Chapter Five
Five
“You know what relationships are, Sofia? Chaos. Fucking chaos.”
Sofi looks at me like I’m drunk. I take another drag of Long Island Iced Tea through my straw, strobe lights turning the glass neon blue. Around us, sweaty athletes pound their feet and sway their hips as electronic dance music pulses so loudly I can practically hear it in my kidneys.
“You can’t hear the music in your kidneys,” Sofi says, which is when I realize I’ve said that last bit out loud. “How are you already this drunk? You’ve barely had half of that.”
I glare at her. “One of these is like three drinks.”
She rolls her eyes and shoos me backward, angling toward one of the black booths framing the room.
I fall onto the sticky leather, holding my drink aloft so it doesn’t slosh onto this ridiculous outfit Sofi somehow convinced me to wear.
I wanted to stay in spandex. She argued for sequins.
We compromised on cutoff jean shorts and a strapless top.
“Besides,” I shout over the pounding music, “I’m not drunk. I’m pissed.”
Every national team rower on planet Earth has descended on this discoteca for our World Cup after-party, including Maxwell.
Thankfully, I’ve easily avoided him so far.
He’s been holding court in a corner booth, surrounded by the other guys in his eight and a few Australians.
I bet he’s spent the night shouting lectures about rhythm.
Maybe I should feel jealous that they’re getting his full attention now, but all I feel is smoldering rage.
“You have every right to be angry,” Sofi says.
I nod. Angry, at least, is better than the devastation that’s threatened to hollow me out since my conversation with Carla.
Until Sofi dragged me to this club, I’d been comatose all day.
The same thoughts skipping through my mind for hours.
It was already going to be hard enough to come back from this slump.
Now I’m going to have to do it with some untested, brand-new coach?
Without my teammates or any supportive resources?
On top of it all, I’ll have to win Pan Ams. It’s enough to make me want to collapse in a puddle of despair.
Fucking Maxwell. This is entirely his fault. Dating him was the single worst decision I’ve ever made. And I knew better.
My hand clenches around the icy cold glass. “I’m going to lose rowing because of him.”
Sofi lays her fingers on the rigid lines of my forearm. “You’re not.”
“And then I’ll have nothing. I’m a rower. That’s it, Sof. That’s all I’ve got. I can use an oar to move a boat through water. And apparently I can’t even do that very well.”
When I look up, Sofi is frowning, but silent.
I grip the straw with my teeth and pull liquid until I hit the bottom of the glass. It vibrates with a mixture of melted ice and air. “I’m getting another.”
Sofi eyes me. “Really?”
I don’t usually drink, even after races.
I’ve never seen the value in it. Maybe it feels good or whatever, but that’s just temporary.
It won’t help my performance and, if anything, dehydration and a hangover will only hurt me, even if marginally.
Tonight, though, I don’t know. Taking the edge off the sharp pit of all these emotions feels worth it.
From the dance floor, one of Sofi’s teammates waves frantically at us.
“You should go be with your team,” I say. Despite some drama lately, Sofi’s boat won gold two days ago. It’s the only good thing that’s happened in weeks. “Celebrate. Please.”
Sofi’s eyes cut to her teammates and she lets out a heavy sigh.
I follow her gaze toward the smallest person in the tight pack of bodies—Missy, who is now twirling, one hand up, while she cluelessly sloshes her open drink on everyone within spitting distance.
She’s a tiny thing, even for a coxswain, and super talented, but she’s also younger than everyone else.
And, as we discovered over the course of this regatta, she’s wholly inexperienced with alcohol.
Usually, Sofi and I keep an eye on Missy together, but tonight I’m useless.
“You don’t need me?” Sofi asks.
I stand and snatch up my empty glass. “Please don’t worry about me.”
“Okay,” Sofi says. “But promise not to get all weird and tense without me around?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sofi. I’m always weird and tense.”
She laughs, hip checks me, and darts off.
When she’s gone, I scythe across the dance floor, dodging gyrating bodies and athletes yelling over the music in a dozen different languages.
As I move, I keep my eyes fixed on my target—the bar, glowing purple with up-lights—so I can avoid any glances toward Maxwell’s booth.
If he gives me another one of those pitying looks, I’ll probably scream.
My elbows land against the sticky surface at the far end.
It’s somewhat quieter here—probably because we’re not facing any of the giant speakers—and I’m out of the way.
Just me and a guy hunkered in a high-top chair, nursing a drink in silence.
He looks about as dejected as I feel. I guess this is the loser section of the club.
A bartender with cropped blue hair and chipped black nail polish lands in front of me.
“What do you want?” she shouts in only slightly accented English.
I should probably chill with the Long Island Iced Teas, but I don’t know many other drink names. I glance down at the guy’s glass next to me, which has a promising slice of lemon among the ice cubes. “I’ll have that.”
The bartender rolls her eyes. “I don’t remember every drink I’ve made in the last hour.”
“Whiskey sour,” the guy with the tight shoulders supplies.
As the bartender wheels away, the man lifts his drink. His eyes catch mine over the rim and his eyebrows shoot up. My insides flare as I register a familiar green hue.
“It’s you,” I say.
“It’s you,” he responds.
“What are you doing here?”
He takes a long sip, considering me with those intense eyes. Maybe it’s because I’m tipsy, but I feel like I’m being sucked into his pupils, light and sound collapsing in their depths.
“The pastry didn’t hit hard enough.” He sets down his glass. He’s wearing a light blue button-down, but he has the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the top button is undone, like his chest is trying to escape the restrictive fabric. “I’m here for something stronger.”
He’s still facing the bar, wide shoulders shadowing his drink.
I’m not sure why I’m so struck by them. He’s not built like a swimmer, with a frame so broad it’s practically offensive.
But maybe that’s just it—this guy is attractive in a well-rounded way.
He’s tall, but unlike a volleyball player, it’s not his only striking feature.
He’s got a broad chest, but I can also see the thick rise of quads underneath his dress pants. And then there are those eyes.
“So, your thing didn’t go well?” I ask.
He lifts a shoulder, but not his gaze. “Not exactly.”
“And you came to a nightclub for a drink?”
“It was in walking distance.”
Does he mean from the course? He must. I guess that’s the reason we picked this place. He said he’s not an athlete, though. A spectator? But he’s dressed so sexy finance man.
I’m about to ask when he says, “What happened with your race?”
“I bombed,” I say. “And then I lost my training center residency.”
“Damn,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
The lasso that’s been wrapped around my chest since my conversation with Carla tightens.
“You know what the most bullshit part is?” I ask.
“Tell me.”
“A year ago, I won this race.”
I close my eyes, swaying slightly despite my elbow anchoring me to a steady surface.
That day ruled. It was the first time Carla told me she thought I had what it took to go all the way.
The day Maxwell asked me out. Even though I’d never said yes to a real date before, I knew him well enough to know that he was the right match for me.
Everything was clicking into place. My life was on schedule.
I blink open my eyes. “And now here I am.” I flap my hand around to our sad little corner and repeat what Maxwell told me two weeks ago. “I’ve peaked. The end is in sight. On the hor-i-zon.”
Music thuds, pulsating the bar under my elbows. Despite it, the silence between us stretches, tightens. I keep my eyes down to avoid whatever look of pity the man must be casting my way.
To my relief, the bartender materializes and sets a pale yellow drink by my fingertips. I snatch it up, take a chug of tangy liquid, and immediately get another rush of lightheadedness. An advantage of exercising for six hours a day and hardly ever consuming alcohol? Extremely low tolerance.
“Losing.” At the sound of his voice, I swivel to find the man fully turned toward me, leaning against an elbow so his shirt is tight against his biceps. Those green eyes settle on me, practically glowing in the neon light. “Losing fucking sucks.”
The lasso around my chest eases, just a touch, and my lips crack into a half smile. “That it does.”
“But.” He shifts, leaning in so he can say the next part close to my ear, like he doesn’t want me to miss it over the music. “It’s one thing for a loss to be a loss, and it’s another to let it be more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Losing is painful and terrible. But that’s all it is. It doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”
My stomach twists with an almost painful emotion that I can’t name. Not with the jumble of thoughts and alcohol clogging up my brain.
“How did you know to say that?”
He shrugs and sits back.
“Well,” I say, “that was good. And totally untrue.”
He exhales a laugh. “Yeah, this stuff is always easier to tell other people than it is to hear yourself.”
“Regardless.” I hunt for the tiny straw with my tongue and suck down more cool liquid. “I want my life back. So, now I have two months to get good enough to win the freaking Pan American Games.”