Page 50 of Racing Hearts

Across the table, Adrian’s pancakes ooze with apple butter and he slathers them with syrup and whipped cream before taking a heaping bite. I watch as he pulls the fork away from his mouth and runs his tongue along the edge of his bottom lip to catch a drip of syrup. I force my gaze away.

“You were saying something about professionalism,” Adrian says as he adds another stream of syrup to his pancakes.

“Yes.” I straighten my back. “Kissing is unprofessional.”

“And the two of us must remain strictly professional because…it’s the principle of the thing?”

I realize I don’t owe Adrian an explanation. If the answer is no, that should stand regardless of the reason. Yet I can’t help but think about his tentative smile in the yoga studio. He might be assuming he did something wrong or that my reaction was somehow about him.

I should tell him the full truth.

I clear my throat. “Look. I am attracted to you. But I need to be one hundred percent focused on training this summer. I can’t afford any complications or distractions.”

“Because of Pan Ams?”

“Yes. I need to get top two to win back my spot.”

“And kissing is a problem for that because…”

His skepticism reminds me of Sofi. But neither of them seems to understand that this is my shot. Carla’s deal, the evaluation, and the race—it’s my only shot. I’m walking a tightrope, with one single, very narrow path to getting my life back.

“Let’s say I don’t make it,” I tell him. “I know how my brain works. I’ll go back over every minute from this summer, cataloging each missed stretching routine and off practice. If you and I are—if I’m involved in that time, I’ll wonder if that’s the reason. Even if I might have lost anyway, I’ll always second-guess myself and wish things had gone differently. I need to do everything in my power to get that spot back. That way, even if I lose, I won’t have any room for doubt.”

Adrian nods slowly, considering.

“That makes sense,” he says.

“It does?”

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you. I wouldn’t want you to regret us.”

I still for a moment, then regain my words. “Great. It’s settled: There will be no us.”

Declaration done, I shove a bite of eggs into my mouth to prevent myself from immediately taking it back.

Sixteen

51 Days Until Pan Ams

I have come up with a rule to stick to my professional commitment with Adrian. It’s a simple question that I ask myself before I say something, or anything, to my stand-in coach.

Would I say this to Carla?

If the answer is no, then I don’t say it to Adrian.

It’s working quite well. We’ve had no more heart-to-heart conversations. I’ve given him no additional openings to tell me how he finds me inspiring or passionate or “extremely fucking impressive.” This has, in turn, reduced all my lip touching and abdominal staring to the acceptable level of zero.

The new maxim has a pleasing side benefit, too. It’s allowed me to also keep the promise I made with the erg race: to stop fighting Adrian’s coaching style. One morning, when he spontaneously decides to reduce the number of intervals in our workout, I grit my teeth and bite my tongue but refrain from complaining and tacking them back on out of spite. I do grumble—but only internally—when Adrian shouts at me to let my chin tilt up. And when the guys all pile into the game room one evening and Adrian asks if I’d like to join them, I say no as quickly and politely as I would if Carla asked. Well, to be fair, Carla would probably rather shave her eyebrows than spend an evening playing air hockey with a gaggle of teenagers. But, you get the idea.

It’s all manageable. Expected. There are no further temptations or distractions. I’m able to focus on training to the exclusion of everything else, which on the whole, means things are good enough. Well, my boat still feels like a barge dragging a partially submerged parachute, but my splits are still good enough for top two. I just have to stay the narrow course.

Inevitably, Adrian finds a way to throw me off.

The performance team and I have just finished our cooldown, sweat- and water-slicked unisuits clinging to our backs. My quads and shoulders are still throbbing, but giving way to the sweet relaxation of post-exertion. As we start piling toward the docks, though, Adrian unexpectedly cuts off his engine, stopping in a sheltered inlet.

“Who’s up for the standing challenge?” he shouts over the faraway whine of boat traffic.

To my utter confusion, the guys all cheer.