Page 12 of Racing Hearts

Carla blinks. “I don’t have that power.”

“Right, but you can make a recommendation. You can ask the board to override the rules.”

Carla’s scowl burrows deeper. “They won’t go for it.”

“You won’t even ask?” I say, voice rising because this is the only way forward that doesn’t involve growing a pair of wings.

“Not without concrete evidence of improvement that I can give the board to back up the recommendation,” she says. “Because it’s not just your performance that’s the problem. It’s your lack of adaptability.”

My insides flare as a frustrated growl nearly escapes my throat. I can’t believe this is the reason she’s giving up on me. For the last month, Carla has been obsessed with this idea that my routines have gotten too involved and are now working against me. But every time we discuss specifics—changing how I spend my rest day, modifying my sleep schedule—I can point to clear reasons why I have the system I do.

“My routines make me a good athlete,” I say for approximately the thousandth time. I wouldn’t need to keep repeating myself if Carla listened.

“Clearly they don’t or you wouldn’t have strung together so many questionable performances.”

I step back, surprised by the sting in her voice. “There have been extenuating circumstances.”

“Such as?”

“Such as getting dumped on a dock.” I’m losing my professional cool here, but I can’t help myself. The unfairness is as palpable as fire ants coursing down my limbs.

Carla gives me a fleeting, sympathetic smile before launching back in. “And France? Germany?”

“My relationship has been on the rocks for weeks.” As soon as I say the words, I can feel the truth behind them. Sofi was right about Maxwell. He has been the problem. The last few weeks have been tough on me and Maxwell has only made that worse with all his pressure and opinions and disappointment. He’s made my emotions more volatile. Thrown me off focus. “If anything, what I need is more stability and predictability. More routine.”

Carla massages the bridge of her nose, looking like she’s counting to ten in her mind. Distantly, an announcer crackles over the loudspeakers, calling out finishes.

“All of that only hurts you,” she says. “Particularly when it starts spiraling out of control. Your refusal to see that is the problem.”

Spiraling out of control? How does that make any sense? My routines give me control.

“I need an example,” I say. When my coach narrows her eyes, I add, “Let’s discuss an example. Please.”

She taps a long finger against her folded arm, eliciting a soft whisper from her windbreaker. “Why were you arm wrestling with a stranger for a lemon bar last night?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Answer the question.”

I smooth a hand across my braid and tug at the frayed end. “I needed to eat one before my race. It’s a pre-race superstition. All athletes have them.”

“Right, but not all athletes have so many. Not all athletes have beliefs so deep-seated that they can never be changed. Not all athletes are certain they’ll fail if they don’t follow their plans precisely. Obviously, this isn’t about a lemon bar. It’s about how you eat, recover, and train. It’s about how you prepare for races and whether or not you make real changes when you lose or if you just keep doubling and tripling down on the same failing strategies.”

She presses her hand to my shoulder. “Having routines is good. Being so dependent on those routines that you’re unwilling to change them, even if they aren’t serving you anymore? That’s not. I want you to find a way to be okay without lemon bars in your life. Maybe some time away from the training center will help. Maybe Adrian can help, too.”

My ears ring with a high-pitched whine. She’s abandoning me. I’m going to lose my spot. I’ve already lost my spot. And—barring magic or a miracle—there’s nothing I can do to get it back.

There’s sandpaper scraping against my eyeballs. Outside, music fires alive with a pumping bass, punctuated by shouts and whoops of glee. The races are ending and the after-parties are getting warmed up—a loud, jarring overtone to the misery inside this tent.

I blink hard against the coming storm. After all of this, I’m sure as hell not going to let Carla see me cry.

Chin up. Chest forward.

“I appreciate your consideration,” I say quietly.

“I know this is tough, Kath,” Carla says. “Try to relax tonight. Get your mind off it. You can pick back up in a few days.”

I nod, fighting back tears. Carla releases me, stepping back. I’m sure she knows I want to be alone and she’s not about to stand in my way.