Page 123 of Deep End

“High praise.”

“Moderate praise. I might still do some breaking and entering while you’re at practice.” His gaze warms. “How do you feel?”

“You know when something that’s unexpected but good happens? You should be happy about it, and youare, but also terrified, and the anxiety drowns everything else?”

“According to my psych prof, winning the lottery is one of the most stressful things that someone can experience.”

I tap my index finger against the table. “That’s exactly what I feel. Like I won the lottery. On average, Emilee was a million times better than me—”

“A million.”

“—but because of one mistake,Iget to represent my country. Seems like bullshit.”

His hand reaches to cover mine, and I stop fidgeting. “And you think that whoever perfected the national team qualification process over decades never considered similar scenarios?”

“I’m sure they did. But in my case—”

“If the situation were reversed”—his fingers twine with mine—“would you think thatyoudeserve to go to Amsterdam?”

“I . . . no, but—” Lukas’s eyebrow quirks and I fall silent—which seems to please him a little too much. “I hate that smug ‘checkmate’ expression.”

He smiles like he could not give less of a shit. “You’re beautiful when you dive.”

I flush. Look away. “Yeah, you mentioned.”

“That’s not what I mean. I always respected divers, but never found real pleasure in watching them.” His eyes are dark in the dim kitchen light. “Until you.”

It feels wrong and forbidden. The obvious question—What about Pen?—lingers between us, unasked.

Or maybe it doesn’t. Because part of me is starting to wonder iftheir relationship was more about two young teens being alone against the world and swearing mutual protection, than about romantic love. But it’s a dangerous path to take, muddied by wishful thinking and a question I’m not ready to ask myself.

Why do I care, anyway?

“I know you’re anxious about competing,” he says. “But selfishly, I’m glad you’ll be at the world championship with me.”

My heart beats louder. Quicker. “Maybe we could . . .” I stop.

“What?”

“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. Youdohave a king.”

The buzz of his phone interrupts us.Penelope, the name on the top of the screen reads. Then texts pop up:

PENELOPE:Luuuk!

PENELOPE:Come on, we’re having so much fun!

PENELOPE:Where are you?

He turns the phone face down and pushes it to the side. Unobtrusive. A silentit’s just us.

“Our king, as I’m sure your sources mentioned, has no political power or relevancy.” He inches closer, too. I want to free my hand and trace that perfectly slanted jaw. “What else did you find out about my country during your countless hours of research?”

A lot, actually. Since I can’t seem to stop myself from reading up on it before bed. It’s like I’m planning a trip. “Let’s see. That you guys have a word for when your hair is all messy because you just had sex.”

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