Deep End

IT’S A WEIRD SETUP, PEN AND ME IN THE BACK OF THE CAR WHILE Lukas drives. I’d throw out a joke about his Uber driver career, but humor would no more benefit the situation than picking up a serial-killing hitchhiker.

“I didn’t do it.” Her sobs have slowed to quiet sniffles. “You believe me, right?”

I squeeze her hand tight. “Yes, of course.” The more I think about it, the surer I am. Pen is no fool and she certainly wouldn’t jeopardize her NCAA eligibility by taking banned substances.

“When did you get the AAF?” Lukas asks.

“The what?”

“The notice of adverse analytical finding,” I whisper.

“Right, duh. Sorry, I had a shot on an empty stomach. I feel like a boulder just dropped onto my head.” She rubs her face. “Half an hour ago. I was at that party with Vic, but couldn’t find her, so I took out my phone to call her and . . . the athletic director emailed me and Coach Sima. It’s from the Pac-12 sample. Not even a random test!”

Lukas nods. “When was the previous time you got tested?”

“Five, six months ago? Diving nationals.”

“And your diet hasn’t changed? No new prescription medications? Drug use, vitamins, supplements?”

Pen gasps. “Lukas, you know me.”

“I know very little about your daily life, by now.” He says it without inflection, but it ticks her off enough to twist her hand out of mine. She leans forward, gripping the headrest of his seat.

“My brain hasn’t turned into clam chowder in the past year. I know how easy it is to get a positive doping test. I would not take unregulated substances without running them by the team physician.”

He nods, unfazed by her defensiveness. “What are you positive for?”

“I didn’t—” She slumps back, bare arm brushing against mine. “Anabolic steroids? Where the fuck would I even get those? Do they think I’m cooking meth in my laundry room?”

“And this was the A sample?”

“Yeah. Jesus. I don’t even—what’s going to happen now, Luk?”

“Back when they tested you, they took a B sample, right?”

“Yeah.”

It’s a process all DI athletes are intimately familiar with. Chugging down gallons of water to pee in front of some lady who needs an unobstructed view of me filling a plastic beaker has been part of my life for years, and I barely register the unpleasantness. Every time, we’re asked to fill two bottles. The A sample is used for testing. B is frozen. If the A sample comes back positive, B is used for retesting when the athlete contests the results.

I’ve heard of a few people having to go through that, but they were always grapevine stories. Some cross-country junior. A diver who graduated before I joined the team. Friends of acquaintances. Famous athletes in the news. This just feels . . . odd.

“The first step is asking for a retest,” Lukas says calmly. “And maybe a lawyer—”

“A lawyer?”

“I’ll ask around. What did your coach say?”

“He hasn’t replied. Even if we ask for a retest, the NCAA championship is coming up. Will it get done on time? Or I could be disqualified, and—” She breaks off, fat tears sliding down her face, and I pull her into me.

“You have a window of twenty-four hours to ask for a retest, right?” Lukas asks.

“Yeah.”

“Is Stanford taking care of that, or should we?”

“They will.”

“Okay.” Lukas nods, and the knot of tension in my chest slowly loosens. It’s the way he lays it all out—plans, timeline, to-do list. “For now, don’t worry about it. You have not taken steroids, there’s something else going on, and we’ll get to the bottom of it. Focus on sobering up. Sleep on it.”

“I’m not going to be able to sleep until this mess is over.” Pen wipes her eyes. “How am I supposed to function while I wait? What am I even going to do if I can’t dive?”

“I’ll take you home and—” He stops when I catch his eyes through the mirror and shake my head. I can only imagine how scared Pen must be. We athletes build our whole identities around competing, and I know firsthand how destabilizing having it ripped away can be. It’s clearly already messing with Pen’s head, and I definitely don’t want her to have to deal with it on her own.

“I don’t think you should be alone,” I say. “Why don’t you stay with me for a few days?”

Her eyes are wide. “Really?”

“Of course. We can watch TV. Hang out.”

“But don’t you have a twin bed?”

“You can sleep in it, I’ll take the couch.”

“I don’t want to put you out like that. Isn’t your roommate a total bitch?”

I wince. “She definitely tries.”

“Don’t worry about it, then. Luk, can I stay with you? Hasan and Kyle won’t care.”

I freeze. So does Lukas. His eyes find mine again, and the fear of what might happen if Pen is left alone has me quickly nodding.

“Yup,” he says, eventually. I don’t think he’s pleased, but Pen can’t tell.

“This is such a relief.” She snuffles, tearful. “Luk, do you happen to have—”

He’s already holding a box of tissues out to her. Five minutes later, they drop me off at home.

Victoria declares, “Ah, yes, the three forms of torture. Nail pulling, waterboarding, and waiting for a WADA-accredited lab to do what they’re paid for.”

Coach Sima side-eyes her, but there’s a grain of truth in that. The procedures for retesting are soul-suckingly lengthy, even sped up to give Pen her fair shot at the NCAA.

Morale is six feet under. The days crawl, high-strung. Assistant coaches mumble among themselves, stop when I walk by. I catch one of the water polo players peek into Pen’s locker, hoping to find a stash of syringes and hormone vials. On Tuesday, after I mess up a running forward and get a mild concussion, Coach Sima tears into me about being irresponsible—and then gruffly apologizes when the doctor sends me home with orders to rest.

“Pen is heroic,” I tell Bree on Thursday, watching Pen do a perfect reverse two and a half. She’s been holding her head high, showing up for practice, giving her best.

“No shit. I’d be a bug drowning in puddle water.”

I put myself in her shoes, and cannot imagine functioning as well as she does.

We are together a lot—practice, meals, study hours. Whatever time is left, she spends with Lukas. He and I have agreed that Pen needs us, and that she shouldn’t be left alone.

And yet.

Jealousy, I remind myself, is ugly. Envy, uglier still. All the more when it’s directed at someone in need. Pen is my friend, and I’m proud of Lukas for being solid and dependable, for accompanying her to the doping lab to witness the opening of the B sample, or to listen to a lawyer “exploring options.” He makes sure that she’s sleeping and eating and staying healthy. If his support of an ex in need were half-assed, I’d respect him much less.

Still, I miss him.

When we text, it’s mostly about her. Is she okay? Need anything? I’m dropping her off at Avery. Okay, I’m here.

When he leaves for his NCAA championship in Georgia, Pen moves back into her apartment, and so do I. We share her small bed, laughing at the way we kick each other during sleep. We avoid compulsively checking our emails. We watch Lukas being his obnoxious, winning self.

“Just another day at the office,” I muse, watching him hoist himself out of the pool, a handshake and half hug with the Cal guy who came in second. Water slushes down his tattoo, over the tech suit. He leans in to listen to Coach Urso list the things he did wrong, even after winning a race. He barely even smiles. When he does, it’s not real. I know the difference. “He dominates his sport so much, and yet cares so little.”

Pen scowls. “He makes everything look breezy, but when he was younger and having issues . . . you weren’t there, but I saw how much it fucked with his head. He does care.”

I used to assume that Pen was familiar with the depths and shallows of Lukas, and knew things he wouldn’t show me. Now, I realize that her perception of Lukas is stuck. A sixteen-year-old boy, instead of the man he has become.

That night, my phone vibrates. Everything okay?

Pen breathes softly next to me. Yup. She’s sleeping.

LUKAS: You?

SCARLETT: Not sleeping.

LUKAS: But are you okay?

SCARLETT: Yeah.

Shadows of tree branches mottle the ceiling.

SCARLETT: Lukas?

LUKAS: Yes?

SCARLETT: Congrats on winning your last race in the US.

LUKAS: Thank you, Scarlett.