Chapter Three
Three
Day of World Cup Final
My pre-race routine goes almost flawlessly.
According to my watch, I hit my sleep metrics like a champion bowler bagging strikes.
Then, this morning, I somehow convinced the hotel’s kitchen staff to let me cook eggs on their industrial stove.
I boiled the eggs for seven minutes and twenty-two seconds before shoveling them down with two pieces of wheat toast and four ounces of banana.
That breakfast is exactly as delicious as it sounds—that is, not at all—but it’s tradition.
Like I said, it goes almost flawlessly. The problem is Maxwell.
He was supposed to meet me by the trailers before I head down to the lake.
A month ago, Maxwell would have been there ten minutes early, notebook at the ready, prepared to impart last-minute advice.
Sure, these pep talks have recently been devolving into laundry lists of the problems with my technique and race strategies, but his support is still vital, nearly as important as a lemon bar.
When I arrived, though, I found only Sofi—coffee cup clutched in one hand and a cardboard sign reading KILL IT, KATH in the other.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve finished my dryland warm-up and had a final conversation with my coach about my race plan.
As I make my way to the docks, boat lofted on one shoulder, I still haven’t seen a single hair of Maxwell’s perfectly coiffed head.
Heart skittering, I set my boat in the water and tap the oarlocks six times for good luck. Despite the encouragement from Sofi, my stomach churns like a washing machine set to high. I’m just lowering myself onto my seat, taking another breath to ease my jangle of nerves, when I hear my name.
I look up to find a familiar spike of gelled hair and neon green sunglasses descending toward the dock.
“Maxwell,” I say, exhaling his name like a sigh of relief.
The dock bounces slightly as he steps across it, then he crouches low next to my hull, resting an arm against a knee so his bicep muscles bulge. Maxwell isn’t racing today, but he’s still wearing a unisuit like he might need to spring into action for an emergency training session.
“Hey there,” he says.
I search his expression for remorse or anxiety but find neither. He looks neutral, almost like he’s steeling himself in indifference. “Why weren’t you at the trailers?”
“I—” He flexes his shoulders. “I came, okay? I’m here now.”
“Okay?”
I roll a hand against my oar grips as I wait for him to impart some words of wisdom or tips for the race to come. Instead, he keeps staring at me, mouth working like he’s chewing on his words.
“Any thoughts you want to share?” I ask. “Advice on my race plan?”
He pauses. I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but I swear I can feel him roll them. “I can’t keep wasting my time giving out advice that you’re only going to ignore.”
“I don’t ignore you.”
He frowns. “You haven’t fixed your chin—”
“That’s unfair,” I say, interrupting him. This is not the time to bring up my worst technical issue. “You know I’ve been working on that for years.”
“All the more reason you should have fixed it by now.”
I slap the surface of the water, sending a splash across the dock. “I can’t just change my technique halfway through the World Cups!”
He frowns at my outburst. “And that’s why I can’t do this anymore.”
I look from his face to a group of four rowers marching toward the dock, a shell lofted on their shoulders. Behind them, a race official is frowning at me, probably wondering why I haven’t pushed off yet. “You can’t give me notes?”
Instead of answering, Maxwell lets out a long exhale that’s tinged with a sigh.
That’s the noise he makes when he’s going to lay out one of his “difficult truths.” I know you’re working hard, he said after we watched the tape of my heat in France.
But some rowers peak in their twenties. Maybe it’s time to face what’s on the horizon.
When he still doesn’t say more, I tug off my sunglasses and shove them on top of my visor. “I don’t understand what’s going on. Tell me what’s happening.”
He splays out a hand, gesturing toward me, my boat, the dock. “I can’t do this anymore.”
The men’s single sculls are already flying down the shimmering lanes, judges streaming behind them in a roar of engines and wake. That’s only five events before mine. I should have already started my warm-up.
“Do what anymore?”
Maxwell tips his chin. “Us.”
The lake tilts. My oar slips wrong into the water, nearly dragging me over. I slap the dock to catch myself.
“You…what?”
“You know we’re not right for each other, Katherine.” He’s using that slow, patient voice, like he’s explaining how to share to a small child. “That’s been clear for some time now. It will be better for both of us, in the long run, if we go our separate ways.”
There’s a low buzzing in my ears, like someone stuffed cotton into them. The announcer, the wind, the clang of cowbells—it’s all muffled.
“Now?” I say. “You want to do this now?”
Maxwell tightens his lips into a conciliatory smile and nods slowly. I imagine that behind his mirrored sunglasses, his eyes are drenched in pity. “This is somewhat overdue.”
My knuckles whiten on my grips. “Maxwell. I’m sitting in a boat about to go race.
It’s maybe the most important race of the year.
You could have talked to me about this at any other time.
Later this evening, or tomorrow, or when we get back to the training center.
Why in the actual hell did you pick the worst possible moment to have a breakup? ”
He folds his arms around a knee, and in that level, reasonable voice, he says, “I doubt it would have made any difference.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think it’s clear enough.”
My blood has gone hot and sticky. “Because you think I’m going to race poorly?”
He pauses. Then nods. “It has nothing to do with belief. Past performance is highly correlated with future success.”
Tears prick my eyes. I have a completely irrational urge to whip my oar out of the water and slap it against his smug face.
Instead, I bottle up every emotion inside.
I have never cried in front of Maxwell. Not when he threw away my lemon bar.
Not after France or when he called me “a ball of anxiety” or when he told me my Olympic dreams were already dead.
“I need to go,” I say. I don’t trust my voice enough to say more.
Without another glance in his direction, I slam my sunglasses over my eyes and heave off the dock.
My shoulders burn as I start the long, slow strokes toward the warm-up area.
My heart pounds like a boxer laying into a punching bag.
My lungs blaze with fire. And I haven’t even approached the starting line yet.
Thirty minutes later, the start judge calls for attention.
I race, but I don’t just fail to make the top three.
My bow crosses two boat lengths behind fifth.
Dead last.
. . .
I don’t bother with a cooldown. What’s the point?
When I make my way back to the docks, my lungs are still burning like I lit one of my mom’s incense sticks and shoved it down my throat.
My vision blurs at the edges so all I can see are Sofi’s curls framed by fake wood.
The lactic acid in my arms and legs makes my limbs so thick and heavy that I have to let my boat coast the rest of the way.
Sofi grabs my blade and pulls until she can catch my rigger. I slump forward, elbows crushing my knees.
“I’m so sorry,” she says as I heave myself off the seat and she folds me into her arms.
I take a deep breath, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill onto her curls. There are people everywhere—athletes clamoring into boats, officials hopscotching over oars. The Canadian woman who won my final is shouting breathlessly into a phone that her coach is holding up.
I can’t lose it now. Not in front of all these people.
So, I wordlessly extricate myself from Sofi’s hug. She silently squats to lift my bow. Together, we trudge up the long grassy hill toward the trailers. When we finally loosen my boat into its slings, I drape myself over it and let my temple rest against the cool surface.
“I heard him telling one of his teammates about what happened.” Sofi’s voice is so sharp it could slice through rock. “He’s a dick, by the way.”
“This isn’t how it was supposed to go.”
“I know,” Sofi says. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t get through it.”
“I would have never done something like this to him. He was never supposed to do something like this to me. That was the whole point, Sof. He supported my goals instead of questioning them. He understood who I am and never tried to change me—only tried to make me better. Those were the reasons I took a chance on this ridiculous relationship in the first place. And it still backfired.”
Sofi sighs, but doesn’t respond.
I ball up a fist and push myself away from my boat, then root through my duffel bag until I find my phone. Any moment now, it will fire to life, carrying more bad news. “I’m not going to Worlds. I definitely lost my last two sponsors.”
She lays a hand across the screen. “Don’t worry about that right now.”
“But it’s going to happen. And then what? I have no marketable skills. What employer wants me to work a few hours a day for eight months a year?”
“I think you need to stop trying to leap fifteen paces forward and instead focus on what’s next.
Tomorrow, we’ll fly back to California and we’ll be back in the training center.
You’ll get to sleep in your perfectly made bed, and eat your perfectly ratioed meals, and row on our perfectly flat lake with Carla shouting at you from her launch. ”
My lips crack into the slightest smile. I do love it when our coach shouts at us.
Sofi squeezes her hand against my clammy skin.
“And maybe you’ll have to get a part-time job.
That’s okay. I know you can handle it. You can handle pretty much anything, Kath.
Including getting over Maxwell.” She grabs me into another firm hug.
“But you’ll cross all of those bridges when you get there. ”
I let myself melt into the strength of her embrace. She’s right, as always. I just need to get home, get back to normal. This isn’t a death sentence for my Olympic dreams. I can’t let it be.
My phone buzzes.
I pull away and wipe my cheek with the back of my hand as I peer down at the name on an incoming message. COACH.
Come to my tent. We need to talk.
Hovering by my shoulder, Sofi grimaces. The phone buzzes again.
Now.