Deep End

by Ali Hazelwood

And yet, Blomqvist is hard to ignore. Because of the truckload of medals, maybe. The world records. Plus, if the captain of my team is part of an athletics power couple, it behooves me to be aware of its other half. And Pen and Blomqvist have been dating since forever. For all I know, they were betrothed at birth to cement US-Sweden diplomatic relations.

I close my eyes to resurface my spotty memories of him. Black Speedos. Tattoos. Short, choppy brown hair. Above-average wingspan. The majestic and yet improbable build of every other DI swimmer who ever lived.

I may not look forward to the agony that comes with exposing the squishy bits of my soul, but I’m not some cliché detective refusing to see a shrink in an eighties crime show. Therapy is a privilege. I’m lucky to have it. Above all, I need it.

Therapy is a privilege. I don’t like it, though.

“My genetic makeup—” “Is irrelevant and does not predispose you to a passing grade in German,” she says with the contempt of someone who grew up bilingual. I can’t presently recall what part of the brain controls the ability to learn languages, but hers spins beautifully and turbine-like. An excellent source of renewable energy ready to power a small European country.

It’s easier for me when balls fall neatly into their intended buckets. Black and white, right and wrong, carbon based and inorganic. This year is shades of grays and marbles scattered all over the floor, a German Language 1 oil puddle spilled underneath.

I used to be a straight A student athlete. Used to be in control. Used to live in pursuit of excellence. At this point, I’m just trying to avoid explosive failures. Wouldn’t it be lovely if I could manage not to constantly let down the people around me?

There isn’t a single guy I’ve matched with on dating apps who hasn’t asked me, Diving is pretty much the same thing as swimming, right? But much like boxing, ice hockey, and lacrosse, diving is a contact sport. Every time we enter the water, the impact beats through our skeletons, muscles, internal organs. Eat your heart out, NFL.

“Hear me out: Latin 201.” I push to my feet. “I have to go.” “Think how helpful it’ll be when Doctors Without Borders sends you to ancient Rome!”

The slight frown between his eyes is hard to interpret—could be a glower, or resting Swede face.

Also, he appears to know my first name. Even though I’ve been Vandy for the entire sports community since I was six. Fascinating.

Maybe I’m hypersensitive when it comes to situations like this one—okay, I’m a stack of hypersensitivities in a trench coat—but I have my reasons, and I’d rather make a fool of myself and err on the side of caution than…whatever the alternative is.

Because Lukas Blomqvist is kinky. Lukas “Olympic gold medalist, swim-world darling, record-holding Scandinavian treasure” Blomqvist. What is life?

“It’s lots of things garbled together.” The ease of pre-negotiating a social interaction. Having, for once, specific instructions. The stable quiet in the never-ending chaos of my brain. The satisfaction of doing something right, of being told as much. Disconnecting from the rest of the world and going with the flow.

“To me, it’s about freedom.” She snorts. “The freedom of…having someone telling you what to do?” “I know it sounds counterintuitive, but I’m usually overthinking something. Desperately trying to avoid screwing up and working myself up to a panic.” Am I taking up too much space? Boring you? Disappointing you? Would you rather be somewhere else, with someone else? “Overwhelmed by the burden of wondering whether I’m doing it right.”

Oh Scarlett 😭

Truth is, I don’t feel totally comfortable doling out BDSM terms, either. Like any other community, I cradle an assortment of doubts on whether I have what it takes to truly belong. Labels have to be earned, and my pockets always seem too empty to pay up.

“I feel like I know so little about you.” What a coincidence. I, too, know very little about me.

Where do these people get their bottomless reservoirs of confidence? From a pot at the end of a rainbow?

Hahaha EXACTLY WHAT I SAID

Computational biology is a piece of cake (even if Dr. Carlsen’s perennial glower is a little unsettling).

FANGIRL SCREAMING ENSUES

I was fourteen at the time, but it made perfect sense. Not only was I proud of how incredibly badass Barb was, but I wanted nothing more than to be a non-mediocre physician who’d take people seriously. And now, here I am. Daydreaming of liver failure to escape the MCAT.

“How’s the love of my life?” “Currently occupied with her prescheduled junk licking.” “Important business.” “Hang on, I think she wants to talk to you.” Pipsqueak, the husky-pug mix who was once up on Facebook Marketplace because of “a bad temperament” (falsehoods, slander) and “an unbreakable scooting habit” (yet to be broken), howls her love for me and tries to lick my face over Barb’s phone. I baby-talk at her for fifteen minutes, then leave for practice.

I’m a good athlete. I’ve TiVoed my dives enough times to know that. My body is strong and healthy at last. My mind… My mind hates me, sometimes. Especially when I’m on a platform, ten meters above the rest of my life.

On the platform, punishments are swift and merciless. Room for error, nonexistent. A bad dive is not just ungainly and humiliating—a bad dive is the end of an athlete’s career. A bad dive is the last dive.

“Ain’t no party like a Coach Sima party.” Tragically true. Because a Coach Sima party is compulsory.

Maybe next year a new recruit will pair up with me. Or maybe I’ll die alone in a vale of tears, clutching German present perfect flash cards. Who can say?

For someone trying to stay away from uncomfortable emotion, she’s so dramatic 🤣

Then I go in search of something to drink—and run into a wall. And by wall I mean, Lukas Blomqvist.

When it comes to DI college swimmers, he’s not too much of a standout. Most of them are tall. Most of them are muscular. Lots of them are handsome. His proportions—broad shoulders, long arms and torso, huge hands and feet—are basically an instructional drawing. That is to say: it’s not because of his looks that my thoughts swerve to a halt.

He and I are, kind of hilariously, both wearing jeans and the same gray Stanford Swimming and Diving tees—except, he’s barefoot. Why is he barefoot in my coach’s backyard? Also, why is he staring at me? Why am I staring back?

I can’t tear my gaze away, and I think it’s because of his eyes. They’re studious. Focused. Dialed in. Preternaturally blue. Somewhere in the Baltic Sea, a cod splashes through a patch of water that precise color, and—

He nods, indifferent, like being an Olympian is not a big deal. His face is…that jaw has me thinking of diving cliffs, and the cleft in his chin—textbook movie-star shit. He could be Captain America. Captain Sweden. Whatever.

Maybe Pen did tell him about me, and that’s why he’s so interested. Does he want to chat with me? Vent? Find someone who’ll sympathize? Does he want a heart-to-heart, kinkster to kinkster? Maybe I should become a couples counselor. Nice alternative to med school. They might waive the foreign language requirement.

Pen sits in front of me, the center of attention, dispensing funny stories and warm feelings. Lukas is next to her, arms crossed on his chest, saying little, smiling rarely. He seems like a quiet, reserved guy. Together they are viciously, comprehension-defyingly good-looking. I don’t consider myself ugly by any means, but I had my years of braces and constant breakouts, which are not too far off. These two were clearly never less than radiant. Hard to stomach, really.

And, why am I so goddamn curious about other people’s private lives? Bold of someone who enjoys being tied up like a mesh bag full of limes.

Between my injury and my inability to stop working until I achieve perfection (i.e., never), I haven’t made many friends in college. Or before.

Lukas sounds so unperturbed, it actively adds to my distress. Why is he not experiencing mortification? Am I exhausting the North American supply?

Sandwich. Sub. Christ. I should not be witnessing the inside sex jokes of the golden couple of college swimming.

“I just thought it would be nice if we could all—” “Be happily paired with our government-mandated fuck buddy?”

“Come on, Luk. I know you think she’s hot. You said so.” Silence. “And I see the way you look at her.” A buzz of unease bursts in the back of my skull. “How do I look at her?” “You know how.”

A bit presumptive, to assume that this classically handsome athlete with citizenship in a universal-healthcare country might need my advice.

It’s not something I’ll ever take for granted, the ability to say no.

Scarlett: Is Lukas mad? Penelope: I called him this morning to grovel, but he just shrugged it off. It’s impossible to make Lukas mad. He’s literally the most unfazed human in the universe.

There are snippets of him here and there, though, like confetti stuck to my hair after a New Year’s Eve ball drop. I didn’t mean to take them home, but still get to examine them, and I’m glad for that.

At those annoying Saturday meetings that happen behind the diving tower—though he’s quiet there. The swimmers take turns celebrating each other and announcing their weekly achievements, but Lukas Blomqvist, five-time Olympic gold medalist (two are relays, which makes him slightly less humbling), never has anything to share. Maybe he’s in a rut. Maybe he hates public speaking. Maybe it’s a Swedish thing.

Twenty hours of practice a week plus classes, homework, MCAT prep, and this thing I’ve been told people should really do if their plans include staying alive for longer than a couple of months. “Sleeping,” Coach calls it. I hear great things. Would love to try it someday.

Unknown: On my way I stare into the abyss of those three words—and boy, does the abyss stare back.

I can be brave. I can be anything for noodles.

I stare at him staring at me, not quite sure how to make myself stop.

Notable fact of the day: he’s wearing shoes.

“Maybe the elephant’s just…blindfolded?” He nods slowly. “And tied up.” “And doing as it’s told.” He looks like he might find that more appealing. “What a good elephant.”

He stares at me, doesn’t move, and…okay. Fine. Thank you. Polite, decent people who care about your safety—gotta hate them.