Page 15 of Racing Hearts

To my relief, the bartender materializes and sets a pale yellow drink by my fingertips. I snatch it up, take a chug of tangy liquid, and immediately get another rush of lightheadedness. An advantage of exercising for six hours a day and hardly ever consuming alcohol? Extremely low tolerance.

“Losing.” At the sound of his voice, I swivel to find the man fully turned toward me, leaning against an elbow so his shirt is tight against his biceps. Those green eyes settle on me, practically glowing in the neon light. “Losing fucking sucks.”

The lasso around my chest eases, just a touch, and my lips crack into a half smile. “That it does.”

“But.” He shifts, leaning in so he can say the next part close to my ear, like he doesn’t want me to miss it over the music. “It’s one thing for a loss to be a loss, and it’s another to let it be more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Losing is painful and terrible. But that’s all it is. It doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”

My stomach twists with an almost painful emotion that I can’t name. Not with the jumble of thoughts and alcohol clogging up my brain.

“How did you know to say that?”

He shrugs and sits back.

“Well,” I say, “that was good. And totally untrue.”

He exhales a laugh. “Yeah, this stuff is always easier to tell other people than it is to hear yourself.”

“Regardless.” I hunt for the tiny straw with my tongue and suck down more cool liquid. “I want my life back. So, now I have two months to get good enough to win the freaking Pan American Games.”

The guy stares at me for a long moment, strobe lights bouncing off his cheekbones. Warmth from the alcohol purrs through my limbs.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

“Shoot.”

He blinks his eyes closed. “There’s a chance this is a wildly inappropriate question from a stranger and I’m just drunk enough to ask it.”

“I’m an open book,” I chirp. Not generally true, but whatever, right now it is. “Fire away.”

“All right.” He traces a finger across the rim of his glass. “Do you think you’ll quit? Like, not make yourself go through all of that.”

“Nope.” I haven’t thought about it and I don’t need to. “It might all feel impossible right now, but I will only quit rowing when someone pries my oars out of my cold, dead hands. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or when I get trounced at Pan Ams and I have no other choice. But I’m not going down without a fight. I will work every minute of every day to claw my way back, no matter how long the odds.”

A laugh eases out of him. “Fuck, that’s impressive.”

“I think you mean stubborn.”

“No.” He looks at me, holds my gaze. Despite the sticky heat practically radiating off the walls, goose bumps race across my bare arms. “I meant what I said.”

There’s acid coursing through my veins now. I’m loopy, slightly out of control. At least I don’t feel hollowed out anymore.

“Do you want to dance?” I ask.

His mouth explodes in a grin. “Hell yes, I do.”

I polish off the rest of my drink in one clean gulp, slam down the empty glass, and spin. I don’t usually do this. But right now, with the residual heat of anger and the sparkle of alcohol in my veins, I want to dance until my toes go numb.

The two of us forge a path through the cramped dance floor until I find a sliver of empty space. Circled by sweat-slicked bodies, I raise my hands and let the music take over. It vibrates through me, guiding my hips back and forth, my shoulders up and down. Lasers crisscross the crowd, speckling my arms in neon green. I chase them like a cat, finding the beat in my fingers and my toes.

I’m lost in this moment, in everything. All the shit has fallen away—Maxwell, the race. Even the talk with Carla. There’s nothing left but this moment. And a man.