Page 9 of Racing Hearts

Maxwell tips his chin. “Us.”

The lake tilts. My oar slips wrong into the water, nearly dragging me over. I slap the dock to catch myself.

“You…what?”

“You know we’re not right for each other, Katherine.” He’s using that slow, patient voice, like he’s explaining how to share to a small child. “That’s been clear for some time now. It will be better for both of us, in the long run, if we go our separate ways.”

There’s a low buzzing in my ears, like someone stuffed cotton into them. The announcer, the wind, the clang of cowbells—it’s all muffled.

“Now?” I say. “You want to do this now?”

Maxwell tightens his lips into a conciliatory smile and nods slowly. I imagine that behind his mirrored sunglasses, his eyes are drenched in pity. “This is somewhat overdue.”

My knuckles whiten on my grips. “Maxwell. I’m sitting in a boat about to go race. It’s maybe the most important race of the year. You could have talked to me about this at any other time. Later this evening, or tomorrow, or when we get back to the training center. Why in the actual hell did you pick the worst possible moment to have a breakup?”

He folds his arms around a knee, and in that level, reasonable voice, he says, “I doubt it would have made any difference.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think it’s clear enough.”

My blood has gone hot and sticky. “Because you think I’m going to race poorly?”

He pauses. Then nods. “It has nothing to do with belief. Past performance is highly correlated with future success.”

Tears prick my eyes. I have a completely irrational urge to whip my oar out of the water and slap it against his smug face. Instead, I bottle up every emotion inside. I have never cried in front of Maxwell. Not when he threw away my lemon bar. Not after France or when he called me “a ball of anxiety” or when he told me my Olympic dreams were already dead.

“I need to go,” I say. I don’t trust my voice enough to say more.

Without another glance in his direction, I slam my sunglasses over my eyes and heave off the dock. My shoulders burn as I start the long, slow strokes toward the warm-up area. My heart pounds like a boxer laying into a punching bag. My lungs blaze with fire. And I haven’t even approached the starting line yet.

Thirty minutes later, the start judge calls for attention.

I race, but I don’t just fail to make the top three.

My bow crosses two boat lengths behind fifth.

Dead last.

. . .

I don’t bother with a cooldown. What’s the point?

When I make my way back to the docks, my lungs are still burning like I lit one of my mom’s incense sticks and shoved it down my throat. My vision blurs at the edges so all I can see are Sofi’s curls framed by fake wood. The lactic acid in my arms and legs makes my limbs so thick and heavy that I have to let my boat coast the rest of the way.

Sofi grabs my blade and pulls until she can catch my rigger. I slump forward, elbows crushing my knees.

“I’m so sorry,” she says as I heave myself off the seat and she folds me into her arms.

I take a deep breath, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill onto her curls. There are people everywhere—athletes clamoring into boats, officials hopscotching over oars. The Canadian woman who won my final is shouting breathlessly into a phone that her coach is holding up.

I can’t lose it now. Not in front of all these people.

So, I wordlessly extricate myself from Sofi’s hug. She silently squats to lift my bow. Together, we trudge up the long grassy hill toward the trailers. When we finally loosen my boat into its slings, I drape myself over it and let my temple rest against the cool surface.

“I heard him telling one of his teammates about what happened.” Sofi’s voice is so sharp it could slice through rock. “He’s a dick, by the way.”

“This isn’t how it was supposed to go.”