Page 13 of Racing Hearts

As I hurry toward the exit, she calls after me. “This isn’t impossible.”

Without turning, I nod and draw back the flap, using an elbow to shield my eyes from the blinding sunlight. I want to believe that, too.

But I don’t.

Five

64 Days Until Pan Ams

“You know what relationships are, Sofia? Chaos. Fucking chaos.”

Sofi looks at me like I’m drunk. I take another drag of Long Island Iced Tea through my straw, strobe lights turning the glass neon blue. Around us, sweaty athletes pound their feet and sway their hips as electronic dance music pulses so loudly I can practically hear it in my kidneys.

“You can’t hear the music in your kidneys,” Sofi says, which is when I realize I’ve said that last bit out loud. “How are you already this drunk? You’ve barely had half of that.”

I glare at her. “One of these is like three drinks.”

She rolls her eyes and shoos me backward, angling toward one of the black booths framing the room. I fall onto the sticky leather, holding my drink aloft so it doesn’t slosh onto this ridiculous outfit Sofi somehow convinced me to wear. I wanted to stay in spandex. She argued for sequins. We compromised on cutoff jean shorts and a strapless top.

“Besides,” I shout over the pounding music, “I’m not drunk. I’m pissed.”

Every national team rower on planet Earth has descended on this discoteca for our World Cup after-party, including Maxwell. Thankfully, I’ve easily avoided him so far. He’s been holding court in a corner booth, surrounded by the other guys in his eight and a few Australians. I bet he’s spent the night shouting lectures about rhythm. Maybe I should feel jealous that they’re getting his full attention now, but all I feel is smoldering rage.

“You have every right to be angry,” Sofi says.

I nod. Angry, at least, is better than the devastation that’s threatened to hollow me out since my conversation with Carla. Until Sofi dragged me to this club, I’d been comatose all day. The same thoughts skipping through my mind for hours. It was already going to be hard enough to come back from this slump. Now I’m going to have to do it with some untested, brand-new coach? Without my teammates or any supportive resources?

On top of it all, I’ll have to win Pan Ams. It’s enough to make me want to collapse in a puddle of despair.

Fucking Maxwell. This is entirely his fault. Dating him was the single worst decision I’ve ever made. And I knew better.

My hand clenches around the icy cold glass. “I’m going to lose rowing because of him.”

Sofi lays her fingers on the rigid lines of my forearm. “You’re not.”

“And then I’ll have nothing. I’m a rower. That’s it, Sof. That’s all I’ve got. I can use an oar to move a boat through water. And apparently I can’t even do that very well.”

When I look up, Sofi is frowning, but silent.

I grip the straw with my teeth and pull liquid until I hit the bottom of the glass. It vibrates with a mixture of melted ice and air. “I’m getting another.”

Sofi eyes me. “Really?”

I don’t usually drink, even after races. I’ve never seen the value in it. Maybe it feels good or whatever, but that’s just temporary. It won’t help my performance and, if anything, dehydration and a hangover will only hurt me, even if marginally. Tonight, though, I don’t know. Taking the edge off the sharp pit of all these emotions feels worth it.

From the dance floor, one of Sofi’s teammates waves frantically at us.

“You should go be with your team,” I say. Despite some drama lately, Sofi’s boat won gold two days ago. It’s the only good thing that’s happened in weeks. “Celebrate. Please.”

Sofi’s eyes cut to her teammates and she lets out a heavy sigh. I follow her gaze toward the smallest person in the tight pack of bodies—Missy, who is now twirling, one hand up, while she cluelessly sloshes her open drink on everyone within spitting distance. She’s a tiny thing, even for a coxswain, and super talented, but she’s also younger than everyone else. And, as we discovered over the course of this regatta, she’s wholly inexperienced with alcohol. Usually, Sofi and I keep an eye on Missy together, but tonight I’m useless.

“You don’t need me?” Sofi asks.

I stand and snatch up my empty glass. “Please don’t worry about me.”

“Okay,” Sofi says. “But promise not to get all weird and tense without me around?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Sofi. I’m always weird and tense.”