Deep End(92)

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She opens her mouth. When no sound comes out, she points at the scoreboard behind me.

Emilee dove. The competition is over. And . . .

“I think Emilee Newell’s bones must have turned into glow sticks,” Pen whispers. Because all of her scores are unexpectedly low—so low, she’s fallen to third place.

Which means . . .

Coach appears out of nowhere, holding out the tie-dye shammy. “Well, Vandy,” he chokes out, “I hope you have a valid passport.”

I guess I’m going to Amsterdam.





CHAPTER 48


IT’S A BLESSING AND CURSE,” COACH SIMA TELLS ME WHILE I wait to be called on the podium. “It’ll be only five months before the Olympics, three months before the trials—you’re going to be exhausted, Vandy. And the coaches have not been selected, so you could end up with Mr. Resting Fish Face, that new guy at UCLA . . .”

I barely listen. He’s right, but I need fewer warnings, and more silence to process the fact that I started this season with a mental block the size of a manatee, and now . . .

I’ll be representing my country at world’s.

The enormity of it is staggering.

“Emilee Newell is a better diver,” I murmur on the plane. “She just made a mistake. I don’t deserve to take her spot.”

“What was that?” Pen asks, taking out an AirPod.

I shake my head, but once we land I’m relieved—even more so when Maryam’s not home, and I get to be alone.

Someone wants to interview me for Stanford’s student newspaper. There is an article with my name on ESPN.com. The school’s athletic director personally emailed to congratulate me. USA Diving sent a nine-hundred-item pre-championship to-do checklist, and added me to the Tier I High Performance squad. I am assured by multiple individuals that USA gear is forthcoming.

It’s Saturday night, but we have a three-day break from practice, and I plan to shut myself in my room, relax, and panic in peace.

And then I get Lukas’s text.

LUKAS: Are you freaking out yet?

I burst into laughter.

SCARLETT: Since before the podium.

LUKAS: I could tell from the live stream.

He watched the live stream.

Pen invited me to some big swimming party. I considered going, mostly to see Lukas, but I’m too exhausted. I shower, put on pj shorts and a tank top, and when I hear a knock, I groan. It’s probably the super. I hate the super. He talks for hours, and—

I pull back from the spy hole with a gasp. Tear the door open.

“Lukas?”

I’d forgotten how tall and broad he is. Or maybe I’m just barefoot. I don’t know, because it’s hard to focus when he’s looking at me like that, the ghost of a smile brushing his mouth and sitting around his eyes, two mastodonic paper bags in one arm. “I figured you’d be out of food,” he simply says.

Oh my god. “I . . . thank you.”

The counter is next to the door. I take the bags from him, set them there, and turn around, expecting to find him engaged in his favorite ritualistic behavior—taking off his damn shoes. But he’s closed the door and just stands there, looking at me like . . . like in this moment in time, contemplating doing anything else is beyond his ability.

I smile up at him. “This smells amazing. Is it Chinese?”

He nods.

“It’s my favorite. Had I mentioned?”

Another nod .

I landed in the state less than two hours ago, and he came to see me. He brought me milk and bread and coffee. Fresh produce. My favorite dinner.

My throat is full with this knowledge. I take a step closer, pushing up on my toes. “Thank you for remem—”

Suddenly, I’m off the floor, pressed between Lukas and the door, my thighs wrapped around his torso.

“—bering.”

He kisses me hard, immediately deep, as if to lick the word out of my mouth. “Scarlett,” he says, a raspy rumble that comes out of his heart via his throat, and maybe it’s the desperate sound of it, but a second later we’re grinding on each other, his hips pushing into mine, his palms frenzied, impatient, changing trajectory, squeezing, and—

My hands dip between our bodies and begin unbuttoning his jeans. He kisses a humming, inviting sound inside my mouth. When I reach inside his boxers and close my fingers around him, he groans like he is in physical pain, pressing his hips into my touch. He’s hot and already fully hard. I smear the head with the wetness I find on the tip and circle once, twice, three—

He stops my wrist with a displeased grunt. Pushes my hand away. He takes his cock out, shoves my shorts to the side, finds me bare and wet, and—

“Fuck,” he mutters. He slides one finger inside me while thumbing my clit.

It’s so good, I cannot believe I managed to do without him for over a month. I squirm against his touch and slide my hand back around his cock to do the same to him.

Lukas growls. Grips my wrist again, and this time pins it next to my head. “I think you forgot who’s in charge.”

“I haven’t.” It comes out as a whine, and earns me a near-painful bite at the base of my jaw. I hate myself for the way I can’t stop writhing against him, but I’m not sure he’s in control of himself, either. And I know that he isn’t when I feel him nudge against my opening right there, against the door, when beds, couches, a table exist.