Chapter Sixteen
Sixteen
I have come up with a rule to stick to my professional commitment with Adrian. It’s a simple question that I ask myself before I say something, or anything, to my stand-in coach.
Would I say this to Carla?
If the answer is no, then I don’t say it to Adrian.
It’s working quite well. We’ve had no more heart-to-heart conversations. I’ve given him no additional openings to tell me how he finds me inspiring or passionate or “extremely fucking impressive.” This has, in turn, reduced all my lip touching and abdominal staring to the acceptable level of zero.
The new maxim has a pleasing side benefit, too.
It’s allowed me to also keep the promise I made with the erg race: to stop fighting Adrian’s coaching style.
One morning, when he spontaneously decides to reduce the number of intervals in our workout, I grit my teeth and bite my tongue but refrain from complaining and tacking them back on out of spite.
I do grumble—but only internally—when Adrian shouts at me to let my chin tilt up.
And when the guys all pile into the game room one evening and Adrian asks if I’d like to join them, I say no as quickly and politely as I would if Carla asked.
Well, to be fair, Carla would probably rather shave her eyebrows than spend an evening playing air hockey with a gaggle of teenagers. But, you get the idea.
It’s all manageable. Expected. There are no further temptations or distractions.
I’m able to focus on training to the exclusion of everything else, which on the whole, means things are good enough.
Well, my boat still feels like a barge dragging a partially submerged parachute, but my splits are still good enough for top two. I just have to stay the narrow course.
Inevitably, Adrian finds a way to throw me off.
The performance team and I have just finished our cooldown, sweat- and water-slicked unisuits clinging to our backs.
My quads and shoulders are still throbbing, but giving way to the sweet relaxation of post-exertion.
As we start piling toward the docks, though, Adrian unexpectedly cuts off his engine, stopping in a sheltered inlet.
“Who’s up for the standing challenge?” he shouts over the faraway whine of boat traffic.
To my utter confusion, the guys all cheer.
Without further instruction, one of the rowers in the bow seat of a quad gathers his oars in one hand, tucks his feet in close to his chest, and begins to stand.
The boat rocks slightly, sending a ripple of waves vibrating off the hull, but it’s still relatively stable with the other three bracing.
Once he’s upright, the lanky guy in two starts going vertical, as well.
Rowing shells are built for speed, not balance. Standing in them is difficult—more like trying to stand on a floating log than a surfboard. I haven’t tried since college—not after I saw some guys in a double doing it and one of them had a very close call involving his nose and a misplaced oar.
Adrian maneuvers his launch until he’s close to my blade. The hum of the engine dampens as he shifts to neutral.
“This isn’t in the program,” I say. “This isn’t even in your contingency notes.”
I crane my neck to look at him. Above me, his mess of brown hair, flecked in glistening droplets, is framed by an endless blue sky.
“This exercise transcends the program,” Adrian says as Peter—who sits stroke seat in this quad—tucks his feet under his torso.
“What does that mean?”
Adrian grins back. “It means I like to make it a surprise.”
With his three other teammates nearly vertical now, Peter’s shell rocks and teeters, at this point closely resembling a mechanical bull with four crouching riders.
“LET’S GO!” Rohan shouts. In the last few minutes he has raced back to the docks, and is now jumping from foot to foot, phone aimed at the rebelling quad. “You’ve got this, Pete!”
Some of the others yell encouragement and friendly taunts. Peter’s teammates, each hunched and wobbly, stare at the horizon in concentration. Peter pauses for a moment more before drawing himself higher. Cheers ring out. Rohan whoops and pumps the fist not holding the camera.
“There it is!” Adrian yells.
Peter flexes, but the motion is too much. The boat lurches. The guys spill out in a cascade of arms and legs, the shell flipping upside down as they hit the water with splashes and half-panicked laughter.
“Can you do it?” Adrian asks me as the guys swim their boat toward the dock, hollering for another crew to try.
“Of course,” I say. “But I don’t see the point. Explain your reasoning?”
It’s a new thing between us. Ever since the erg race, whenever Adrian catches me off guard with a new training strategy, I ask for an explanation.
As promised, he always delivers. Although I don’t always agree with his logic, at least I can see where it’s coming from.
On rare occasions, his explanations are even compelling.
Though I doubt today will be one of those days.
Adrian starts ticking off points on his long fingers. “It tests balance. It will help you get out of your head and connect with the boat on a more subconscious and intuitive level. And…”
“And?”
“And it’s fun.”
I side-eye a double now wobble-standing, grins plastered to their faces as they brace for the inevitable crash. “What about the potential for injury?”
“You’ve seen someone get hurt doing this?”
“No,” I say, “but I saw someone almost get hurt.”
Adrian chuckles. “Let’s not live our lives overly worried about ‘almosts.’ ”
I frown. “Does that mean I have to do it?”
The way Adrian’s lips lift has me forcing my eyes away from him. I hate that, even when we’re arguing, I find his smile infectious.
“Yes, Parker. You have to.” Another cry rings out as more guys flail and stutter. Water crashes yet again.
“Fine,” I say and snatch up my oars. I haven’t tried in years, but one advantage of the loaner boat I’m using is that it’s wider than my normal racing shell and therefore a bit more stable. “My turn.”
The guys cheer as I paddle toward a clear section of water, away from Adrian’s launch and the other boats.
Rohan trains his phone on me as I angle my stern toward the docks. “Get it, Kath!” he screams, fist pumping again. “The people want to see you fuck this up!”
He flashes me an enthusiastic—or maybe sarcastic?—thumbs-up.
“He means it in a good way,” Peter clarifies as he flutter-kicks the stern of his quad past my shoulder.
My lips crack as Rohan starts dancing from foot to foot, muttering, “Get it, get it, get it.”
“All right,” I yell back. “Let me show the people how it’s done.”
He whoops in return.
A breeze flutters across my damp shoulders.
I suck in a deep breath and let the omnipresent smell of brine and motor oil calm my racing heart.
Then I organize the handles below my legs—regardless of what Adrian says, I don’t need one of my oars impaling me—and press a foot to them to keep them level.
With as much deliberate control as I can muster, I push myself upward.
The boat shudders. I keep my gaze locked on one of the irregular wood planks jutting up from the dock. My legs extend a bit more. And…yes!
I’m standing.
Hands splayed, I steer my triumphant smile toward Adrian. “Easy.”
The boat rocks, but I manage to stay upright, riding the movement. Around his shoulders, I hear the distant smattering of applause.
Adrian folds his arms, his boat swaying slightly in the gentle waves. “Great. Now close your eyes.”
“What?” I yell back, not quite sure I heard him right.
“Close your eyes.”
The boat lurches, but I’m determined to say upright. “I’ll fall.”
Adrian’s smile twitches. “Probably.”
I bottle up a frustrated growl and survey each piece of equipment around me, trying to memorize their positions.
“No more stalling,” he says.
Right, then. I give the dock one last fleeting look before I jam my eyelids shut.
For the briefest of moments, I’m triumphant. The world is dark, but I’m aloft, riding the boat like a teeter-totter. Thank god. Now I can get back to the dock and my post-workout routine. I want to start stretching before I—
My hip thrusts to the side. My legs tumble. Water envelops me as I crash through the surface in a cannonball of limbs and tidal wave of bubbles.
I kick toward the surface. Next to my overturned shell, my face thrusts into air. Water pours off me and I cough out salty liquid.
From the docks, Rohan flashes another thumbs-up. “GREAT CONTENT!” he yells from behind his phone. “Keep up the good work!”
Adrian navigates the launch to my side, joy dancing in his eyes.
“Almost,” he says.
I wipe a hand down my wet face. “This is ridiculous.”
“And here I thought it was ‘easy,’ ” Adrian says with a wink.
I know what he’s doing. He’s manipulating me.
(I guess he would say “coaching” me.) He’s appealing to my competitive instincts to get me to work harder.
I know that and yet…all I want is to flutter-kick this boat to the dock, slam myself back onto the seat, and prove this man wrong. No matter how many tries it takes.
An hour later, the guys have slowly streamed toward their impatient parents idling in the parking lot.
Rohan seemed particularly difficult to tear away, but Adrian managed to convince him he had enough content for the day.
Frankly, this has to be true. At this point, Rohan has probably caught me plunging into the inky water a dozen times.
Despite these many tries, I have so far been unable to hold a standing position, eyes closed, for more than a moment. Yet I’m sure as shit not done trying.
Adrian, for some reason, hasn’t tired of watching me fail.
By the time I’m paddling out for my next attempt, the sun hovers low in the sky and the air has quieted with a gentle dusk.
Moments later, the boat yet again tips out from under me, possibly even sooner than last time.
Without the kids around anymore, I let out the scream that’s been simmering in my chest for the last hour.
“This isn’t possible,” I say as I heave myself back onto the dock, water streaming off my braid and shoulders heating from the repetition.
“You’re not committing to it,” Adrian tells me. “You’re not connecting with the boat. You have to lead with your heart instead.”
I press my lips together and narrow my eyes over the expanse of water, darkening to charcoal blue with the setting sun. “None of those words make any sense in the order you’ve put them in.”
Adrian laughs. “Out of your head and into your body. It’s the same thing I tell you in practice—this is just a different format for learning it.”
I let out an exasperated groan. Of all the coaching cues Adrian has given me over the last week, this one is the most confusing.
Every time I try to ask him to break down what he means—to explain it to me in terms of leverage or handle height or torso hinge—he interrupts to say I need to stop thinking with my head so much and just feel it all more.
“I have no idea what that means,” I protest impatiently. “I’m in my stupid body. There’s literally nowhere else I can be. I bet this is actually impossible and you’re just trying to break my spirit or something.”
“Impossible?” Even from a few dozen feet away, I can hear the challenge.
With one foot on the hull of my boat, I thrust it toward his launch. “Show me, then.”
Adrian grins like he was hoping I’d say that.
A few moments later, he’s leaped onto my seat and is moving away from the dock. A puddle accumulates beneath me as, knees pulled into my chest, I trace his movements.
He’s wearing a light-colored Henley, better suited to coaching than crewing, and even though the rigging is wrong for him, he looks perfectly at home in my boat.
He handles the oars with easy confidence, forearms flexing as he arcs the stern toward me.
He’s just as strong and balanced as he was on a yoga mat, but now there’s a self-assuredness in the flex of his arms and a smoothness to the press of his legs.
He rolls a hand against the oar grip and, for a sudden confusing moment, I wish it were the back of my head under his fingers.
Adrian flashes me a smile, clenches his eyes shut, brings his feet beneath his body, and stands. The motion is wobbly, yes. He’s a rower, not a gymnast. Still, his movements are sure and precise. A moment later, he’s fully upright, eyes closed, with arms splayed out to his sides.
It should make me feel jealous or maybe even defeated. Instead, I’m just impressed.
“How are you doing that?” I yell across the water.
Eyes still closed, Adrian lists to one side, but quickly recovers. “Practice. And connection. You have to get out of your head and connect with the boat.”
“Okay there, Sensei,” I say with a laugh even though I’m still grappling with the growing knot in my stomach.
There’s an aliveness to him that I’ve either never seen before or never fully appreciated. His energy is striking. Infectious. I want it near me. I want to breathe it in with deep, gasping inhales.
“Ready to try again?” he asks.
“I’m fine sitting here and watching you.”
The words pop out of my mouth before I can check them against my mental rubric.
That’s not something I’d say to Carla.
Adrian’s eyes fly open. They grab me over the glimmering water: him still riding those faint waves, me soaking wet and unbearably warm despite it.
A shimmer of electricity passes between us, a cord connecting us that I thought I’d severed days ago.
It sends a rush of heat down my spine, a tingle all the way to my still-damp toes.
Adrian’s mouth unfurls in a smile.
And then his boat tips.