Deep End(78)

“Of course you do.” He wraps my legs around his waist.

“I thought you were dead.” I shake the water out of my face. “Could already hear the Swedish king bitching over the phone. ”

“Did we not go over Sweden’s government structure?”

“Can’t recall.” I unsheathe my best Swedish impression. “I understand our national treasure died on your watch, ja? We have lost our golden porpoise, and it is all your fault, ja?”

“Whatever just happened with that accent is a violation of NCAA bylaws and the Geneva convention.”

“Take me away, Officer.”

His eyes are black and golden, warm despite the temperature. He grins—a rare, unrestrained smile, in which his happiness is not just hinted at, something I have to dig for.

“I did it,” I whisper. Just to hear it. Just to remind myself.

“You did.” He tilts his chin up and kisses me, thorough, his lips cold and chlorine-flavored, my hair a sodden curtain sticking to our cheeks. It lasts a long time.

Way too damn long. “Lukas?”

“Huh?”

“I can’t feel my face.”

He laughs. “Weak Americans.”

“Unlike the Swedes, who on the day of their birth are tasked with swimming from fjord to fjord to honor their Viking ancestors.”

He moves us toward the deck, treading water with no effort. “Actually, we only have one fjord in Sweden.”

“But the rest is accurate?”

“Naturally.”

“We really need to get out. I doubt the Avery family had this in mind when they bankrolled the aquatic center.”

His laughter is a hot huff against my ear. “Plus, we need to check those MCAT scores.”

“What—why do you even remember that?”

“Because I listen when you talk. You’re on such a brave streak, you can open one little email. ”

I groan into the curve of his shoulder. “Just let me have this moment.”

“You’re still going to have this moment.”

“It will be tainted.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I—should we go to sleep? I have practice tomorrow morning.”

“Me, too. Let’s just accept that we’ll be asked to leave the team and make the most out of tonight.”

We laugh. He kisses me. I kiss him. It becomes something heated and deeper and— “MCAT,” he reminds me. I feel the shift of his muscles as he lifts me to sit on the edge. The chill pebbles my skin, teeth instantly chattering.

“I really do hate you.”

“I know.” He pushes himself out effortlessly. “Your loathing cannot be contained. Troll.”

“Okay, why do you keep calling me—”

Another lingering kiss, and a couple of minutes later, I’m in the men’s locker room.

It’s the exact copy of ours, no messier or more foul smelling. Lukas cracks open a locker, pulls out a towel, and dries me, thoroughly, and himself, quickly. He puts one of his hoodies on me, and I savor the way it hangs softly past my thighs. “Hand me your phone,” he says.

“Actually, can we go to my locker and get a scrunchie?”

He knows exactly what I’m doing, but he’s willing to let me stall one more minute. In the women’s locker room, he watches me patiently as I detangle my hair, then asks, “Your phone.”

“Maybe we should go? You shouldn’t be here. Stanford Athletics might send you back to where you came from. Where you’ll enjoy all the skiing and upwards of seven herring-themed meals per day. ”

“Scarlett.”

I sigh, and we sit next to each other on the uncomfortable wooden bench. I pluck at the fray of his well-worn jeans, half baking the idea to distract him with sex, but he traps my hand in his and doesn’t let go.

Instead, he holds out my phone.

“Why do I have to do it right now?” I whine.

“Because I’m leaving tomorrow night.”

I jerk back. “You’re leaving?”

He nods.

“What . . . for how long?”

“Ten days.”

“Ten—” I gasp. “Why?”

“Nordic Swimming Championships.”

“In Sweden?”

“In Estonia.”

“Is it . . . a big deal?” I’ve never heard of it.

He shrugs. “Moderately. But most of the Swedish Olympic team will be there, and after we’ll go on a training trip.”

Is Coach Urso okay with that? Lukas’s professors? The Stanford chancellors? “Did you clear it with everyone?”

“Nope. Better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.” My eyes must be saucer wide, because he adds, “Yes, Scarlett. Everyone has known for months. They expect me to put swimming for Sweden over swimming for Stanford.”

I guess it makes sense. “Are you friends with the rest of the team?”

He nods. “Basically siblings, really. We’ve been around each other for decades. Anyway”—he points at my phone with his chin—“if it’s bad news, I’d rather be here. With you.”

So difficult, pretending that his words don’t make my stomach flutter. “To pat my back? ”