Racing Hearts

Chapter One

One

There’s nothing but a lemon bar standing between me and financial ruin.

That’s why, the evening before my last World Cup final, I’m powering over quaint garden parks and through sweeping alleyways, light mist glossing my face.

If I don’t get that bar, it won’t matter if I sleep like a rock, or crush my pre-race routines, or wear thirty pairs of lucky Powerpuff underwear—I’m losing the final, the rest of my sponsors, and all my remaining income.

My foot snags on an irregular cobblestone and I glare at it as I speed past. I can’t afford to face-plant in a piazza full of Italians sipping wine.

Sofi, a few paces behind, leaps over the threatening stone. “I always knew one of your superstitions would be the death of me. What I didn’t predict was that it would happen while sprinting to a bakery in Varese.”

“Okay, first off,” I say, falling into step beside her.

She’s usually faster than me—both on and off the water—but this evening her wildly impractical strappy sandals are holding her back.

“Our pace clearly puts us in the ‘power walking’ category. And second, as I was told on my fourth call to one of these places, the preferred term is pasticceria.”

“I notice you’re not taking issue with my untimely demise.”

“Oh, this situation is absolutely going to ruin us both,” I say. “You because of those shoes. And me because of my ridiculous Olympic dreams.”

Sofi sighs. “Your Olympic dreams will be fine.”

“If I choke again tomorrow,” I say, ticking off fingers as I list my points, “I won’t make the World Championships team and then my last two sponsors will dump me.

I’ll have to work a part-time job between practices.

I won’t properly recover. My performance will keep spiraling.

And I’ll never make it to the Olympics.”

When I stop, I notice that my heart rate has accelerated despite my world-class cardiovascular fitness. Maybe it’s because our route has started to curve uphill. Or it’s that laying it out makes it feel even more real.

Sofi lowers her chin. “Okay, then. Let’s do this thing.”

“Thanks, Sof, but I think we’re already doing it.”

“Nah. Before, I was here for aesthetics and comic relief. Now, I’m committed.”

“Aesthetics?”

She swivels and jogs a few steps to the side so she can motion at her outfit. “Aesthetics.”

I laugh. Even though she’s one of the fastest rowers on the planet, and has the stacked quads and chiseled back to prove it, Sofi’s muscles have a softness that allow her to look conventionally feminine, especially when she’s not wearing spandex.

It’s a feat I never even try to pull off, thanks to my high forehead, angular jaw, and hips so straight you could use them like a giant ruler.

That’s not to mention my hair, which has basically been ironed onto my head in the shape of a French braid.

But, as I glance at her again, I notice that tonight Sofi’s also wearing earrings, a flowy skirt, and golden eyeshadow that looks like stardust against her brown skin.

“You look good, but right now my only priority is speed.” I swivel my wrist to glance at my watch. “Although we are making decent time.”

“How long ’til they close?” Sofi peeks around my elbow at the electronic display. “Wait, you have the watch set to training mode?”

“I needed to actively monitor our progress!” I slap the screen with my palm, darkening it, and move my hands back into walking position. “I’ll delete the data later.”

We skitter around a set of café chairs and Sofi vaults over a sidewalk planter to evade a woman walking a dachshund at approximately the speed of a sedated turtle.

“They’ll still be open for a couple of hours,” I say when we’ve cleared our obstacles.

“The problem is that lemon bars are some kind of rarity here, so it took me approximately a billion calls to find a place that sells them. Also, the lady mentioned they had only one left and she ‘definitely won’t hold it,’ no matter how many times I asked. ”

“Did you try begging?”

“Repeatedly. Also cajoling and a little insisting. I think that made it worse.”

“I mean, fair,” Sofi says. “Americans are already obnoxious and you are…”

“A carefully curated brand of neurotic and inflexible?”

“I was going to say ‘determined.’ ”

I snort. “That’s kind of you.”

The good news is the hill has leveled out and we’re really cruising now—leaping over sidewalk edges and zipping around motorbikes. The bad news is our mist has turned into a light drizzle.

“So,” Sofi asks, “why didn’t you already have a lemon bar with you?”

It’s a solid question. The last time I was caught without food pre-prepared was probably in high school before I started insisting Mom let me handle our groceries.

Still, I hesitate before answering. The truth is sure to open up an argument.

“I did bring a stash on the flight,” I say finally. “But, Maxwell threw the last one away.”

“He WHAT?”

I grimace. The fact that my best friend and boyfriend don’t get along is probably the greatest source of discomfort in my life right now. Except, of course, for my monthlong string of spectacular defeats that are putting my entire future in jeopardy.

The whole Maxwell situation is yet another reason tomorrow’s final needs to go well.

Whether I win or lose, Maxwell always goes through videos of my races with me—pausing after key moments to lecture me about stroke rates and connection.

I used to look forward to our debriefs, but now that my performance has started spiraling, these conversations have become more stressful than helpful.

Inevitably, I end up snapping at him, and he’ll throw up his hands and storm out of the room.

Once I get back to normal, we can get back to normal.

Sofi bumps a rain-slicked elbow against mine. “Seriously, Kath, what was Maxamillion thinking?”

“Maxwell.”

She snorts. “Right, right. What was Maxwellington thinking?”

I repress a laugh. When they first met, Maxwell made a big show of correcting Sofi for calling him “Max,” and she refuses to let it go.

“He said”—I pause as we zoom around a towering statue—“that he forgot about that particular superstition of mine.”

Sofi releases a signature groan. You know how some people have a way with words? Sofi has a way without them.

I would cross my arms if we were standing still but instead resign myself to pumping them even harder. “Even you’ve been saying you can’t keep up with my ‘rapidly expanding list of neuroses.’ ”

“I have expressly prohibited you from adding yet more superstitions to your list,” she says pointedly. “A decree you have flagrantly disregarded.”

She’s not wrong—since I first qualified for Worlds last year, I have tacked on one or ten more. Still. “Because they’ve all been solid additions! And you agreed daily affirmations are a good idea.”

“None of this excuses Maxattack’s behavior. The lemon bar thing is one of your oldest and most sacred superstitions.”

“To be fair,” I say, “he had a good reason. Namely that it’s not a good idea to eat so much sugar before a race.”

Sofi rolls her eyes and, honestly, I can’t blame her.

Maxwell is usually quite helpful—he goes over my pre-race checklists with me, shares his own sponsor-provided supplements, and even bought me a top-of-the-line sports watch for my birthday—but it still frustrates me that he’s always been skeptical of my superstitions, especially those he’s deemed illogical.

“He only did it because he cares about my success,” I argue, as much to myself as her.

“Maybe too much,” she mutters.

My eyes whip toward her. Sofi’s suddenly absorbed by her footwork, as though this pace requires concentration. Cobblestones aside, this girl can run for miles without getting winded.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

My phone instructs us to turn right. As we bank hard past a street vendor huddled under a wide canopy, Sofi’s lips snap open and closed, like she’s fighting with herself about how to answer my question.

Finally, she says, “Don’t you ever think he cares a bit too much about whether you’re winning or losing?”

I consider this for long enough to do it justice, waiting for Sofi’s usual wisdom to seep in.

It doesn’t. Like me, Maxwell is disciplined and hardworking.

We both care about rowing—and making it to the Olympics—more than anything else.

Maxwell pushes me to be a better athlete instead of questioning my dreams. The fact that he wants me to succeed is literally the reason I started dating him in the first place.

“I don’t see why that’s bad,” I say.

“It’s bad if he doesn’t want that for you, but because he sees your success as a reflection on him.

” She watches me as she says the next part, clearly choosing her words carefully.

“Things have been rocky between you two for a month now—ever since that first regatta. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. ”

I purse my lips, unswayed. So what if Maxwell cares about my success for selfish reasons?

He still cares about my success. It’s far better than the alternative: a man who forces you to choose between the person you love and the thing you love to do.

I should know. I’ve had a front-row seat to that kind of relationship disaster.

“Things will get better,” I assure her. “Once we’re back in the training center and in our normal routine.”

Sofi nods, resigned. Besides, the thick smell of sugar and dough has heralded our arrival. Beyond an expanse of slightly fogged glass, clustered café tables dot a terrazzo floor. I use a finger to squeegee rainwater off my forehead as Sofi yanks open the door.

It’s time to get that lemon bar.

. . .

Unfortunately, two minutes later, Sofi and I are gaping at an irritated woman and a nearly empty display case.

“What does she mean she just sold the last one?” Sofi’s voice has gone up about forty-five octaves. “Tell her you need that lemon bar and you’re not leaving until you get it.”

“Scusi,” I whisper to the cashier, thankful for my single year of Italian in college. I’m suddenly self-conscious about my damp braid, stuck to the back of my neck, and gray racerback darkened with rainwater. “Siamo Americani.”

We’re American—as though that explains it.

The woman presses her lips together in an expression that falls somewhere between a respectful smile and an irritated frown. “Si vede,” she says. That’s obvious.

I’m about to ask if she knows of any other establishments in this city that sell lemon bars when Sofi hooks an index finger into the hem of my shirt, pulling my attention to the high-back chairs behind us.

“He’s got it,” she hisses and points.

The man at the other end of her blue fingernail is hunched over a thick book, notebook to one side and the lemon bar on the other. He scribbles something furiously, seemingly too preoccupied to have yet touched his baked good.

“Oh, and he’s a hottie,” Sofi adds enthusiastically.

“Why is that relevant?” I ask, even though she’s unequivocally right.

He looks to be a few years older than us, maybe just touching thirty, with a tight jawline and high cheekbones.

His brown hair sweeps low, nearly into his eyes, and his concentration is so intense I think he could snap a pencil with his gaze.

I’m probably the only one who finds that last bit attractive.

“Go ask him for it,” Sofi whisper-commands. “Use your charms.”

“What charms?”

Sofi sighs and theatrically jabs an elbow into my rib cage. “Then use your determination. I know you can white-knuckle your way through pretty much anything.”

Still, I hesitate. I’m willing to do some weird stuff to achieve my goals, but begging a stranger for his pastry is a step beyond normal behavior, even for me.

“Didn’t you say it was important? That you’ll race poorly without it?”

“Yeah,” I say as I picture myself approaching tomorrow’s starting line. Lately, my races have felt wildly unpredictable. It’s like, at any moment, my body could betray me and my performance could spiral without an ounce of my consent.

But this? This I can control.

“All right.” I suck in a deep breath and set my chin like I would just before the start of a race. “I’m going to get that lemon bar.”