Page 99 of Racing Hearts

“It was for the interview, wasn’t it? The interview with Carla and the rest of the board. Tell me, when was it?”

He pauses, jaw working. “The day you raced in the final.”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “So, you bought the lemon bar to cheer yourself up because of an interview that hadn’t happened yet. You weren’t just expecting to fail. You were planning on it.”

Adrian swallows so hard his throat dips with the motion. The rest of his body language hasn’t changed—his arms are still crossed, creasing his forearm muscles, and his jaw is so tight I can see the muscle working by his ear. I’m probably overstepping a boundary here because this isn’t my place to push, but I don’t think I can stop.

“Remember when I told you that you’re one of the best coaches I’ve ever worked with?” I say. “It’s true, but it seems like you don’t see it, too. Even though you’re also a person who does nothing but believe in the people around you. So, why can’t you turn that around? Why can’t you believe in yourself?”

“That’s not true,” he says quickly.

“That you can’t believe in yourself?”

“That I’m better than most of the coaches you’ve worked with.”

“Right.” I lift my shoulders. “You’re right. Because you’re better than all of them.”

He swallows, shaking his head like my compliment was some kind of insult.

“Look at how much progress I’ve made this summer,” I argue. “Look at all the ways you’ve helped me improve. The open water challenge. All the changes in my routine. You even convinced me to let my chin tilt.”

It happened a few weeks ago—one day after our trip to Angel Island when we were messing around in the erg room after practice.

“Stop fighting your instincts,” Adrian said.

Just like that first day on the ergs, he pressed my chin higher with his index finger, pinned me in place with his eyes, and raised my face to his. My heart practically erupted under his touch, his confident gaze. And finally I tried. I let go of the steady stream of textbook advice and coaching cues, and I let my chin lift the way my body has always wanted. And it felt amazing. Like letting go. Like being set free.

Right now, though, my words do nothing to dissipate his tension. In fact, he clenches and unclenches his jaw, fixing me with a leaden stare. “You said you wouldn’t push, Kath. You said you didn’t care about how successful I am or what job title I have.”

“And I still don’t. I’m not pushing you because I care about you achieving some status. If you want to coach high school for the rest of your life that is absolutely valid and worthy. And you know what? I’m not even pushing because I want you to be happy, although I do want that with every fiber of my being.

“I’m pushing because you won’t even let yourself consider it. I’m not telling you what choice to make—I’m telling you that you have a choice. That if you want this junior national team job, you should go for it. Instead of shutting down the idea, you should consider how excellent you already are.

“And why can’t you see that about yourself?” I ask, feeling frustrated for the first time since we started talking. He’s so brilliant it’s almost offensive that he can’t see it. “Why can’t you admit that, if you wanted it, you could skip over juniors entirely and be the damn national team coach? That, here in Berkeley, you’ve barely scraped the surface of your potential? That you’re capable of so much more?”

“Because I will never be more!” He slams a fist against the doorjamb. “This is all I’ll ever be.”

Adrian lowers his shaking fist and raises his eyes to mine. “I quit in high school. I’ve never even sat in a team boat since that day. I’ve never gotten back on a starting line. So, what right do I have to coach the athletes who have dared to push themselves so much further than I have? The ones who aren’t quitters. I don’t. I can’t. This is who I am. High school. This is the top for me.”

My stomach lurches, heart skipping like a record scratch. I want to yank him into a hug, to scream out that he’s wrong. I’m itching to smooth his hair and insist with my touch that he is more. But I can’t do that, not when none of this conversation changes our future. Not when it’s already going to be nearly impossible to walk away.

So, instead, I ask, “Did someone say all that to you?”

“What?”

“Did someone tell you that you’re a quitter? That ‘high school’ is as good as you’ll ever be?”

He pulls in a deep breath through his nose and his eyes track lower. “He said it would define me. That it would hang around my neck for the rest of my life. He was right.”

I have an irrational urge to shove Adrian’s father off a bridge. “Only because he made you believe it,” I say desperately. “Not because there’s any real truth to it.”

Adrian’s eyes are distant again, but I can’t walk away from him like this. I won’t leave him with nothing but hurt and regret. I want his life to be better because I was in it, however fleeting our time together might have been.

“I want to read you something,” I say.

Before I can lose my nerve, I fish out my phone from my back pocket. I click open the Notes app with the draft of my cover letter for the recommendation to Carla and USRowing. It’s not polished yet, but this has to be enough.

“To the Board of USRowing,” I read. “My name is Katherine Parker. I’m a five-time junior national and national team member and NCAA Champion. Two months ago, I was given the honor to evaluate Adrian Crawford for the junior development lead coaching position.