybe it’s time to face what’s on the horizon.

When he still doesn’t say more, I tug off my sunglasses and shove them on top of my visor. “I don’t understand what’s going on. Tell me what’s happening.”

He splays out a hand, gesturing toward me, my boat, the dock. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The men’s single sculls are already flying down the shimmering lanes, judges streaming behind them in a roar of engines and wake. That’s only five events before mine. I should have already started my warm-up.

“Do what anymore?”