Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
I’m not ready to say whether or not Adrian’s method works, but I’ve found it surprisingly easy to shift to an entirely new gear.
Last Thursday, I left his office with a lingering kiss and a promise to see him after I finished my solo cross-training session.
And then, I did. We spent that evening cross-legged in front of a giant set of Connect Four before tucking into meatballs that Adrian simmered in red sauce for a solid hour.
Afterward, I stretched and foam rolled while he attacked his training programs, notes and books strewn across his coffee table in a manic pile.
Then he ripped off my pants with the same fervor.
On Saturday, after morning practice, we rented matching green cruiser bikes and rode over the Golden Gate Bridge, whips of hair assaulting our foreheads. That afternoon, when I pushed my fingertips off the dock, I realized my cheeks were still sore from smiling.
Instead of going straight back to the bays after practice the other day, Adrian and I spent an hour sitting on the dock, watching Rohan’s TikTok videos as we kicked our feet through the water, stirring up eddies behind our knees.
Some—like the ones where the kids keep shouting the same few lines (song lyrics?) before pushing one another off the dock—felt like inside jokes I didn’t understand.
But others, like the ones where the kids answer “common questions about rowing,” were hilarious.
My favorites, though, were of Rohan talking directly to the camera with surprisingly personal reflections on our sport.
Like when he describes the agony of erg tests and early-morning practices.
Or complains about the banal torture of unloading a trailer.
Or when he explains why, despite it all, rowing gives him life.
When I kicked off my shoes by the door a couple of hours later, Mom smiled knowingly and asked if I’d be “spending the night away” again.
“Does it bother you that I’m not around much?
” I asked, pausing by the stairs as she chased a tea bag with a spoon.
It’d been a week since I’d spent the night in my own bed, although my sleep tracker hadn’t yet complained about my deep sleep ratios.
“I could stay here tonight if you’d rather have me at home. ”
“Not at all.” A faint smile tugged on her lips. “You seem happy. And that is nothing but a good thing.”
Sofi certainly agrees.
“Getting laid is good for you,” she declares during our next FaceTime chat. “Like hydrating and sleeping ten hours, but even better because you already do those things.”
“Don’t forget,” I whisper, trying to scan her background for other people. They have a couple of hours until practice, but I can tell she’s walking the trail near the boathouse. “Don’t tell Carla.”
As much as I might understand that I can keep “Adrian the man” and “Adrian the coach” separate, I don’t think my coach would.
Sofi frowns at me. “You’ve said. I don’t get why this is a big deal.”
The lighting on the screen changes and the telltale view of steel rafters and racks of shells come into view behind her curls.
“Why are you at the boathouse?” I ask, officially desperate to change the conversation.
“My grips were kind of slimy this morning even though I changed them a couple of months ago. I don’t know if I just need to clean them again or if I should go ahead and replace them so soon.”
“Oh. How have you been cleaning them?”
She tilts her head. “Soap and water. Why?”
I wince slightly, wishing I’d remembered to tell her about this before I left. “I usually give both of ours an extra scrub with a bleach-and-water solution on Saturdays when you’re at PT. It helps disinfect them, especially in the on-season.”
She stares at me for long enough that I wonder if I’ve overstepped, probably bowled over some boundary. It’s her equipment, after all. I shouldn’t be messing with it just because I’m overzealous about disinfecting my own.
“I’m sorry,” I add quickly. “I haven’t talked to you about this in years. Just assumed you still wanted me to do it.”
She nods slowly and then swallows. “Now I know, I guess. But I should go, see if I can find the bleach.” I’m about to tell her to use a ten-to-one ratio when she adds, “I’ll talk to you later, okay? Keep me updated on everything.”
Then before I can explain myself, she hangs up and I’m left staring at the blank screen.
Sofi has always been one of the few people in my life who doesn’t mind that I’m overbearing, even seems to appreciate it sometimes.
But, with all this distance between us, I wonder if she still feels the same way.
I try to forget about the grips. Instead, I think about just how many days’ worth of stuff I can fit in my overnight bag.
Given how frequently I change my clothes, it’s not many.
Adrian keeps saying I should leave more stuff at his apartment, but doing that would definitely not be casual, so instead I’m vacuum-sealing socks as I catch up on Rohan’s TikToks.
In the first from a couple of days ago, a coxswain jumps off the shoulders of two of the taller guys, like some kind of clumsy Cirque du Soleil situation.
In the background, I’m talking to Adrian.
Even though the conversation was mundane, I vividly remember it.
We were going over session goals and, after he listed various technical cues, he reminded me, yet again, to get out of my head and into my body.
As I watch myself now, I realize that, instead of pulling a face, I look contemplative.
Like I’m actually trying to figure out what the hell he means.
I smile and flip to the next video. My phone speaker fills with the grind and thuds of a skateboard park where, apparently, the guys have gone live.
A few of them clumsily attempt tricks on the ramps while others huddle around the edges, alternating cheers and high fives.
In the corner, Peter stalls at the edge of a rail, determination etched across his face.
He nods to himself, then tips forward. The board flies toward the camera lens as he gains momentum down the ramp, then rises, turns, and flips.
He’s careening back down. The camera zooms in on his speeding body.
Cheers ring out from the crowd. Peter chances an enthusiastic grin.
But as he turns, his wheel trembles. Then loses contact. Throws him off-balance.
His arms windmill, but he’s moving too fast. He stumbles, falling forward so fast that I barely catch a view of his straight arm shooting out toward the ground.
There’s an audible crack.
The kids swarm toward him. The screen goes blank. My sock bag hits the ground.
I’m already calling Adrian.
. . .
The hospital room would be blindingly white were it not packed with people.
When Adrian pushes open the door, it nearly checks someone in the back.
Kids shuffle around, allowing us to forge a path through their anxious faces.
From his position near the head of the bed, Rohan blinks despondently, no phone in sight.
Adrian lands by Peter’s side, wearing calm and confidence like a shield big enough to cover the whole room.
“Skateboarding?” Adrian asks. All traces of worry that haunted his expression when I first met him at the automatic doors have been replaced by sure movements and a steady voice.
“I blame peer pressure, Coach,” Peter says. He’s trying to keep his voice light, but he can’t hide the strain. He strikes me as even smaller, even younger.
Rohan scoffs and reaches out a fist, as though to punch Peter’s shoulder, but then thinks better of it and drops his hand.
“Where are your dads?” Adrian asks, glancing around the faces in the room.
“Talking to the doctor some more.” Peter swallows, eyes locked on his splinted arm. “She said they can put the cast on in a few days and I’ll need to wear it for at least six weeks.”
My heart sinks on his behalf, even though I couldn’t have expected much better. If he’s lucky, he’ll be getting out of his cast around the time Youth Nationals ends.
Adrian must be thinking the same. If I were in his place—if I’d just found out that the stroke seat of my fastest boat, and best bet for a medal, was injured—I’d be fighting against the chokehold of frustration.
He has to be running through contingencies, wondering how he’ll fill Peter’s spot, and contemplating worst-case scenarios. Yet, if he is, he betrays none of it.
“No surgery, though?” he asks.
Peter shakes his head.
“That’s good,” Adrian says. “It could have been worse.”
Peter squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose with his still-healthy hand, like he’s forcibly trying to tamp down his tears.
“Hey, guys,” Adrian says lightly. “Can you give us some space for a minute?”
The kids—who apparently didn’t get the memo about keeping their expressions neutral—seem to be made of frowns and angst. One by one, they shuffle out of the room, sneakers squealing into the silence. I step away, intending to follow the others, but Adrian’s hand shoots to my forearm, stilling me.
“Stay?” he mouths.
For the first time since we entered this hospital room, I find actual emotion in his face.
My heart dissolves. He’s showing up for Peter—being strong and steady for Peter—and asking me to show up for him, too. I want to do that. I want to stay for him.
So, I nod and retake my position by his side. Although we try to avoid physical affection around the kids, his hand remains clamped to my arm. As discreetly as I can, I brush his fingers with my own.
The door clicks closed as the last boy leaves. Adrian squeezes my arm gratefully and then releases me so he can drag a chair to Peter’s bedside. He sinks down, elbows resting on knees. Peter’s eyes are still squeezed shut, like he’s trying to close out the suddenly too-big world.
“Let’s talk about it,” Adrian says.
Peter tries to take a deep breath, but he chokes on it instead. A tear seeps through his tightly closed eyelids.