Deep End

WISHING CARISSA EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA MAY HAVE BEEN A poor idea. When Team USA meets in Houston ahead of the world championship, I’m given the cold shoulder by the other divers so openly, I almost expect to be bullied at recess.

Oh, well.

I didn’t come here to make friends, I guess. Not to make enemies, either, but I’ll deal. Your pal can really hold a grudge, I text Pen. It’s making me sad that Kyle, or any other swimmer from Stanford, didn’t manage to qualify.

PENELOPE: Oh, you have no idea.

PENELOPE: Want me to make a sock puppet account and add to her Wikipedia that she has a foot fungus?

SCARLETT: Let me think it through.

The coach may be in on it. Mei Wang is legendary, and I consider begging her to sign my shammy, but she stares at me a little too intensely, and her handshake gives me a metacarpal fracture.

We fly out in advance, to combat jet lag and get in a few days of on-site training. Team USA is huge, well over two dozen athletes, most of whom ignore me. But the Swedish delegation is already in Amsterdam, and I text Lukas as soon as I’m done pressing my nose to the bus window and basking in the beautiful architecture. His reply is instantaneous, like all he does is wait around with his phone in his hand, waiting for me to contact him.

LUKAS: What hotel?

SCARLETT: Motel One. You?

LUKAS: Same.

SCARLETT: Who are you sharing with?

LUKAS: No one.

Oh, come on.

SCARLETT: Did the King of Sweden pull some strings?

He sends me a picture of a handsome middle-aged man.

SCARLETT: Who’s that?

LUKAS: The Swedish Prime Minister.

SCARLETT: I heard he’s just a puppet for the King. Anyway, I’m sharing with Akane.

LUKAS: 767

SCARLETT: 235843

LUKAS: ?

SCARLETT: Are we just sending random numbers?

LUKAS: It’s my room. Come see me tonight.

Akane is quietly terrifying. Small and wiry, with long, dark hair, full but unsmiling lips. She’s in her late twenties, on the older side for a platform diver, especially one as good as her. All I know is that she trained at Cal, has a child, and enjoys minding her business. The reason we’ve been paired is that Emilee, the good friend she usually rooms with, didn’t qualify. Because I fucked her over in the clutch.

If a vengeful angel of death has to stab me and stuff my corpse in a plastic bag, so be it. Still, as I roll my suitcase into the hotel room, I cannot help some trepidation.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she orders, severe.

“Like . . . what?”

“Like you’re afraid I’ll bite your head off while you’re asleep. It’s not your fault if you dove better than Emilee.”

“Technically, I didn’t—”

“You dove more consistently.”

I’ve never felt less inclined to contradict someone. I really do respond well to a firm hand.

“So, you’re this year’s pariah?”

“Looks like it.” I clear my throat. “Is there always one?”

“It’s a small sport.” She shrugs. “People have history.”

I sigh. “I kinda walked into my pariahship. I’m not very good at these kind of games.”

Akane studies me with stern, wide eyes, and says, “There’s hope, then.”

“Hope?”

“For the two of us to get along.”

The pool is bright, warm, and clean—the trifecta. I practice during the time slot assigned to the US, pleased to notice that I can spot the water easily and the platform doesn’t feel weird under my feet. Some do, and careening off them at twenty miles per hour is terrifying.

Coach Wang, who wants to be called Mei, stops me on my way out.

“Vandermeer, come here.” God, she’s intimidating. “Your forward.” She lifts a tablet and shows me my most recent dive. I had no idea she was TiVoing. I fully expected to be ignored in favor of more promising athletes. “You see how you washed over?”

I nod at the slo-mo replay. It’s not a disaster, but also not world championship material. “You come out a little too early, that’s why. Here.” She shows me the error twice more. Each time I cringe harder, till I’m ready to throw my body out of the window for the carrion birds to feast upon. “I think I can correct that,” I tell her.

Tomorrow I’ll do better.

But Mei looks at me like I’m a pimple, newly sprouted on her nose. “Why are you standing here like a lamppost, then? Go back up. Fix your dive.”

Wincing, I haul ass.

Go back up.

And fix my dive.

We repeat the process for three more dives. She tells me what parts look “uglier than starvation,” gives me precise corrections, and shows me how improvement can be driven by tiny adjustments. “This pike? There’s half a dozen points here.”

I nod, bewildered.

“You know,” she tells me. “I’d written you off.”

“I . . . excuse me?”

“I remember you from Junior Nationals. Even told a couple scouts to check you out. But then you got that injury, and I thought you were over.” Her eyes eviscerate me. I’m a salmon, and she’s carving my spine out. “But you’re not bad. Even better, you’re good at taking directions. Where are you training?”

“Stanford. With—”

“Sima.” She nods. “He’s good. Some things, though, even a good coach stops being able to spot. A second pair of eyes is always useful.” I nod, until she starts looking at me like I’m a wart again. “Are you gonna stay here all day? Training slot’s over. Beat it.”

I vow to learn to tell whether I’m being dismissed.

The event mascot is a horrific seahorse with piercing blue eyes. I walk in desperate search of a snack station, trying to avoid his too-long snout. Athletes move in packs, wearing their countries’ colors, and I feel weird wandering alone. I’m about to take a shuttle back to the hotel, when I come across a basketball-court-sized room, sectioned in different areas.

“There’s one for each country,” a volunteer tells me before glancing at the badge hanging from my neck. “US is over there.”

I glance at our table, where Carissa and Natalie are eating yogurt. No, thank you.

“What about Sweden?”

It’s in the opposite corner. I walk, taking in the different languages around me, till I find it. There appears to be no strife among the Swedish team: they stand around their table, playing ball with something that looks like a protein bar.

I instantly spot Lukas, even though everyone in the delegation is as tall as him. His hair is a little shorter than when I walked out of his house a week ago, but he’s still himself. Still handsome. Still mi—

“Scarlett?”

A second later he’s in front of me. He reaches out to touch me, but I feel myself inch back a little, even through the flutter in my chest, the prickling heat in my throat.

I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s just too overwhelming and too soon, having him near me after the gaping void of his absence.

He gets the memo. Of course he does, dialed in as he is. “I thought you’d rest at the hotel.” His blue and yellow compression shirt does great things for his eyes.

“Our coach doesn’t believe in rest. She’s probably wondering why I’m not running laps.”

He smiles, wider and so much more boyish than usual. So happy to see me, I’m a little floored. “How’s your pool?” I ask, to distract both of us.

“Only used the warm-up one, but fine. The diving tower?”

“A problem, actually.”

“How so?”

“I’ve been looking for something to complain about. Lay the groundwork for what I’ll blame my future failed dives on. Can’t find anything, though.”

“A tragedy.”

“See, you get it.”

He stares, smiling. I stare, smiling. Maybe no one would catch a single, tiny hug. A small kiss. My hand in his.

“Hi.” A man appears at Lukas’s side—wearing the same shirt, built like him, dark skinned. His smile is warm. “Wasn’t your hair red last time we met?”

My heart capsizes.

“Different person, Ebbe.”

“Oh, shit.”

“This is Scarlett Vandermeer. Scarlett, Ebbe Nilsson.”

Ebbe shakes his head. “And an idiot.”

“Don’t worry about it. Pen and I don’t look too different.”

“That’s probably a lie, but thank you. USA, right?”

“Yeah. Lukas and I are in school together. We . . .” We? Lukas watches me, entertained, like he’d be fine if I said, Responsibly practice BDSM together. “Collaborate on a biology project,” I end weakly. Big middle school science fair vibes. “I was looking for food, actually. Where did you get your, um . . .”

“Ball?” Ebbe asks.

“Precisely.”

“Come with me.” Lukas’s fingers wrap around my upper arm. “I’ll walk you to one of the stations.” We’re on our way out when someone yells something at him, which starts a quick back-and-forth in Swedish that ends with laughter and “Vi ses.” It was on my app, but I can’t recall the meaning.

“What was that?” I ask. His teammates seem to be studying me.

“They wanted to know whether I’d join them for dinner.”

“And? What did you tell them?”

He guides me out, fingers pressed against my upper back. My world coalesces to five points of contact. “I told them that I had better things to do.”

I can tell from the way Lukas touches me that he’s becoming impatient about the long bubbles of time in which we are apart.

It’s possible that I am, too, but he is in charge. He sets the rhythm. He is the one who fucks me standing up, my pants pulled down and my back pushed to the wall as soon as we’re inside his room. I’m not at my most lucid, but I estimate it lasts about three minutes. We both come, but he doesn’t stop. When he slips out of me, it’s like being thrown into a freezing lake. Then he turns me around and shoves me face down on the bed.

“I need a minute to—”

“Nah.” He pushes inside me in one thrust. I’m as wet as I could be, but he’s Lukas, and it’s not easy to let it happen. “I’ll fucking tell you what you need.”

He’s been rocking inside me for about fifteen seconds when I come again, a rush of heat spreading through me, my cunt clenching in tender little pulses. I can’t stop. Can’t get myself together.

“You’re made for this, aren’t you?” His fingers fist at my nape. They take several turns in my hair, until it’s wrapped around his hand, until I feel the brush of his knuckles against my scalp with each tug.

“A beautiful thing. Made for me.”

I nod, and it pulls at my skin. Then he’s moving inside me deeper than before, deeper than ever, and the achy spot he presses against feels like the origin of all pleasures and pains.

“Shhh. You have to be quiet.” I realize that I’ve been making wretched little noises. “I know, baby. I’m right here. Just breathe for me, it’s okay.” I hide my face in the pillow. It smells like cotton and laundry detergent and Lukas. “Be a good girl and bite into that.”

Afterward, when the sun sinks and the shadows lengthen, I lift from the me-shaped spot in his arms, and press a kiss into the sweat gleaming at his temple. Gross, I tell myself, salt clinging to my lips. Except, it isn’t. I’m not capable of perceiving Lukas and his body as anything but good.

“Should we stop having sex?”

His look is mystified. Offended, too.

“I mean, doesn’t it interfere with athletic performances?”

“Is that a thing in diving?”

“No, but I’m not an endurance or speed athlete. You are.”

His fingers caress my hair, gentle. His touch always matches what I need. “We’re here without practice, classes, and all the shit that constantly pulls you away from me. I’m going to take advantage. If that costs me a race, so be it.”

I laugh, but my heart doubles in size. “I’m serious.”

“Me, too. I’m making an informed choice. Plus, half of the people here are fucking each other.” His palm is warm against my cooling cheek. “Move your stuff in here.”

“What?”

“Stay in this room. With me.”

“I . . . mine’s only two floors down.”

“Too far.”

“Why?”

“Scarlett.” He drags me down to him. Kisses me slowly, lingering, like getting enough of this, of me, is a concept not translatable in his language. “You know why.”

“I . . . really don’t.” My cheeks are aflame, as always when I try to lie. Except that I’m not. I don’t understand, and that’s the truth.

He nods. Patient. Kind. Serious. “Okay. We’re at a major competition. I won’t ask you to have this conversation right now.” What conversation? “But if you’re ready, I can tell you why I want you here.”

My heart slams against my ribs. I glance away—an automatic gesture, like I’d avert my eyes if a car came crashing toward me on the highway.

“Tell you what.” Lukas sighs, but not in frustration. His thumb sweeps under my cheekbone. “Let’s take it day by day. You’re always welcome, here, with me.” He pulls me all the way over his body, toes against his shins, chin on his pecs. Skin to skin, it’s almost shockingly intimate, even after all the filthy things he and I have done. He’s so solid, he could be my life raft. Already is, maybe. “What time are you training tomorrow?”

“Early morning. Why?”

His fingers skim to my lower back. “Because we have plans.”