Page 55 of Racing Hearts

A flicker of something like annoyance passes over her expression before she presses her lips together and pushes off her bed. “I didn’t even know I had pink ones,” she mutters.

I watch the underside of her arms as she hunts through the stack of sponsor-provided supplements and protein bars on her desk. If I were there, I would have already handed her the water bottle with the correct tab dissolved.

Finally, though, she props up her phone so I can see her again, drops the tab into her bottle, and takes a sip of fizzing liquid.

“Now,” she says, already sounding more alert. “Let’s get back to your midafternoon panic.”

“Brazil. Have you seen the times?”

Sofi sighs, but she takes another swig as she nudges a box of protein powders off her laptop. I hear the telltale sound of the ancient machine roaring to life. “I mean, I saw them. I didn’t memorize them in anticipation of an interrogation, which I’m guessing this will be.”

“How did their winning eight look?” I ask, breathlessly. “They were in lane five in the final. Was it faster than you’d expect?”

“Actually, that I can answer without looking,” Sofi says. “It was a bit slow. Their stroke seat decided to race singles, so they had to make a switch midway through the season and it’s costing them.”

That knotted feeling in my stomach tightens. “Is her name Camila? Their stroke seat?”

“Yeah, that’s it. What I heard is that she’d been trying to race both events, but decided she was spreading herself too thin. Why?”

“Take a look at her final,” I say pitifully.

I watch as Sofi clicks at the screen, then sits back in her chair.

Her expression goes flat. “Oh,” she says quietly. “I see.”

I let the phone flop out of my hand as I collapse back onto my mattress and stare up at the Olympic rings on my ceiling. “Yeah.”

“Have you watched any video from her race?” She clicks some more and I hear a rattle of Portuguese—I don’t know what they’re saying but I assume Sofi has pulled up the video of the final on YouTube. “Damn. Camila is pulling like her stern is on fire.”

“Does it look like it could be a fluke?”

“Probably not,” Sofi replies. “Her natural technique works better for sculling. In the eight, she was dropping into the water too aggressively, using more brute force than finesse. In the single, she’s letting it flow naturally. It’s working for her.”

“Shit,” I say.

So, the massive jump in her performance has a reasonable explanation. In fact, it’s so reasonable that I should fully expect Camila to race just as well, if not better, at Pan Ams.

Which means…my spot is in jeopardy again. Now, I have to beat either the unbeatable Canadian or the, apparently, almost-as-fast Brazilian.

It’s not enough. My mediocre progress, my handful of halfway decent workouts. It’s not enough.

“How’s it been going?” Sofi asks, her voice soft. “With Adrian’s coaching?”

She doesn’t know that I’m evaluating Adrian for the job, but she does know about my deal with Carla—that if I prove my flexibility by training with Adrian over the summer, and finish in the top two at Pan Ams, she’ll ask USRowing to give me my spot back.

“About the same,” I say. “Not that I can expect much better. I waste too much time doing irrelevant stuff like connecting with the boat and getting out of my head.”

“That’s not helping?”

I roll over to keep the ceiling rings from taunting me. Sofi, I think, is lying back down again because all I have is a view of her chin.

“It’s kind of hard to ‘get out of my head’ when I’m counting down the seconds until I can get back to a real training program,” I say.

I expect Sofi to laugh or sigh or make a joke about my absence or the distance between us. Instead, she hums.

“What?” I ask.

“It kind of sounds like you’re not really doing his program.”