Chapter Ten #2
I stare at him for another beat, trying to figure out if he’s lying or exaggerating. “Sounds like a mistake.”
He hands his clipboard to me. “See? Resting. Getting out of your head. It works. Are you ready to start taking my method seriously?”
I tilt the page. It’s filled with notes and times layered together with errant observations about conditions and technical cues. Adrian reaches over to tap a finger against my initials near the bottom. I squint at the numbers scrawled there.
“The second interval is off by about a second,” I say, slapping the clipboard against his chest.
He frowns at the paper, then up at me. “That’s about how much time it would take you to look at your watch. Besides, you beat your time by almost ten seconds on the third one, so we’re well outside a margin of error.”
“Yeah,” I say, “but now I don’t know if I can trust your notes.”
Adrian leans his head back and stares at the boathouse rafters for so long I wonder if I’ve taken this too far.
It wouldn’t be the first time a coach quit on me.
During my senior year of high school, I started refusing to do my coach’s elementary, often recycled on-water programs. After some months, that coach, Darlene was her name, stopped fighting me.
Eventually, she stopped coaching me entirely.
I think I might lose my deal with Carla if Adrian actively quits on me, though.
Just as I’m about to try to, gently, take a step back, Adrian’s eyes sink to my face. He blows out a long breath, gaze softer than it has been in days. “Maybe I’m taking the wrong approach here.”
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe I’m coaching you wrong.”
“I don’t understand.”
Adrian folds his arms around his clipboard and tilts his head. For the last few days, his expression and demeanor have been filled with visceral authority, demanding and stern. But…his body language has shifted again. More open somehow.
“I thought you might be an athlete who does well with rules and boundaries and firm lines,” he says.
“I also thought you’d change your mind if I gave you clear reason to do so.
Like today, without technology getting in the way, you were able to connect with your body instead of being so fixated on all the tangential stuff.
It worked, too, or at least I can see that it did.
But you still haven’t changed your mind about me or my coaching. So, maybe it’s time to switch gears.”
Connect with my body? Technology “getting in the way”? It all sounds suspiciously like something my mom would say, but with less talk of chakras and healing spirits.
“What do you mean ‘switch gears’?” I ask.
“Coach you differently. Quit doing the iron fist thing.”
My brain stumbles. “Wait, sorry. ‘Iron fist’ thing? You’re saying you’ve been acting?”
He frowns, but his tone remains more open than stern. “No, I’ve been coaching. Different athletes need different styles. Some need firm rules and limits. Some need smiles and pep talks. Some need high standards and specific praise. I’m trying to figure out what you need.”
I blink at him. I’ve trained with a lot of coaches and, yes, they all had different approaches, but that was about them as individuals.
Carla has sky-high expectations that most people fight to try to meet.
Darlene doled out praise like candies while my varsity coach withheld it except in the rarest of occasions.
Those styles work better or worse for different athletes.
But I’ve never seen a coach change themself.
I shake my head.
“You don’t believe me?” he asks.
“It doesn’t sound possible.”
Adrian regards me for another beat, finger tapping against his clipboard. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t? How about for the evaluation?” I ask.
“I can’t keep having every practice be a fight like this and, apparently, the iron fist isn’t working,” he says, clearly ignoring my question.
“You’re not one of my actual athletes. I can’t actually tell you what to do.
So why don’t you tell me. What do you need to start taking all of this seriously? ”
“What do you mean you can’t really tell me what to do,” I say.
“I have no actual power in our relationship,” Adrian clarifies.
“I can talk loud. I can shout demands. But I can’t withhold anything from you, like a seat or race placement.
I’m not going to make a recommendation about your future team selections.
I can’t impose any consequences on you like a real coach would.
I need you to decide to work with me, to take me seriously.
So, why don’t you tell me what you need to start doing that? ”
I swallow a gasp as I realize what he’s offering. “Give me control over the program.”
Adrian chuckles. “I’m the coach, Kath.”
“Okay, well you asked what I need to take you seriously, and that’s it. I want routine and structure and matrices. I want plan A’s, which never morph into plans B or C based on someone’s whim or—”
“Intuition?”
“Yeah, intuition.” I fold my arms, but I’m relieved to finally be given an opening to state my preferences. “I’ll design something structured and predictable. Your team can do it, too.”
Adrian’s eyes dance across my face even as he shakes his head. “I’m not doing that.”
I shrug. “Well, then, I’m not taking it seriously.”
Adrian watches me for so long I wonder if I’ve broken him. Hopefully, I have. This man could use some breaking.
Abruptly, he says, “Let’s compete for it.”
“What?”
“We compete. Like with the lemon bar. You win, I’ll let you design the program. I win, you have to start following my instructions without arguing about every decision or trying to find loopholes in every rule.”
The edge of excitement lifts my chest. For the first time in days, I have a real opportunity to determine my own fate. And a competition is exactly the way I want to resolve this.
“We can arm wrestle again,” I say, nearly breathless with excitement.
Adrian barks out a laugh. “No, Parker. The offer is only good for the erg.”
I can tell he thinks he’s got some kind of upper hand here, but adrenaline still rushes through my fingertips.
Little does Adrian know, the erg is my forte.
Using an erg is like rowing—pulling an oar through water—but there is no water and there is no oar.
It’s just a machine with a handle, a sliding seat, and a display screen.
No crosswinds, no waves, no confounding conditions. Just pulling.
“Yes,” I say, trying to hide the eagerness in my voice. “It’s a deal.”
Adrian’s mouth explodes with another grin. “Let’s race right now.”