Page 21 of Deep End

“Oh. No.”

“Then you’re free to fuck whoever you like.”

A sparkling, unusual sort of heat drips into my stomach. Spreads all over my chest. “I guess I am.”

“You could go to a bar. Find some options.”

“Five hundred?” I smile.

He doesn’t. “Realistically, no. But several. Many. You could look for someone who’ll give you what you need.”

Drip. Drip. “Yeah. I could.”

“Will you?”

“It’s not so . . .”

“Simple?”

I face-planted right into that one. I rock on my heels and try to think of a witty comeback, but my brain is a rotting wasteland.

His mouth curves. “I don’t think Pen’s date was the real reason you were anxious.”

“Yeah. I think it was.”

“We cleared that out, and you’re not any less nervous.” He cocks his head. “Is it me? Or men, in general?”

Jesus. Does he always just—saywhat hethinks? Narrate the world as he sees it? Shouldn’t some things stay unspoken?

“I need to go,” I say, holding my hand out until Lukas returns my backpack. But even then, I stand rooted in front of him for several beats, until the realization hits me that I’m hoping he’ll say something else.

Ask me another question, maybe.

Ask me to . ..

Oh mygod. Pen’s drunken ramblings must have wormed their way into my prefrontal cortex.

“Thank you again. I really appreciate you coming out.”

“I’ll walk you home.”

And what? We chat amiably about the rigors of collegiate sports?

I don’t think that’s what I want. I’d rather not think about whathewants. “No, thank you. Have a good night, Lukas.” I walk away—and after a few steps I look over my shoulder and he’s still there, hands in the pockets of his jeans, haloed against the streetlights. He’s invincible. And golden. And focused wholly on me.

“I really do hope you have a good night,” I murmur. It’s too low for him to hear me, but I still wish him something . . . nice. So odd, the sense of kinship I feel toward this man with whom I’ve exchanged no more than a couple hundred words.

I turn around, head home, fall asleep before I can eat dinner. And wake up early the following morning, ravenous, to an email delivered a little after midnight. The subject line just readsWhat you need. The body:

If you decide to go for it, I think it should be me.

CHAPTER 10

ON MONDAY MORNING, WE’RE TORTURED WITH STRENGTHtraining. Pen’s giddiness hums throughout the locker room. Victoria is not an early bird, and her bad mood is an ugly, tangible thing.

“It’s six fifteen a.m.,” she grunts. “Let’s keep unconscionable displays of happiness at a minimum.”

“Oh, come on. It’s such a good day.”

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