Page 33 of Deep End

She sighs. “For now, you’re the only one who knows. We’re still trying to figure out the logistics of not being a couple, you know? People have this weirdly idealized view of us, and I know they’re going to make such a big fucking deal out of it. You know how invasive the gossip is in the athletic village.” She rolls her eyes. “Plus, our social circles overlap. We don’t want to make things weird with that, especially since he and I are still best friends and together all the time. And I won’t lie . . . it’s nice, being seen as Luk’s girlfriend. During freshman year, before people knew about it, so many guys would hit on me and get aggressive when I rejected them. Luk’s existence is like an instant repellent.”

I understand it would be a problem, when one looks like Pen and is that widely beloved.

“Not to mention,” she continues, “he’s very Swedish about this stuff.”

“What’s that?”

“Just, private. Pretty hard-core about not disclosing. Like that time an ESPN journalist asked him whether he had a girlfriend.”

“What’d he say?”

“He just calmly asked,Do you have any other sports questions for me, given that you are a sports journalist?” Her impression is spot-on, down to the faint accent. She knows him inside out, and then some. “He was sixteen, and that was the last time anyone asked him about his private life. Soawkward.”

Appealing, too. I know Lukas is our age, but he seems to have skipped the self-doubt stage. Resolute. Strong-willed. Knows what and where and when he wants to be. I bet he wrote his med school essay in twenty minutes.

“He’s a good guy,” she adds, more serious, eyes toward the pool. “I know he seems . . . distant, and rarely bothers to switch on the charm, but he’s great.” I’m not suredistantmatches my impression of him, but before I can point it out, Pen adds, “He deserves to live his best sexy, depraved, dungeony life.”

The athletes are walking to the starting blocks, and people around us start clapping. I ask, “Are you, um, living your best sexy, undepraved, aboveground life?”

She turns to me. Leans closer. “There is this guy—”

A piercing whistle. Pen springs to her feet. Her screams of “Go, Luk! Go, go,go!” fade in the cheers of the crowd. The sudden noise startles me, and I take a deep breath to collect myself.

Lukas wins, though he doesn’t beat Kyle by a lot. He doesn’t slap the water, dance on the lane separator, or do any of the icky things that I was forced to witness in my club youth and turned me offswimmers forever. He just evades Kyle’s (playful?) attempt to drown him and slides out of the pool. Pen takes my hand to head to dry-land training, and—

Nope. We’re turning for the pool deck. “There he is.” Pen waves a hand. “Luk!”

Lukas is talking with another swimmer, but he’s wrapped it up with a one-armed hug by the time we’ve reached him. Pen beams at him. “Congrats!”

He nods. If he’s happy to have won, I can’t tell.

“Could you stop consistently being the best at what you do?” Pen teases, lifting her arms to hug him.

“I’m dripping.”

“Since when do you care?”

He doesn’t lean down, so it’s up to Pen to reach up for him. My gaze reflexively flicks away, cheeks heating. I’m intruding on this non-couple, again. I shouldn’t be here.Leave for practice. Pen’ll be right behind you. But she brought me here. And she’s my friend. And I’m doing a project with Lukas, and—No reason to be so damn weird all the time, Scarlett.

I give it a couple of seconds, then glance at them again, clearly underestimating the duration of their hug. Pen’s arms are looped around Lukas’s neck, but he’s not reciprocating. Instead, over her shoulder, I find him looking at me.

There is no smile on his face. His eyes are dark, and serious, and heavy, and I—

“You goddamnmachine.” The men’s head coach gives Lukas’s shoulder a weighty slap. Pen breaks apart from him, and I exhale in relief. “Have you seen the splits? Can’t believe this isunsuited. Pen, whatever you’re feeding him, do more of that.”

“He feeds himself, Coach Urso.”

“Am housebroken, too,” Lukas deadpans.

I take a step back as the coach pulls out an iPad and starts critiquing every micro-aspect of Lukas’s stroke, not wanting to crash the conversation, and take the opportunity to study Lukas, for oncewithoutbeing studied in return.

Swimming and diving are only sister sports out of convenience. They both require pools, locker rooms, and yards of polyester, but that’s where the similarities end—and all it takes to figure it out is a good look at the athletes.

Diving necessitates balance and control of powerful bursts of movement. Swimming is all about reducing drag through the water to increase speed. We are all muscular, but the sports have different demands, and swimmers’ bodies tend to be cut in a way divers’ aren’t. And Lukas . . . well. Lukas is one of the fastest swimmers in the world. He looks the part.

I know, rationally, that it’s nothing to write home about. I grew up in pools, surrounded by rippling lats and arching trapezii since before I fully understood what sex was.That guy’s ass in a Speedo belongs in MOMA, someone would say, and I’d nod, unimpressed, wanting the attraction but not feeling it in my stomach.

But with Lukas I think I see it. His hair tousled by the peeled-off cap, the width of his wrist as he wraps his goggles around it, the play of the tattoos on his shoulder, triceps, forearm. It’s a forest, I think. Stars in the night sky. Snow. Something flying around the hill of a biceps. No sign of five interlaced links, unlike one hundred percent of the other Olympians I’ve met. He nods at something the head coach says, thoughtful, a palm rubbing the slope of his jaw, and yes.

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