Deep End

IT’S A BLESSING AND CURSE,” COACH SIMA TELLS ME WHILE I wait to be called on the podium. “It’ll be only five months before the Olympics, three months before the trials—you’re going to be exhausted, Vandy. And the coaches have not been selected, so you could end up with Mr. Resting Fish Face, that new guy at UCLA . . .”

I barely listen. He’s right, but I need fewer warnings, and more silence to process the fact that I started this season with a mental block the size of a manatee, and now . . .

I’ll be representing my country at world’s.

The enormity of it is staggering.

“Emilee Newell is a better diver,” I murmur on the plane. “She just made a mistake. I don’t deserve to take her spot.”

“What was that?” Pen asks, taking out an AirPod.

I shake my head, but once we land I’m relieved—even more so when Maryam’s not home, and I get to be alone.

Someone wants to interview me for Stanford’s student newspaper. There is an article with my name on ESPN.com. The school’s athletic director personally emailed to congratulate me. USA Diving sent a nine-hundred-item pre-championship to-do checklist, and added me to the Tier I High Performance squad. I am assured by multiple individuals that USA gear is forthcoming.

It’s Saturday night, but we have a three-day break from practice, and I plan to shut myself in my room, relax, and panic in peace.

And then I get Lukas’s text.

LUKAS: Are you freaking out yet?

I burst into laughter.

SCARLETT: Since before the podium.

LUKAS: I could tell from the live stream.

He watched the live stream.

Pen invited me to some big swimming party. I considered going, mostly to see Lukas, but I’m too exhausted. I shower, put on pj shorts and a tank top, and when I hear a knock, I groan. It’s probably the super. I hate the super. He talks for hours, and—

I pull back from the spy hole with a gasp. Tear the door open.

“Lukas?”

I’d forgotten how tall and broad he is. Or maybe I’m just barefoot. I don’t know, because it’s hard to focus when he’s looking at me like that, the ghost of a smile brushing his mouth and sitting around his eyes, two mastodonic paper bags in one arm. “I figured you’d be out of food,” he simply says.

Oh my god. “I . . . thank you.”

The counter is next to the door. I take the bags from him, set them there, and turn around, expecting to find him engaged in his favorite ritualistic behavior—taking off his damn shoes. But he’s closed the door and just stands there, looking at me like . . . like in this moment in time, contemplating doing anything else is beyond his ability.

I smile up at him. “This smells amazing. Is it Chinese?”

He nods.

“It’s my favorite. Had I mentioned?”

Another nod.

I landed in the state less than two hours ago, and he came to see me. He brought me milk and bread and coffee. Fresh produce. My favorite dinner.

My throat is full with this knowledge. I take a step closer, pushing up on my toes. “Thank you for remem—”

Suddenly, I’m off the floor, pressed between Lukas and the door, my thighs wrapped around his torso.

“—bering.”

He kisses me hard, immediately deep, as if to lick the word out of my mouth. “Scarlett,” he says, a raspy rumble that comes out of his heart via his throat, and maybe it’s the desperate sound of it, but a second later we’re grinding on each other, his hips pushing into mine, his palms frenzied, impatient, changing trajectory, squeezing, and—

My hands dip between our bodies and begin unbuttoning his jeans. He kisses a humming, inviting sound inside my mouth. When I reach inside his boxers and close my fingers around him, he groans like he is in physical pain, pressing his hips into my touch. He’s hot and already fully hard. I smear the head with the wetness I find on the tip and circle once, twice, three—

He stops my wrist with a displeased grunt. Pushes my hand away. He takes his cock out, shoves my shorts to the side, finds me bare and wet, and—

“Fuck,” he mutters. He slides one finger inside me while thumbing my clit.

It’s so good, I cannot believe I managed to do without him for over a month. I squirm against his touch and slide my hand back around his cock to do the same to him.

Lukas growls. Grips my wrist again, and this time pins it next to my head. “I think you forgot who’s in charge.”

“I haven’t.” It comes out as a whine, and earns me a near-painful bite at the base of my jaw. I hate myself for the way I can’t stop writhing against him, but I’m not sure he’s in control of himself, either. And I know that he isn’t when I feel him nudge against my opening right there, against the door, when beds, couches, a table exist.

Thing is, I don’t think he can wait to be inside me. Because he is guiding me down onto his cock right now.

The first few inches glide in all at once. I close my eyes, let out a small, breathless whimper of adjustment, arching to make him fit.

“Lukas,” I moan.

It’s smooth sailing—until it’s not. His eyes on me are wild and soft. “You are very beautiful. Have I told you?”

No idea. I can’t even remember my own name. “I . . . maybe?”

“I was watching you dive the past few days.” He starts moving, and I whimper into his neck. It’s as always, with him. A little painful. Unbelievably good. Annihilating the possibility of any other thought. “And I was thinking . . .” A particularly hard thrust, and he stuffs himself deeper. His mouth exhales against mine. An almost kiss. “I swear, Scarlett. I think about the ways I’ve fucked you all the time. Replay them in my head so much, I’m afraid they’ll wear off.”

One more inch. He’s just big enough that this is never going to be easy. The pressure of him, impossible to breathe around. I feel feverish, too hot, pliant, and it’s just nice, the way he holds me and fills me. Concentrating on his words is more effort than I can spare.

“But I can’t remember whether I told you how beautiful you are. And it’s been driving me crazy.”

Deeper still. For a split second, it’s too much, and I almost push him away. Then it passes, and . . . “Oh my god, Lukas.” I think I could—it’s insane, I must be losing my mind, but I think I could easily come just from the drag of him inside me. I roll my hips, trying to get closer, but the hand under my bottom stops me. My other wrist is still pinned to the wall, and I let out a restless groan. “Please.”

“Hush.” He kisses my cheek calmly, like his cock is not throbbing inches deep inside me. “Did I?”

“W-what?”

“Did I tell you how beautiful you are?”

I’m fluttering around him, ready to burst. I think—I remember—I’m almost . . . “Yes. Yes, you did.”

His mouth twitches in satisfaction. “Good,” he says, pulling out and then filling me again. “My brilliant, beautiful girl.”

He fucks me like he’s thought of nothing but this since the last time we touched. We both come like avalanches in less than a minute.

“Isn’t there a party somewhere?”

Lukas gives me his best Why would that matter? look and spoons an indecent pile of fried rice on my plate. “More?”

I shake my head. I should feel embarrassed at the way I have to lean against the counter, boneless and dripping, cotton-brained and flushed all over. I can’t, though, not when he moves around my kitchen like he’s been cooking in it for months, not with the lingering glances he sneaks at me every few moments.

He takes both our plates to the table, and must notice my post-orgasm uselessness, because he returns to pick me up, his palm firm under my ass, my legs wrapped around his waist. He’s a wonderful means of transportation—safe, timely, comfortable. I want a yearly pass.

“I was going to let you eat first,” he says, taking a seat next to me. “Couldn’t, though.” He shrugs and dives into his rice.

“Is this an apology?”

“Come on, Scarlett,” he chides. “You know it isn’t.”

Good, I think.

“Now that I got a better look, it’s not as bad as I thought,” he adds.

“What?”

“Your apartment. I expected muddy shoe prints and sentient mold.” He glances around like a judgmental landlord. “This is livable.”

“High praise.”

“Moderate praise. I might still do some breaking and entering while you’re at practice.” His gaze warms. “How do you feel?”

“You know when something that’s unexpected but good happens? You should be happy about it, and you are, but also terrified, and the anxiety drowns everything else?”

“According to my psych prof, winning the lottery is one of the most stressful things that someone can experience.”

I tap my index finger against the table. “That’s exactly what I feel. Like I won the lottery. On average, Emilee was a million times better than me—”

“A million.”

“—but because of one mistake, I get to represent my country. Seems like bullshit.”

His hand reaches to cover mine, and I stop fidgeting. “And you think that whoever perfected the national team qualification process over decades never considered similar scenarios?”

“I’m sure they did. But in my case—”

“If the situation were reversed”—his fingers twine with mine—“would you think that you deserve to go to Amsterdam?”

“I . . . no, but—” Lukas’s eyebrow quirks and I fall silent—which seems to please him a little too much. “I hate that smug ‘checkmate’ expression.”

He smiles like he could not give less of a shit. “You’re beautiful when you dive.”

I flush. Look away. “Yeah, you mentioned.”

“That’s not what I mean. I always respected divers, but never found real pleasure in watching them.” His eyes are dark in the dim kitchen light. “Until you.”

It feels wrong and forbidden. The obvious question—What about Pen?—lingers between us, unasked.

Or maybe it doesn’t. Because part of me is starting to wonder if their relationship was more about two young teens being alone against the world and swearing mutual protection, than about romantic love. But it’s a dangerous path to take, muddied by wishful thinking and a question I’m not ready to ask myself.

Why do I care, anyway?

“I know you’re anxious about competing,” he says. “But selfishly, I’m glad you’ll be at the world championship with me.”

My heart beats louder. Quicker. “Maybe we could . . .” I stop.

“What?”

“I was going to say, maybe we could visit Amsterdam together? But you’re best friends with the entire Swedish delegation, and the king will be there—”

“Like I said, Sweden’s a democracy—”

“You flamed-pants liar.” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “I checked Wikipedia. You do have a king.”

The buzz of his phone interrupts us. Penelope, the name on the top of the screen reads. Then texts pop up:

PENELOPE: Luuuk!

PENELOPE: Come on, we’re having so much fun!

PENELOPE: Where are you?

He turns the phone face down and pushes it to the side. Unobtrusive. A silent it’s just us.

“Our king, as I’m sure your sources mentioned, has no political power or relevancy.” He inches closer, too. I want to free my hand and trace that perfectly slanted jaw. “What else did you find out about my country during your countless hours of research?”

A lot, actually. Since I can’t seem to stop myself from reading up on it before bed. It’s like I’m planning a trip. “Let’s see. That you guys have a word for when your hair is all messy because you just had sex.”

His mouth twitches. “True. Knullrufs.”

“And also a really tasty-looking nuclear-green dessert that I’d do unspeakable things to try.”

“Dammsugare.”

“Is it good?”

“Are glycemic comas part of your kink portfolio?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Then it’s good.”

I laugh. “I learned about . . . lagom? Am I saying it right?” He nods, and I continue. “It means ‘the perfect amount.’ Not too much, not too little. The idea is that society is like a team, resources should be shared equally, and people should be humble.”

He looks intrigued, like I’ve found a deep cut.

“And it can come with some downsides. Like with the law of J . . . ?”

“Law of Jante.”

“Law of Jante, correct,” I say haughtily. Lukas laughs softly. “People shouldn’t brag about their accomplishments, or think that they are special, which can make it hard for them to celebrate their successes.” Lukas has once again gone unreadable. “Reminds you of someone, huh?” I ask, injecting just a hint of challenge in my voice, thinking of everything he is, everything he does, everything he never speaks of.

And maybe he gets it, at least a little bit. I watch him trace the inside of his cheek with his tongue, mull it over, ponder options, until he says, “I had my first two acceptances.”

My heart stops. It seems so early, and—he’s talking about med schools, right? Oh my god. This is . . . “Where?” I ask, treading cautiously.

“Penn. Emory.”

I nod slowly, to avoid spooking him.

“Emory offered a merit scholarship,” he adds.

“Full?”

“Yes.”

It’s fantastic. More than that. It’s the best news ever, and I want to explode out of my chair and scream my excitement, but something that passes between us in subtexts, well underneath the frequency of words, tells me to just stay calm.

“I haven’t told anyone yet,” he says.

Oh, Lukas.

I don’t know what I’m allowed to say, but I can’t stave off this happy, bursting feeling. So I stand. Make myself at home on his lap. Wrap my arms tight around his neck. And once I’m sure he won’t bolt the second I open my mouth, I whisper in his ear, “I’m so happy for you.” The words are low and hushed and a little sacred, even though we are alone.

It’s just us. You’re safe with me.

His arms lock around my waist, hands splayed open over my flanks and ribs. It’s not until much, much later that I hear him murmur, “I’d love to see Amsterdam with you.”