Deep End(27)

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

“You goddamn machine.” 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 is unsuited. 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 once without being 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.

I really do get it.

But maybe it’s just this kinship I feel for him. Maybe Pen hacked my head, and I’m imagining what he could use all that strength for. Maybe I finally reached puberty at the geriatric age of twenty-one.

It should be me .

“Bottom line,” Coach Urso tells Pen, “this guy just shaved nearly a second off his medley best from the summer—fastest progress he’s ever made.”

Pen grins without missing a beat. Squeezes Lukas’s arm.

“What’s that?” Coach Urso asks him, pointing at the back of Lukas’s hand. He’s a portly middle-aged man valiantly holding on to what little hair he has left. Widely beloved, and considered something of a talent-fostering genius. He is also, according to Pen, absolutely unhinged.

Which must be the reason Lukas looks like he’s bracing for impact. He catches the towel a sophomore tosses at him and nods his thanks. “That’s my hand, Coach. Nothing to see here.”

“No—what did you write on it?”

“Can’t recall.”

It’s not the model I drew, right? No. Can’t be. It was days ago.

“Well, kid, try to recall,” Coach Urso insists. “This is it.”

“It’s what?” Lukas dries his midriff, puzzled. Kid, I think, bemused, noticing the V muscling down his abdomen.

“The perfect circumstances. To re-create. To win.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“Remember last season’s lucky routine?”

“You mean, putting a Disney princesses Band-Aid on my toe for an entire year?”

“It’s how you won the NCAA and the world championship.”

“Nothing to do with training.”

“Are you sassing me, Blomqvist? You know I can’t tell. Either way, we’re set. We got our lucky routine. Our work here is done. Ad majora, kid.” Coach salutes him and walks away—then turns around to finger-gun him. “The hand. Make sure you take a picture.”

Lukas shakes his head and dries his face with the towel.

“He’s going to make sure you have a whole-ass painting on your hand every meet,” Pen says .

“Yup.”

“What even is it? Looks like boxes and scribbles?”

“Pretty much.”

Oh, shit.

“Well, good luck with that.” On her tippy-toes, hand on his stomach to balance herself, she presses a kiss to his jaw. Lukas, I notice, doesn’t bend down to make it easier. “We gotta go, or Coach Sima’s gonna get angina.”

Lukas nods. His eyes lift to mine. “Bye, Scarlett.”

I’m flushing. Not sure why. “Yeah. Bye. And . . . congrats.”

His smile is faint, and crooked, and almost intimate. Short-lived. But it sticks to me through the afternoon, like adhesive tape under the sole of my shoe, and I don’t want it. There’s no reason for it. I try to concentrate on Pen’s chatter, on warming up, on my core exercises, but I’m distracted. Dryland practice is my least favorite, and somersaults in a foam pit get old surprisingly fast. Focusing on the aerial parts of a skill definitely has benefits—but at what cost.

“If I’d wanted to jump off of a springboard and land on my feet on top of a crash mat, I’d have become a gymnast,” Victoria mumbles when I’m done with my set of reverse somersaults, nose scrunched up in disgust.