Page 64 of Racing Hearts

Adrian’s tongue skims against his bottom lip and, even though it’s his arms and his torso that are holding me upright, he gives me a look that can only be described as vulnerable. Like, suddenly, he’s the one who might break.

“I want to wait for next time.”

Somehow, I understand what he’s leaving unsaid. He only wants to do that with me if there is a next time. He’s not ready to give up this piece of himself unless he has some assurance that this first time won’t be our last. I think I know all that because, even as he says those words—next time—I know there might not be one.

Tomorrow, I’ll have to go back to the reality of my life. Training. Pan Ams. Winning back my spot. These are my goals.

Relationships—and all the complex, uncontrollable emotions that come with them—are not compatible with these goals. Worse, my feelings about Adrian are already more intense than they ever were for Maxwell. Today, and what just happened this evening, has made that terrifyingly clear.

I can’t afford to get too invested and end up like my mom—curled on a couch, clutching a paper napkin as I sob. I can’t afford to lose focus. I can’t let myself get distracted and emotional in the weeks before the most important race of my life.

On the other hand, I’m not sure I have the willpower to stay away. I’ve tried that. Multiple times. I only ended up half naked on Adrian’s countertop.

So, I have no idea what I think about “next time.”

“I’m—I’m evaluating you for a job,” I say, because it’s the closest approximation of an excuse that I can give him right now. Besides, it’s true. Unbiased, Carla told me. I’m not sure doing what we just did counts.

Adrian tips his forehead forward until it touches mine. “I’m not going to get that job.”

“You’ve said.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“You’ve never said that you don’t want it.”

I feel his forehead shake. “It’s the same.”

“It’s not.”

“Okay. How about this: I trust you to keep it all separate.”

“Separate?”

“Separate, like, when I do this”—he drags his thumb down my collarbone—“it has nothing to do with my weight room routines. And when I do this”—he presses his lips to the exposed skin just above my neckline—“you don’t have to think about splits. Are you thinking about splits?”

“No.” The word quivers out of me.

“Good.” I can feel his smile tight against my skin. “Because right now, all I’m thinking about is you.”

Inexplicably, my body aches for him all over again.

“Does that mean we can do bed things?” I ask.

Adrian lifts me into his arms and my hands coil around his neck. He carries me toward the closed bedroom door, as he again says, “Next time.”

Twenty

Despite all the things we won’t be doing in the bedroom, Adrian convinces me to spend the night. He also convinces me to change into one of his oversize T-shirts and eat dinner on his comforter. The scallops are objectively delicious—browned and crispy on the outside, soft on the inside—although Adrian keeps complaining that they would have tasted better fresh out of the pan.

Even though it’s nearly an hour past my usual lights-out time, I’m energized. Instead of sleeping, I find myself lying awake on my side, mesmerized by the photographs on Adrian’s bedside table. There’s one of him in his launch, a quad in the foreground. A group shot where he’s standing behind a long line of young athletes. A candid shot from Youth Nationals last year where he looks particularly gorgeous glowering at a clipboard.

“You don’t have any pictures of yourself in a boat,” I observe, thinking about all the ways Adrian was tortured by our sport, but also his limitless capacity to still love it.

He cups his face in his long fingers. “Not everyone finds rowing shells so appealing, Kath.”

I roll toward him and smile, but I’m still watching his eyes. “Why’d you quit?”

I’ve been wondering since we talked about his dad. He alluded to a sudden and possibly dramatic breakup with the sport. I don’t want to push him on it, but I’m too curious not to ask.