Deep End

by Ali Hazelwood

“I have hobbies,” I counter weakly. Sometimes, when I’m done with homework at a decent hour, I read Mafia erotica until I fall asleep.

I make the managerial decision to ignore her.

I roll my eyes, contemplate the lengths that I will go to wake him up, and decide that they are very long: I tilt my head, open my mouth, and bite into his triceps like it’s an Iowa State Fair corn dog.

“You mean, the stripper pole wax?” He stops to give me a wide-eyed look. “You put stripper pole wax on your shins?” “It’s a grip aid. Divers use it to hold on to their legs, strippers use it to hold on to their poles. Have you ever seen strippers do their thing?” “This feels like a trick question.” “They’re elite athletes. In great shape.” I plant my hands on my waist. “Did you really not know what it was?” “Pen uses tape spray.” “Right. Well, I prefer the stripper stuff.” “You prefer the stripper stuff,” he repeats, toneless.

“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.”

He lifts his most I know you bookmarked the bio section of my Wikipedia entry on your Chrome browser, on Safari, and maybe even on Internet Explorer eyebrow.

“But they’re sides of the same coin. I get to take you apart and split you open—but if anything else, anyone else makes you feel sad, upset, cracked, I also get to be the one who puts you back together.

But he’s on a plane, forty thousand feet on top of the Eiffel Tower, a neural network haphazardly drawn on the back of his hand. Likely watching reviews of cleaning supplies.

“You get letters from the alumni office, like, once a quarter,” Pen says, holding my hand as we crisscross through the throng. “I know.” “And they offer you the privilege of giving them money.” “I know.” “On the basis that you have already given them money for four whole years.” “I know.” “Absolutely bonkers.”

Plus, you know how I feel about sports.” “They’re a crime against couches.”

because he returns to pick me up, his palm firm under my ass, my legs wrapped around his waist. He’s a wonderful means of transportation—safe, timely, comfortable. I want a yearly pass.

“I was going to say, maybe we could visit Amsterdam together? But you’re best friends with the entire Swedish delegation, and the king will be there—” “Like I said, Sweden’s a democracy—” “You flamed-pants liar.” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “I checked Wikipedia. You do have a king.”

In mid-December, the swim team leaves for a swanky all-expenses-paid training trip to Hawaii. Diving stays behind, and recriminating words like second-class citizens, and redheaded stepchild are thrown about.

“And Ross?” “Yeah?” “You are, in fact, redheaded.”

Lukas: I knew it would come to this. I laugh. Scarlett: “This” being me watching Midsommar? Lukas: I should have taken preventative measures. Scarlett: Mandatory follow-up question: do you actually celebrate Midsommar? Lukas: Yes. Scarlett: And do you…? Lukas: Go out of town to dance around the maypole, play sack races, eat pickled herring? Yes. Scarlett: Interesting. Lukas: Just ask about the sex rituals, Scarlett. Scarlett: I don’t want to be culturally insensitive, but I need to know if they happen.

Scarlett: Who are you sharing with? Lukas: No one. Oh, come on. Scarlett: Did the King of Sweden pull some strings? He sends me a picture of a handsome middle-aged man. Scarlett: Who’s that? Lukas: The Swedish Prime Minister. Scarlett: I heard he’s just a puppet for the King. Anyway, I’m sharing with Akane.

“Seriously, I’ll make you as smooth as a nineteenth-century brothel’s satin sheets.” “Graphic.” “The king will make me a knight of the Swedish empire.” “Like I said—”

“Your thighs are currently smoother than the Danish electoral process. Gösta could never.” “You’re killing it with the rhetorical figures.”

“Every single person Pen and I had sex with was her choice, and I was okay with it. But when you joined the team, I asked her if she could approach you.”

“Let me make you smoother than a saxophone solo.” Lukas mutters something that sounds like “This needs to stop, Scarlett,”

And as you know, my girlfriend of seven years broke up with me because of how not fun I am.” I try to turn around, but he doesn’t let me. “I have fun with you,” I protest. “That’s because you are a kinky little troll. Which is, incidentally, how I will re-save you in my contacts.”

“I don’t know. You have fans. People love you. The king loves you!” “The king’s elderly and has no idea who I am, thank fuck.

“Being respected as a swimmer is great. But I don’t want to make that my identity any longer than I already have.

Stay home for long weekends and have morally bankrupt amounts of sex with someone I’m in love with. Kinky, vanilla, I want it all. I want to adopt rescue animals with her. I want to take care of her, and watch her be cold in Sweden, and marvel every day at how much smarter than me she is, and…Scarlett.”

FUCK YOU SWEEDY IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN TEAM USA

U GUYS ALREADY HAVE IKEA AND LIVABLE WAGES, LEAVE US SOMETHING

“It doesn’t have to be forever,” I told him. “But Mei said that—” “Why do I feel like a cheated husband?” I try to keep a straight face. “Because Mrs. Sima has taken up with the landscaper?” “Because my diver came home smelling like another coach!” “That’s not true.” “Mei is your favorite. You stan her.” I wince. “Did your son teach you that word?” “Don’t change the subject.”

“Scarlett, I think Dr. Carlsen is the husband.”

I blink. Lukas is there, smiling at me. A real smile. “Crying again, I see.” I hadn’t even noticed. “I…” “I know.” He comes closer, palms above both my shoulders. Kisses the tears off my cheeks. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “I’ll put you back together.”

“To me?” He smiles, amused. “What have you done to me? You made me happier than I’ve ever been, Scarlett, that’s all.”

I watch him watch me for long, long moments, his need to respect my boundaries at war with his need for me, the determination in his eyes that doesn’t quite hide the pain. His heart may be as cracked as mine. “You know it, don’t you?” he asks. “What?” “From the very start, you had all the power. From the very start, I was in the palm of your hand.”

What I said was cruel, and false. I stole from you the joy of your first gold medal. I want to make it up to you, but I don’t know how. If you no longer want to be my friend, that’s fair. And if you want to make me work for it, it’s also fair. I will, believe me. If you want to think about it…take your time.”

“Scarlett. Lycka till!” Good luck. “Thanks,” I reply, too weakly for the sound to carry. “I’ll need it.” “No, you won’t,” Lukas says, clearly amused. “What did I tell you?”

“I just…I can’t ask you to make life decisions based on me.” “That’s okay, because no asking is involved. Scarlett, this is it for me. I’m in.”

We work together, in every possible way. Except the chaos you live in, but I can probably train that out of you. Punishments. Positive reinforcement.” He pushes my hair back. “You respond well to that kind of stuff.”

“Did you lie to me?” “By omission.” “What did you not tell me?” “How early I fell for you. How soon I realized it. The enormity of it.”

Carl XVI Gustaf starts rubbing against his shins the second he steps inside the kitchen, so Lukas glances at the magnetic board on the fridge. Katten åt, it reads. The cat ate. He crosses his arms. “I know she has already fed you.” Meow. “She told me. She wrote it right there, on the board.” Meow. “I’m not her. I will not be manipulated.” Meoooow. He sighs and opens the treats cupboards.