Chapter Ten
Ten
When I mention the evaluation—in conjunction with yet another request to get back on the water—Adrian lifts a shoulder and asks about my resting heart rate.
“You don’t care?” I splutter. I’d thought the whole tenor of our conversations might change, ideally make him more accommodating to my requests.
Our power dynamic should have completely changed now that I’m the one with control over his destiny.
At the very least, I thought he’d have a few questions about how the evaluation is going to work.
“How can I evaluate you without, you know, training with you?”
Adrian shrugs again. “There’s time.”
So, I spend another thirty-six hours aggressively resting.
I’ve always been good about my nutrition and sleep, but I become maniacal.
I track every ounce of water, every gram of macronutrients and milligram of electrolytes that pass over my lips.
I monitor my sleep, not only with my watch but also a heart rate strap for more accuracy, and I scrutinize the graphs before plunging into yet another nap.
Any minute that I’m not sleeping, I’m stretching, or visualizing, or eating as much protein as I can conceivably stuff into my mouth.
Finally—finally—Adrian deigns to let me back into a racing shell.
My new loaner is a big upgrade from the dusty boat I pirated, but it’s still slightly wider and therefore slower than the one I have at the training center. I don’t care. I’m so relieved just to be touching carbon fiber again that I practically sob when I set it into the slings.
Heart climbing up my throat, I start running through my warm-up stretches: lunges, toe touches, some dynamic rotations.
Probably because I’m so relieved, I feel incredible.
It’s like there are secret reserves of strength and energy flowing under my tingling skin, powering every swing of my nearly weightless arms and legs.
Then I jam in a pair of earbuds and blast David Guetta, and, as Sofi would say, I’m ready to run through a fucking wall.
I missed this so much.
Yet this floaty, happy feeling lasts about three minutes. Because Adrian always has a catch.
He materializes behind me, holding out a lockbox like a collection tin awaiting its tithe.
One by one, the guys form a line and toss their phones in the outstretched box with a series of thunks.
I’ve seen them do this ritual over the last few days, but this rule shouldn’t apply to me.
It’s so that young athletes aren’t, like, on TikTok in their boats.
For some reason, Adrian smiles at me from beneath a section of hair that’s fallen in his eyes and nudges the box toward my wing riggers where I’ve already mounted my phone.
“You can’t be serious,” I say.
“I’m always serious,” he says with a grin that is anything but.
Peter darts up to lay his cell phone in the box, then watches me from around his coach’s shoulder.
“The rule is everyone, every time,” he says, like he’s repeating something that’s been engraved on a stone tablet, not at some point mentioned by a high school rowing coach.
Adrian nods solemnly.
I purse my lips as I relinquish my phone. It’s not ideal—I prefer to have it so I can monitor advanced metrics, like distance using GPS—but what I really need is my StrokeCoach: the small device that monitors my most important stats, like splits and stroke rate.
I’m already moving back toward my boat when Adrian says, “The StrokeCoach, too.”
Slowly, I turn back. “Excuse me?”
“Just for this practice.”
Another cell phone thuds into Adrian’s box. I’m still staring in disbelief.
“I have to have it,” I stammer.
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
It’s like asking me why I need a seat. I’ve used a StrokeCoach since I was a teenager.
It’s one of my most important pieces of equipment.
Especially today. We’re doing three by three thousand meters—one of my keystone practices.
It’ll establish a baseline for the rest of the summer. “I need to know my interval times.”
Adrian plucks up the stopwatch hanging around his neck. “I actually have a device capable of keeping track of time.”
My mind flicks through the rubric Carla sent me and I mentally pen in the places where I can write intransigent and demanding and possibly cracked in the head.
You know, in an unbiased way. “But…in real time. If I know my speed and stroke rate, at any given moment, I can calculate how I stack up to the splits I need to get second at Pan Ams.”
“You think that’s a good thing?” Adrian asks. “Living with that in your head every second of every practice?”
“It keeps me focused.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Rohan, who has just reached the top of the line, drums his fingers against crossed arms. Instead of scattering toward their shells, he and the rest of the guys are watching me. Maybe waiting to see who will win this standoff or possibly plotting to take me down in defense of their coach.
“You’re one of us now, ma’am,” Rohan says. “You have to do what Coach says.”
I narrow my eyes at him as one of the other kids guffaws.
Rohan throws up his hands in mock surrender. “Ma’am! I said ma’am! That was a hundred percent respectful.”
Adrian nudges his athlete away with an elbow. “I think you’re making it worse, dude.” He holds the box toward me once more, voice hardening. “StrokeCoach, Parker. I’m not asking again.”
Heat rises up my neck as watchful eyes track my every movement, but I still unlock the device from its mount and drop it into the box. Then I turn and march down to the water, boat firmly on my hip and left hand facing away from the team.
Because Adrian didn’t ask for my watch.
The first interval goes poorly. Even though my body feels light, I’m opening my trunk too early and missing water at the catch.
I also have to keep angling my wrist so I can surreptitiously glance at my watch.
Every time I see a number that displeases me, my next stroke falters, and I fight to regain momentum.
All in all, this practice is going exactly as well as I’d have expected considering I lost multiple days of training and I don’t have my most important tech.
“Damn it, Parker!” Adrian yells from his launch as I finish the second-to-last interval. I’m hunched over, elbows crushing my knees as I suck in air, trying to calm my burning lungs.
His boat accelerates toward me in a storm of wake and roar of engine.
“What?” I yell, even though I know exactly what. I hit a button on my watch moments before Adrian’s outburst.
He kills the engine and strides to the edge of his platform, towering form casting a long shadow that nearly reaches my deck.
“Watch,” he demands. “No more games. Give it to me now.”
“I told you—”
“No.” He points a finger at it. “No more. Take off the watch.”
There’s actual pain in my jaw from how hard I’m clenching my teeth. My mind flits back to that rubric and I can’t wait—I cannot wait—to tell USRowing exactly what kind of coach Adrian is.
“Now, Parker,” Adrian says again.
I refuse to look at him as I unclasp the band and throw the watch at his chest. He catches it with one hand before tucking it into his pocket.
“Thank you,” he says, tone lower. “We’ll start again in a few minutes.”
I channel my rage into my last interval.
Every time Adrian’s green eyes flit into my mind, I jam my legs harder, driving the boat forward with strokes as vengeful as they are powerful.
My blades splash under each precise catch, my core flexing as I drive, my lats and biceps burning with the finish.
A salty breeze swirls around me as the oars glide back and forth.
Catch, drive, feather, recover. Over and over until it isn’t just a rhythm. It’s a poem.
We hit the halfway point, and my breaths start coming in harder. There’s acid building in my limbs, but I’m so focused, so intent, I barely feel it.
I glide, skating on the water like a kid on a swing: light, weightless.
I’m floating, each stroke propelling me forward, taking me feet instead of inches, like my boat has a life of its own.
Like my equipment weighs half as much as it should.
The pain is there—always there—but it’s overshadowed by joy.
This right here. It’s one of the reasons I love rowing. Yes, there’s the control and the routine and the life I get to live because of my devotion to the sport. But there’s also this feeling. Like I’m flying. I never get to choose when it happens, but when it does, it’s magic.
We finish the last interval in a whirlwind of sweat and pain and breathtaking exhilaration.
I brace my elbows against my knees, droplets of sweat and briny water dripping from the tip of my nose.
Instantly, I turn my wrist, searching for my phantom watch.
My gaze flicks up to Adrian’s launch a few boat lengths away. He’s grinning.
“Time?” I ask with my next lungful of air.
His smile widens.
. . .
Adrian makes me wait until all the guys have left, filtering away to idling cars in the parking lot, before he’ll share the last interval time with me.
“Want to guess?” he asks, a devilish grin playing across his lips.
I swallow a heavy sigh. I take my splits way too seriously to play these games. Even worse, I’m annoyed by the way his eyes dance when he’s smiling.
“Can’t you just tell me?”
“Did it feel faster or slower than the others?” Adrian prods.
I don’t have to think about it, because it doesn’t matter how it felt. For the last few months, whenever I’ve done this workout, the pattern has always been the same. The second interval is slower than the first and the third is slower than the second.
“Slower,” I bite out. “So, what was it?”
Very slowly, and with that damn grin spreading even wider, Adrian shakes his head, maintaining eye contact like he needs to witness my reaction. “Faster.”
“Faster than the second?”
“No,” he says. “Faster than both.”