Page 52 of Racing Hearts

He flashes me an enthusiastic—or maybe sarcastic?—thumbs-up.

“He means it in a good way,” Peter clarifies as he flutter-kicks the stern of his quad past my shoulder.

My lips crack as Rohan starts dancing from foot to foot, muttering, “Get it, get it, get it.”

“All right,” I yell back. “Let me show the people how it’s done.”

He whoops in return.

A breeze flutters across my damp shoulders. I suck in a deep breath and let the omnipresent smell of brine and motor oil calm my racing heart. Then I organize the handles below my legs—regardless of what Adrian says, I don’t need one of my oars impaling me—and press a foot to them to keep them level. With as much deliberate control as I can muster, I push myself upward.

The boat shudders. I keep my gaze locked on one of the irregular wood planks jutting up from the dock. My legs extend a bit more. And…yes!

I’m standing.

Hands splayed, I steer my triumphant smile toward Adrian. “Easy.”

The boat rocks, but I manage to stay upright, riding the movement. Around his shoulders, I hear the distant smattering of applause.

Adrian folds his arms, his boat swaying slightly in the gentle waves. “Great. Now close your eyes.”

“What?” I yell back, not quite sure I heard him right.

“Close your eyes.”

The boat lurches, but I’m determined to say upright. “I’ll fall.”

Adrian’s smile twitches. “Probably.”

I bottle up a frustrated growl and survey each piece of equipment around me, trying to memorize their positions.

“No more stalling,” he says.

Right, then. I give the dock one last fleeting look before I jam my eyelids shut.

For the briefest of moments, I’m triumphant. The world is dark, but I’m aloft, riding the boat like a teeter-totter. Thank god. Now I can get back to the dock and my post-workout routine. I want to start stretching before I—

My hip thrusts to the side. My legs tumble. Water envelops me as I crash through the surface in a cannonball of limbs and tidal wave of bubbles.

I kick toward the surface. Next to my overturned shell, my face thrusts into air. Water pours off me and I cough out salty liquid.

From the docks, Rohan flashes another thumbs-up. “GREAT CONTENT!” he yells from behind his phone. “Keep up the good work!”

Adrian navigates the launch to my side, joy dancing in his eyes.

“Almost,” he says.

I wipe a hand down my wet face. “This is ridiculous.”

“And here I thought it was ‘easy,’ ” Adrian says with a wink.

I know what he’s doing. He’s manipulating me. (I guess he would say “coaching” me.) He’s appealing to my competitive instincts to get me to work harder. I know that and yet…all I want is to flutter-kick this boat to the dock, slam myself back onto the seat, and prove this man wrong. No matter how many tries it takes.

An hour later, the guys have slowly streamed toward their impatient parents idling in the parking lot. Rohan seemed particularly difficult to tear away, but Adrian managed to convince him he had enough content for the day. Frankly, this has to be true. At this point, Rohan has probably caught me plunging into the inky water a dozen times.

Despite these many tries, I have so far been unable to hold a standing position, eyes closed, for more than a moment. Yet I’m sure as shit not done trying.

Adrian, for some reason, hasn’t tired of watching me fail.