Deep End

CAMPUS IS OVERTAKEN BY ATHLETES.

For a couple of days, the diving well—my diving well—is off-limits to us locals, as divers from other DI schools familiarize themselves with it. It’s a monkey paw situation: I was so envious of the swimmers for their tapering holidays, but I find that idleness doesn’t suit me much. I still show up at Avery, for dryland and some light PT.

It’s where I learn that Lukas is back. I see him in one of the offices, talking to the athletics big shots who only show up when we win something, and my heart flutters in my throat. The happiest hummingbird to ever fly.

Later. I’ll text him later. I force myself to leave, remind myself that he’s busy, but while heading to the dining hall, I hear running steps behind me. A hand closes around my upper arm, and he’s there.

I’m bursting, with . . .

It has to be love. It’s expansive and all-consuming and full and joyous. Hungry. Thick. At once heavy and light. Everywhere and golden. It’s him and me and the myriad of little strings that tangle us together.

I grin, and my happy smile seems to disorient him. He reaches up, brushes my cheek with his thumb, says my name so low, even I can’t hear it. Then he pulls back with a slight frown.

“When did you get back?”

“This morning.” A step closer, towering over me. “We need to talk.”

I frown. “Is she okay? I thought she was with Coach Sima.”

“Who?”

“Pen.”

“This is not about Pen.” His hand is still around my arm. “It’s about you having a concussion and not telling me.”

“How do you know?”

His eyebrow lifts.

“It wasn’t a big deal. I was cleared the following day. And you were splashing around the East Coast. Winning shit. Übermensching.”

“You need to tell me these things.”

“What things?”

“Everything. You need to . . .” He inhales. Looks away, then back to me. “I want to know this stuff.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s about you.”

Another spill of heat. My stomach is made of butterflies. “I’m fine,” I reassure. Grasp his hand lightly, a silent apology, a promise that I’m safe, and he sighs deeply. Looks down at me.

“We do need to talk, Scarlett.”

We do. Still. “It’s just a bad time. She needs us more than . . .” More than what? More than I need him? More than he needs me? Is it even for me to say?

No, judging from the way his jaw shifts back and forth. He bends down to kiss me, short, hard, like he means to leave an imprint. Little does he know, it’s already there.

“As soon as this is solved,” he warns.

I take a deep breath. “As soon as this is solved, and the NCAA is over.”

The following morning, one day before the competition is due to start, Pen receives an email from Stanford’s athletic director.

The initial lab results were a false positive.

The NCAA tournament has no synchro event. “Which sucks,” Pen tells me, “since we’d just hit our stride.”

“Right?” Even though, in the privacy of my own head, I do love the idea of only competing in one event, my best, on the last day. “I’ll be there on the second day, though. For the board stuff.”

“To hold my shammy?”

“And send you rip vibes.”

Avery is pure chaos. Every time a race starts, a stadium-like ruckus rises from the competition pool. Tickets are sold out, and access to the stands is prohibited to non-holders. To support us, the men’s team resorts to watching events from the sidelines and the entrances to the lockers, clustering, making bets, producing bombastic noises whenever Stanford is adjudicated any number of points.

“It’s because they placed fourth at their championship,” Shannon informs me. She’s one of the captains of the Stanford women’s team. I get plenty of mass emails from her, but I cannot recall if we’ve ever talked before. “How they could not place first with Blomqvist on their team, I have no clue.”

“Who won?” Boy, I really should care more.

“The men’s? Cal. But our main rivals are Texas and Virginia. Can you dive better than them?”

“I hope so.”

Her not good enough scowl reminds me why we never hit it off. “It’s okay. My horse is Penelope Ross.”

But perhaps it shouldn’t be, because Pen is not having a great championship. During the prelims for the three meter, she nearly doesn’t qualify because of a wrong twist. Later, in the final, even without failed dives, her form is . . .

“That was so good,” Rachel says after Pen’s back two-and-a-half pike that just . . . isn’t. Dives are to non-divers what wine is to me: it could come from a cube, or from the cellar of an impoverished French baron whose family fell upon hard times. I’d have no way of discerning.

“It wasn’t bad,” Bree says between claps.

Hasan frowns down at her. “But?”

“Was missing a bit of height,” she offers.

A bit of a balk, too. The scores appear on the board, and I grimace. She finishes in fifth place, which is below expectations considering last year’s medal.

“It’s the doping scare,” she tells us later, when we debrief in Coach Sima’s office. “Messing with my head. I couldn’t find my groove.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Coach tells her. “What’s done is done. Don’t dwell on it. Tomorrow’s platform, you’re the favorite. Onward.”

“Yup. Onward.” She sighs and turns to me. “Is Lukas around? Was he watching me dive?”

“I’m not sure.” I haven’t heard from him since before the competition.

“I saw him at the swimming events,” Bella says. “I think he has to go to those, since he’s one of the captains.”

And yet. The following morning, Pen and I get through the platform preliminaries without issues. When I return for the final, late in the afternoon, Lukas is there. I’m so distracted by my phone, I almost crash into him.

“What are you staring at?”

“Barb sent a video of Pipsqueak saying good luck.”

I show it to him. To his credit, he looks immensely charmed.

“You like dogs, right?” I ask.

“Is it a deal-breaker?”

“I’d never thought about that, but . . . yes. It is.”

“I love dogs. I’m just not sure Pipsqueak qualifies.”

I’m considering whether letting her rip off Lukas’s face is a legitimate defense of her honor, when Maryam texts, I’m in the bleachers. Look for me. I glance up, squinting at the stands. There are no signs of her—Sike, she texts a minute later—but I spot a familiar face.

“Lukas?”

“Mm?”

“Is that . . . ?”

He follows my gaze. “Yup. Sure is.”

“Is Dr. Smith into diving?”

“She once asked me how it was different from swimming, so I doubt it. I think she might just be here to support you.”

“That’s very . . .” I cut off. A fainting couch moment comes over me. “Lukas?”

“I’m still here.”

“Do you know who Dr. Carlsen is?”

“Comp bio guy?”

“Yup.”

“I took his class last year. Why?”

I point at the spot in the stands when Dr. Smith leans her head on Dr. Carlsen’s shoulder. His hand is wrapped around her waist, and he seems less than enthused to be here. Then again, it might be an improvement from the quiet wrath that’s his default state.

“She mentioned a husband,” I say. “Is she . . . openly cheating on him?”

“Olive?”

I nod, flabbergasted. But Lukas’s mind doesn’t seem to be half as boggled as mine. In fact, he’s fighting a smile.

“Scarlett, I think Dr. Carlsen is the husband.”

I stare, uncomprehending. “No.”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Honestly, I see it.”

“No.”

“They complement each other. And they do have several publications together.”

“No.”

He laughs. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“I’ll never be okay again.”

“What are you guys talking about?”

I whirl around. Pen is behind us, already wet in her suit. “Nothing. Just, this professor we were doing this research—”

“You need to go shower, Vandy. It’s about to start.”

“Right. Thanks.” I leave with one last, wistful glance to Lukas, and feel his eyes on me as I move away.

The final begins ten minutes later.