Page 7 of Cartel King

“Yeah, I started rowing when I was in high school. Then I rowed in college as well. I coached for a bit right after college and rowed masters but was too young to compete with them. By the time I was old enough to qualify for masters, I’d already had my first son, and my family didn’t live close enough to a lake, a river, or the ocean for me to go out on the water easily while still having a young child at home. When I was ready to go back out on the water because I had somebody who could babysit him in the morning after my husband—ex-husband—and I left for work, I was pregnant again. That pattern stayed the same through a third son.”

I watch him from the corner of my eye to see how he reacts to all of that. I’m used to speaking of my former husband as my ex-husband most of the time, but it still feels a little odd to call Tim that when I talk about the past related to raising kids together. Or rather me raising them, and him floating in and out of the house whenever he felt like paying attention to us or work allowed.

Enrique doesn’t seem fazed by me mentioning I was previously married. He already knows I have adult sons, though I could be way overthinking this, and it’s of no interest to him at all.

Maybe it doesn’t matter to him if I’m single. I haven’t seen a ring on his hand or any shadow of shame—a wedding ring tan line on guys who slip off their rings to pretend they’re single. For all Tim’s faults, he never cheated on me except for the emotional affair he had at the end, but I encouraged that.

I’m lost in my thoughts, and I almost forget what we were talking about. Thankfully, Enrique pulls me back to the present.

“So, you had a few years off while your sons were young?”

Yeah, more than a few years. Try closer to two decades.

“I’ve just gotten back into it seriously over the last couple of years. I had to get my sea legs under me when I first started going out in a single. I hadn’t done that since just after college. When I was in high school and college, I rowed in eights, fours, and quads, so it was never just me balancing the boat and making sure I didn’t end up in the water.”

He cocks an eyebrow and shakes his head. “I haven’t had more than a few months off at a time since I first started rowing, and I tipped last week.”

“You did?”

“In all fairness, I got waked.” Someone’s boat cast a big enough wake to flip him.

“Oh, that’s obnoxious. How fast were they going?”

“Way over the speed limit.”

“Was that five where you were?”

“Yeah, they had to have easily been doing ten in a bass tracker.”

“That is obnoxious. Did they at least stop to see if you were all right?”

“No, they didn’t even bother to slow down.” He’s still smiling, but there’s that hard glint in his eyes I saw the other day when I mentioned going to the boathouse and some teenagers being careless.

It makes me wonder if he’s plotting their demise. Maybe that’s pushing it a little far, but he’s definitely still pissed, even if he’s trying to pass it off as no big deal.

“Did you play any other sports growing up?” I think steering the conversation away from him capsizing is probably a good idea right now.

“I swam, so rowing was sort of the logical progression, I guess. I love being on the water.”

“Same. I injured my rotator cuff from overuse as a swimmer, but it never bothered me when I switched to rowing.”

“I also grew up playing soccer.” He watches me as though he expects some type of response from me. Some quip with a stereotype?

“Me too. I was a total tomboy growing up. I was usually the only girl out on the field playing soccer at my elementary school. I’d be out there before school, after school, lunch recess, morning recess. Any chance I had, but swimming was my real love.”

“See, soccer is mine. I still play when I can with my brother and nephews. I played in college when I rowed just for fun because I couldn’t commit to two seasons. Each year, I only had the time for a single season sport.”

Rowing is both a fall and a spring sport with different lengths and styles of races, but it’s a year-round commitment for academic athletes that isn’t always easy to keep.

“Do you still play soccer?”

I shake my head and frown. “No, not in a long time. I tore my right calf muscle twice several years ago, so I don’t run anymore. I’m too nervous I’ll tear it again, and the third time will be the charm with me winding up in surgery.”

“That’s a shame, but I understand. You could always play keeper.”

“Yeah, but I’ve never enjoyed those kinds of?—”

I catch myself before I say what I’m thinking. I definitely don’t know him well enough to make off-color jokes.

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