Page 162 of Deep End

I take a deep breath. “As soon as this is solved, and the NCAA is over.”

The following morning, one day before the competition is due to start, Pen receives an email from Stanford’s athletic director.

The initial lab results were a false positive.

The NCAA tournament has no synchro event. “Which sucks,” Pen tells me, “since we’d just hit our stride.”

“Right?” Even though, in the privacy of my own head, I do love the idea of only competing in one event, my best, on the last day. “I’ll be there on the second day, though. For the board stuff.”

“To hold my shammy?”

“And send you rip vibes.”

Avery is pure chaos. Every time a race starts, a stadium-like ruckus rises from the competition pool. Tickets are sold out, and access to the stands is prohibited to non-holders. To support us, the men’s team resorts to watching events from the sidelines and the entrances to the lockers, clustering, making bets, producing bombastic noises whenever Stanford is adjudicated any number of points.

“It’s because they placed fourth at their championship,” Shannon informs me. She’s one of the captains of the Stanford women’s team. I get plenty of mass emails from her, but I cannot recall if we’ve ever talked before. “How they couldnotplace first with Blomqvist on their team, I have no clue.”

“Who won?” Boy, I really should care more.

“The men’s? Cal. Butourmain rivals are Texas and Virginia. Can you dive better than them?”

“I hope so.”

Hernot good enoughscowl reminds me why we never hit it off. “It’s okay. My horse is Penelope Ross.”

But perhaps it shouldn’t be, because Pen is not having a great championship. During the prelims for the three meter, she nearly doesn’t qualify because of a wrong twist. Later, in the final, even without failed dives, her form is . . .

“That was sogood,” Rachel says after Pen’s back two-and-a-half pike that just . . . isn’t. Dives are to non-divers what wine is to me: it could come from a cube, or from the cellar of an impoverished French baron whose family fell upon hard times. I’d have no way of discerning.

“It wasn’t bad,” Bree says between claps.

Hasan frowns down at her. “But?”

“Was missing a bit of height,” she offers.

A bit of a balk, too. The scores appear on the board, and I grimace. She finishes in fifth place, which is below expectations considering last year’s medal.

“It’s the doping scare,” she tells us later, when we debrief in Coach Sima’s office. “Messing with my head. I couldn’t find my groove.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Coach tells her. “What’s done is done. Don’t dwell on it. Tomorrow’s platform, you’re the favorite. Onward.”

“Yup. Onward.” She sighs and turns to me. “Is Lukas around? Was he watching me dive?”

“I’m not sure.” I haven’t heard from him since before the competition.

“I saw him at the swimming events,” Bella says. “I think he has to go to those, since he’s one of the captains.”

And yet. The following morning, Pen and I get through the platform preliminaries without issues. When I return for the final, late in the afternoon, Lukas is there. I’m so distracted by my phone, I almost crash into him.

“What are you staring at?”

“Barb sent a video of Pipsqueak saying good luck.”

I show it to him. To his credit, he looks immensely charmed.

“You like dogs, right?” I ask.

“Is it a deal-breaker?”

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