Page 18 of Deep End

“And doing as it’s told.”

He looks like he might find that more appealing. “What a good elephant.”

Blood rushes to my cheeks. I tear myself away from the weight of his eyes. “Okay. Well. I’m glad we got over the awkwardness of barely having had a conversation and yet somehow knowing the kinky sex stuff the other’s into.”

“I don’t know what you’re into,” he says. It almost feels like something’s being withheld. Ayet. Abut I’d like to. Anunfortunately. Or it could just be his intonation. English is not his first language.

I clear my throat. “Thank you for coming.”

“No problem.” He unlocks and holds the door open for me, careful to keep his distance—which I appreciate. Deserted hallway. Big man. Not a huge fan. “I’ll wait till you’re out.”

“You don’t have to.”

“The doors have been jamming both ways.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

He stares at me, doesn’t move, and . . . okay. Fine. Thank you. Polite, decent people who care about your safety—gotta hate them. I hurry to pick up my stuff.Dinner, I tell myself.My reward. The promised land.

As it turns out, he was right. The door won’t open from the inside, either. I have to knock. Ask to please be let out, like he’s my own personal warden. “I hate this,” I mutter.

“I’ll email maintenance again,” he says. So much more graceful thantold you so.

I set my backpack on the floor to tie my hair in a ponytail, and when I lift my head, I find him staring at me. Shouldering my bag. “You don’t have to . . .”

“Let’s go.”

We walk toward the exit. I’m usually comfortable with silences—

have to be, since I never really know how to break them—but this one prods at me. Maybe because I cannot stop thinking about Pen. The male voice. What Lukas might not know. “I’m sorry, I would have called one of the other captains, but—”

“It’s all right, Scarlett.”

His tone is simple and firm and doesn’t brook any further genuflecting on my part, so I shut the hell up and steal a glance at his profile. The fuzz of his jaw, like he hasn’t shaved in a while—typical preseason swimmer stuff, but instead of sloppy it looks kind ofGQon him. And those freckles that shouldn’t work, but really do. I wonder whether he’s considered handsome in Sweden, or just your run-of-the-mill ordinary guy. Is it a favorable exchange rate—a Stockholm three translating to a US ten?

“What’s wrong with your shoulder?” he asks.

“Nothing.” It’s a knee-jerk reaction—a bit of manifesting, mixed with some old student athlete denial. Calmer, I add, “How can you tell that there’s something wrong with it?”

He gives me a half-puzzled, half-contemptuous look. Then the corner of his mouth twitches. “Right. I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“That you have no memory of meeting me.”

I flush. Was I that obvious?

“I should have introduced myself,” he continues. “I’m a swimmer.”

“Oh. I know?”

“Same team as yours actually.”

“I know.”

“One of those people with caps and Speedos.”

“Iknow.”

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