Page 36 of Racing Hearts

“Challenge accepted,” I say.

Twelve

Adrian extends a hand toward the array of games. “You pick.”

I spin a slow circle, appraising the neon flashing lights, chiming interfaces, and glowing screens. As I scrutinize the options, I catalog the number of hours Sofi and I have spent on each, and weigh my probability of victory. The truth is, though, I have a clear favorite.

“How about Skee-Ball?” I ask.

Adrian’s eyes dance. “That works.”

Through the clamor of dings and flashes, we march toward the machine. Adrian punches a button and worn balls tumble forward. Thankfully, the coin slot has been disabled—otherwise I would have had to skip a snack or two this week to afford an hour on it.

Balls rattle to a stop with a familiar, satisfying clamor. That familiarity, more than anything, is what I love about this game. Success in Skee-Ball is about finding a reliable strategy, minimizing confounding variables, and then repeating that strategy with perfect fidelity. And I am nothing if not consistent.

“You want to go first?” Adrian asks.

“Please, go ahead,” I say, eager for a benchmark to work toward.

I settle just over Adrian’s shoulder—a spot with the best view—as he sets his foot so that his shin touches the alley. He plucks up his first ball and pinches it with long fingers and practiced certainty. With a straight wrist and flawless, upright posture, he drives it forward. The ball rumbles up the alley, sails high in the scoring section, and plunges into the forty-point hole.

Well, then. Amateurs—and cocky men—will always go for the fifty or the hundred. The hundred is the flashy one that looks the most impressive when you sink it. And the fifty is the best of the smaller fish. Yet mastering this game—like rowing—is about being consistently good, not getting distracted by always trying to be extraordinary.

Adrian sets his feet and lets loose another ball. It tracks the same arc as the last, and burrows into the same hole.

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re not giving this one away for free.”

Another plunk. Another forty. Another consistent performance.

“I told you I wouldn’t dare.” He glances at me. “Impressed, then?”

“Very,” I grudgingly admit as his next ball rolls forward, a hair off its arc. It skims the edge of the forty cup and lands in the twenty instead. Finally, something less than perfection. “I didn’t expect this level of devotion to control from a guy who approaches his training programs like Jackson Pollock attacking a canvas.”

Adrian snorts. “I’ll take that as a compliment, then.”

“The Jackson Pollock thing or the control thing?”

Adrian tucks his chin to glance at me. “I can’t imagine you have much reverence for an art form that principally relies on spontaneity and improvisation.”

“I do rather prefer order and consistency.”

“Rare exceptions notwithstanding,” Adrian says.

“Rare exceptions?”

“You know.” He raises his chin in my direction, suggestively implying something he doesn’t want to put into words.

My stomach tightens as I register what he means. The rare exception: the only time I’ve lost control around him. Suddenly, unwanted memories have again hijacked my mind. Me: chugging a whiskey sour like it was water and slamming down the empty glass. Me: turning loops on the dance floor with the fervor of a fidget spinner. Me: tilting my face up toward my future coach, right before he sucked in a breath and stepped away.

I steady myself with a lungful of air. I need to put a stop to this conversation and all the messy emotions it’s dredging up.

“Clearly,” I say, reaching for crisp and businesslike, “that was a one-time-only mistake.”

Plunk. Thirty. “I thought you’ve been doing it for years?”

“What?”

“Your chin. I thought you’ve been tilting it for years.”