Page 28 of Racing Hearts

Adrian shrugs again. “There’s time.”

So, I spend another thirty-six hours aggressively resting. I’ve always been good about my nutrition and sleep, but I become maniacal. I track every ounce of water, every gram of macronutrients and milligram of electrolytes that pass over my lips. I monitor my sleep, not only with my watch but also a heart rate strap for more accuracy, and I scrutinize the graphs before plunging into yet another nap. Any minute that I’m not sleeping, I’m stretching, or visualizing, or eating as much protein as I can conceivably stuff into my mouth.

Finally—finally—Adrian deigns to let me back into a racing shell.

My new loaner is a big upgrade from the dusty boat I pirated, but it’s still slightly wider and therefore slower than the one I have at the training center. I don’t care. I’m so relieved just to be touching carbon fiber again that I practically sob when I set it into the slings.

Heart climbing up my throat, I start running through my warm-up stretches: lunges, toe touches, some dynamic rotations. Probably because I’m so relieved, I feel incredible. It’s like there are secret reserves of strength and energy flowing under my tingling skin, powering every swing of my nearly weightless arms and legs. Then I jam in a pair of earbuds and blast David Guetta, and, as Sofi would say, I’m ready to run through a fucking wall.

I missed this so much.

Yet this floaty, happy feeling lasts about three minutes. Because Adrian always has a catch.

He materializes behind me, holding out a lockbox like a collection tin awaiting its tithe. One by one, the guys form a line and toss their phones in the outstretched box with a series of thunks. I’ve seen them do this ritual over the last few days, but this rule shouldn’t apply to me. It’s so that young athletes aren’t, like, on TikTok in their boats.

For some reason, Adrian smiles at me from beneath a section of hair that’s fallen in his eyes and nudges the box toward my wing riggers where I’ve already mounted my phone.

“You can’t be serious,” I say.

“I’m always serious,” he says with a grin that is anything but.

Peter darts up to lay his cell phone in the box, then watches me from around his coach’s shoulder.

“The rule is everyone, every time,” he says, like he’s repeating something that’s been engraved on a stone tablet, not at some point mentioned by a high school rowing coach.

Adrian nods solemnly.

I purse my lips as I relinquish my phone. It’s not ideal—I prefer to have it so I can monitor advanced metrics, like distance using GPS—but what I really need is my StrokeCoach: the small device that monitors my most important stats, like splits and stroke rate.

I’m already moving back toward my boat when Adrian says, “The StrokeCoach, too.”

Slowly, I turn back. “Excuse me?”

“Just for this practice.”

Another cell phone thuds into Adrian’s box. I’m still staring in disbelief.

“I have to have it,” I stammer.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

It’s like asking me why I need a seat. I’ve used a StrokeCoach since I was a teenager. It’s one of my most important pieces of equipment. Especially today. We’re doing three by three thousand meters—one of my keystone practices. It’ll establish a baseline for the rest of the summer. “I need to know my interval times.”

Adrian plucks up the stopwatch hanging around his neck. “I actually have a device capable of keeping track of time.”

My mind flicks through the rubric Carla sent me and I mentally pen in the places where I can write intransigent and demanding and possibly cracked in the head. You know, in an unbiased way. “But…in real time. If I know my speed and stroke rate, at any given moment, I can calculate how I stack up to the splits I need to get second at Pan Ams.”

“You think that’s a good thing?” Adrian asks. “Living with that in your head every second of every practice?”

“It keeps me focused.”

“That’s one word for it.”

Rohan, who has just reached the top of the line, drums his fingers against crossed arms. Instead of scattering toward their shells, he and the rest of the guys are watching me. Maybe waiting to see who will win this standoff or possibly plotting to take me down in defense of their coach.

“You’re one of us now, ma’am,” Rohan says. “You have to do what Coach says.”

I narrow my eyes at him as one of the other kids guffaws.