Page 5 of Racing Hearts

He raises an eyebrow.

“Lots of athletes have superstitions,” I bite out. “It might sound strange but—”

“I don’t think it’s strange.”

“Oh. What’s with the”—I circle a finger in the direction of his eyebrow—“skepticism?”

His lips tick. “That’s not skepticism you see.”

“What is it then?”

“Let’s call it intrigue.”

A tingle traces between my shoulder blades. “Oh.”

He taps a finger against his notes, fixing me in place with those jade eyes. I avert my own gaze toward the counter. In the last few minutes Sofi has procured some kind of chocolate-stuffed pastry. She’s now fervently tearing it into tiny pieces and casting glances at us from behind a curtain of curls. At least someone is enjoying this.

“Here’s the thing,” the stranger says, drawing me back to our pocket of the room. “I want the lemon bar, too. Not for the same reason, but still. A good one.”

I frown at his dessert. “You haven’t had a bite yet.”

“I’m saving it.”

“For what? An art installation?”

He smiles softly. “You eat lemon bars to win competitions. I eat lemon bars to cheer myself up.”

I squint at his lingering smile. “You don’t look like you need cheering up.”

“Not yet, but I will after tomorrow morning.”

“What’s happening tomorrow morning?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t usually share deeply personal shortcomings and coping strategies with strangers in Italian bakeries—”

“Neither do I.”

“To be fair,” he says, “you still haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Told me why this race is so important.”

“Oh,” I say.

He seriously wants more? I guess he’s right that I haven’t shared anything truly personal. Nor was I planning to. But it seems this man is just stubborn enough that he isn’t going to give up his dessert without the messy details.

“Can I sit?” I ask.

“Please.”

The chair lets out a high-pitched whine as I pull it across the tile. I lower myself onto the creaky leather and brace my elbows against the cool table. “Here’s the deal. I’ve been competing in the World Cup regattas and my last few races—the ones in Germany and France—were bad. Really bad. I barely made it to the C final in Germany and I didn’t make it out of the repechage in France.”

My memory of that day is as vivid now as it was when it happened. The finish line in sight. The buzzing in my ears, drowning out the roar from the sidelines. The burning filling every muscle. The exhaustion that felt both all-consuming and also wholly inadequate.

I take another breath, keep my gaze fixed on my fiddling fingers. “Two of my four sponsors dropped me after that. This Italy event is the last one—and the last-chance qualifier for Worlds. If I do worse than third, I doubt I’ll make the team, and that will mean losing my last two sponsors.”

I sneak a glance upward, ready to find pity or dismissal in the stranger’s gaze. His lips are flat in a way that’s almost purposefully neutral. But the lock of his eyes on mine sends a prickle across my bare arms.