Deep End(42)

I glance away.

“The opposite, then.” He sighs, and it’s tender, the way his fingers move across the table, knuckles brushing my own. An electric spark, liquid, searing, travels through my nerve endings. I’m convinced he’ll take my hand, but he pulls back almost immediately.

A wise move, all things considered. Maybe we shouldn’t be left alone at all.

He leans back in his chair, the line of his shoulders once again uncompromising. “Scarlett, you—”

A phone—Lukas’s phone—rings. He checks the caller ID and tilts his head back with a muttered, exhausted word. Once again, not English.

“Are you okay?”

He mutes the call. “I have to go.”

“Oh.” A mix of disappointment and relief flickers in my stomach. On the one hand, respite. On the other . . . I’m not sure I want to not be with him right now. “Anything I can do?”

He shakes his head, massaging his left eye with the heel of his hand. “Eighteen people were cut from the team this week.”

“Eighteen?”

“I know, it’s a fucking mess. Some of the guys were preferred walk-ons and are not happy about it. The coaches are the bad guys, so they’ve been talking to us to figure out options.”

All his cancellations. Captain stuff. “I’m sorry.”

He nods and leans forward, elbow on the table. “Listen, keep my list. You can take your time, but you’re going to have to read it before we . . .”

He doesn’t finish. I understand, anyway. “Okay.”

“I don’t know when the cuts shitshow will clear up, but I need you to know two things.”

I force myself not to squirm under his gaze.

“You say stop, I stop. ”

I nod. Nice of him, to remind me that—

“No, Scarlett. There’s going to be some trial and error, for sure, but I need you to understand that it doesn’t matter how or when. You say stop, I stop.”

My mouth is dry.

“Repeat it back to me,” he orders.

I may have forgotten how to breathe, but still manage to say, “When I say stop, you stop.”

He nods, pleased. “Do you want another safe word?”

I think about it, then shake my head. I know safe words tend to be unique, and this may not be best practice, but I’m confident that I won’t say stop unless that’s what I want from him. “What’s the second thing?” I ask, hiding my trembling hands in my lap.

He exhales a small laugh and stands, grip tightening around the strap of his backpack. “The second thing is that I’ve read your list. And there is not a single thing you want that I don’t want more.” He leans into me for a kiss that’s at once chaste and clinging. By the time he pulls away I’m off-balance, confounded by his heat and his smell. “No need to repeat this one to me.”

I watch him walk away. Something occurs to me only when his hand closes around the door handle. “Lukas?”

He turns.

“What about Pen?”

His expression is blank. “What about Pen?”

“Will she mind?”

“You do have a terrible memory.” His eyebrow lifts, amused. “Pen and I are no longer together.”

“I know, but she’s also my friend. I need to be sure that she’s okay with this. I need her to know that I’m not trying to . . . this is going to be just sex. I’m not trying to start a serious relationship with my friend’s ex.”

For a moment, I think he will protest. But right as my heart is about to sink, his face an inscrutable mask, he promises, “I’ll take care of it.”



It’s not until much, much later that night—after dinner, and my mental exercises, and two hours spent watching one of those political thriller movies that only middle-aged Republican men and Maryam seem to truly enjoy—that I allow myself to think about Lukas’s list again.

I lie in my bed, the mint of the toothpaste sweet in my mouth, the day’s exhaustion dragging me into sleep, and . . . it’s nice, being too tired to work myself up to a panic. Shaking the piece of paper open and reading through Lukas’s sharp, neat handwriting doesn’t seem like a big deal. In fact, it’s almost fun.

He took my sheet when he left, which means that I cannot stretch the two lists side by side and spend hours on an in-depth comparison. But that’s not necessary, because I remember every single thing I wrote. And Lukas’s—it could be the mirror image of mine.

What I want done to me, he wants to be the one doing it.

Oh, I think.

Oh.

Suddenly, the kiss in the library makes lots of sense. I roll into my pillow, smile, and fall asleep that way.





CHAPTER 24


THE HIGHLIGHT OF MY SATURDAY MORNING PRACTICE IS Coach Sima’s applause after my back three-and-a-halfsomersault tuck, one of my most difficult dives.

“This might be the best goddamn dive I’ve seen in my collegiate coaching career,” he tells me from the deck while I’m still in the pool, wiping droplets from my eyes.

I smile up at him, a burst of the pride I haven’t let myself savor in months neutralizing the too-cold water.

“Which is nice,” Coach continues, “since you gotta make up for the line of zeros you’ll get for your inward dives.”