Layla glances at me in surprise, but does as Megan asks while I claim the seat on Layla’s other side. I nod at Chris as I take my seat.
He jerks his chin up in acknowledgment. “How’s it going, man?”
“Good.” I smooth my tie down and glance around the room. More people come through the door in groups and couples. Lance and Abby enter talking with Matt and Hannah, and Megan does the wave and beckon routine again.
Daniel takes the seat next to me, sighing as he unbuttons his suit jacket. “I hate wearing these things,” he grumbles. “Since the season’s over, I shouldn’t have to anymore.”
Elena gives him an unsympathetic glare. “Hush. I wear skirt suits and shapewear regularly when I’m in the courtroom. You can suffer through wearing a suit and tie for a few hours.” A suggestive smile curls her lips, and she makes a show of looking him up and down even though he’s sitting. “Besides. You look delectable in a suit.”
“Points for using delectable,” Megan crows from across the table, and Elena shoots her a triumphant grin.
I can’t help laughing, and Layla giggles beside me. I’ve missed hanging with Daniel and Elena.
“We need to make a point to get back here more often,” Layla whispers, reading my mind.
Turning, I smile at her. “We do. Maybe spring break? Or over the summer at least. You should have some vacation time by then, right?”
She nods, and Elena claps. “Yay! If you can’t make it here for spring break, maybe we can come see you.”
“That would be awesome,” I tell her. “We’ll have to get you guys an air mattress or something, but we’d love to have you.”
“That’s settled, then,” Elena declares. “We’ll figure out the details closer to then, though.”
Megan pokes out her lower lip in an elaborate pout. “Hey. If you guys are planning get-togethers on the west side of the state, I want an invite.”
“Aww, Megan. We’re not trying to leave you out,” Elena says, her voice laced with faux sympathy. “We’ll meet up somewhere while we’re over there, okay?”
With a big grin, Megan nods, her dark curls bouncing. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Guess we’ll just have to plan something while they’re all out of town,” Hannah stage-whispers to Abby.
But before Abby can respond, the head of the athletic department taps the microphone at the podium on the stage a few feet away. “Thank you all so much for coming,” he booms in a self-important voice, droning on about the importance of athletics to the university and the development of students and Coach Hanson’s dedication and service. Considering this isn’t actually the main speaking portion of the evening, this guy won’t shut up.
Finally, he gets to the point. “The buffet is open. Help yourselves, there’s plenty to go around. We’ll start our presentation in about thirty minutes. Let’s let our guest of honor and the presenters go first.”
A groan goes up from the back corner of the room, and I turn to see a large group of younger guys in suits. Considering that this crowd is mostly made up of university administration and alumni, it’s an easy guess that this group is Coach Hanson’s current team. They all look disgruntled, but true to form, Coach silences them with a glare from his place holding up the wall.
The head of the athletics department—whose name I should probably know considering he just said it, but I never bothered learning his name during my time here, so why change that now?—heads toward Coach Hanson and ushers him toward the buffet line.
Chris stands and holds out a hand to Megan. “Better get food, since I have to get up there and talk,” he grumbles.
“Don’t sound too excited about it,” Megan tells him, standing. “People might think you want to be here.”
He lets out a half-sigh, half-chuckle. “I do and I don’t, and you know all the reasons why.”
I shoot him a curious look, but he either ignores it or doesn’t notice, because he and Megan head for the food, leaving the rest of us exchanging glances.
“Anyone know what that was about?” Elena asks.
With a frown on his face, Lance shakes his head as he watches Chris and Megan walk away. “No idea.”
Abby fiddles with the napkin wrapped around her silverware and avoids everyone’s eyes. Does she know something? And why would she know, but not Lance?
I look between her and Lance and Chris and Megan.
“Well,” Lance says as he stands, “I say we get in line. The important people are all piling food on their plates. That means it’s time for the rest of us peons to get behind them.”
With murmurs of agreement, we all stand and follow him. I end up bringing up the rear of the group, and the current football players are right behind me.
“This is such bullshit,” the one right behind me says as we inch closer to the table laden with food.
“Calm down, man,” says the taller, broader guy behind him. He’s got the build of a lineman, and apparently the easy disposition that so often comes along with knowing you can squash anyone around you if needed. “And if you’re going to bitch, at least do it quietly. Coach doesn’t need us causing trouble.”
“Like it matters,” the first guy spits back. “He’s already out the door. What are they gonna do, force him to retire again?”
My ears perk up at that last bit, and I swivel around. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
They both look me up and down, the smaller—though he’s my size, so he’s not exactly small—more aggressive one looking like he might want to fight me, but the lineman gives me a more placid sizing up. “What was what?” he asks calmly.
“Did I just hear you say they’re forcing Coach Hanson into retirement?”
Lineman lifts his chin, gesturing behind me. “Line’s moving.”
“Sorry. Right.” I move forward, catching up to Layla, but turn to face them again, waiting for one of them to answer my question.
“Who are you?” spits Mr. Aggressive.
I hold up my hands. “Former MU football. Evan Coopman.”
Something like grudging respect dawns in Mr. Aggressive’s eyes, and Mr. Placid just nods again. “Nice to meet you,” Placid says, holding out a hand. “I’m Simon.”
I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you too. You guys are on the team now? Or was this your last season?”
“We’re both juniors,” he says. “Now we get the pleasure of breaking in a new coach for our senior year.”
Mr. Aggressive snorts, but doesn’t introduce himself.
“This is Cal,” Simon says. “He’s the quarterback and one of the team captains, so he’s especially irritated about the change.”
I nod. “Understandable.” We all move forward again, almost to the front of the line now. “Any idea why they’re forcing him out?”
Cal snorts. “We’re Division I next season for the first time, and the powers that be don’t think Coach can hack it, apparently. Even though he’s the one who busted his ass to get us there. That’s how they thank you for hard work around here.”
“Simmer down, man,” says Simon.
It’s been long enough, and I’ve been caught up in my master’s program and then my history program and all the politics and drama of my own career, that I’d completely forgotten about the push to change divisions here. It was just getting off the ground during my last season, and there were plenty of doubts over whether it would even be possible. But after Chris got drafted into the NFL, he became the shining star of the program—hence the reason he’s one of the speakers tonight—and the athletics director has been pushing to capitalize on the attention Chris brought to the program and the university ever since. If Marycliff can play with the big boys, they can also get more NFL scouts showing up at games, and more players getting drafted. Which means more alumni donations, more money from ticket sales, more students interested in attending … more. Always, always more.
Even though my career is now on an academic trajectory, more is the name of the game at any university. A
nything they can do to boost their own prestige, draw more students, and line the pockets of the administrators, that’s what they’ll do.
So it really shouldn’t be a big surprise that they’re forcing Coach Hanson into retirement if they think they can make more of the program with new blood.
But I can’t blame Cal for being pissed. If I were still here, I’d be salty too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Megan
This party is never, ever going to end. Okay, yes, I’m being dramatic. I’m well aware. But I’m dying. I’m unreasonably exhausted considering this baby is only the size of a pea, I’m bloated, and while I successfully sidestepped questions last night about my lack of alcohol consumption and tonight is alcohol free since it’s on campus, Lance and Abby have already invited everyone to their place for an afterparty. Since I can’t use Chris being exhausted as an excuse for me to be the driver this time, it’s bound to garner notice.
Which means I need to tell Chris about the baby before the afterparty. But after this party.
I’ve been looking for an opening since he got here yesterday, but every moment has been jam packed, or he’s been too worried about his speech, or fielding endless questions about his shoulder, or all of the above for me to get a moment to tell him. Plus, he was so flustered about his speech that I didn’t think adding anything to his stress load would be helpful right now. And whatever else an unexpected pregnancy might be, it’s definitely stressful.
Chris finishes up his speech, garnering laughs from the audience in response to a self-deprecating story that sets Coach Hanson in the best light, and returns to his seat, obviously relieved to be done.
He guzzles down a glass of water and mutters, “Damn, I wish they had an open bar here. I could use a beer, at least.”
“We’ve got a fully stocked fridge at our place for after,” Lance says, leaning across the table so he can keep his voice low and still be heard.
Chris nods his acknowledgment. “‘Preciate it, man.”
Even though Chris is done, there are still approximately seven thousand hours worth of speeches still to get through, plus a presentation of a plaque for dedicated service or something. Though from what Evan said he overheard in the food line, this is all a big sham, a show put on to make everyone feel better about Coach Hanson being forced into early retirement.
That brought the mood at the table down significantly. None of us had heard that rumor. But based on what Evan heard from the current football players and what he knows of university politics, it all adds up, unfortunately.
I think Elena is the only one who doesn’t want to believe it. She said something about hearsay not being admissible, but Evan just shrugged and said, “This isn’t a court. There’s no judge here. I’m just saying, it makes sense.”
We all looked at Coach Hanson, then, as he was making the rounds. He smiled and waved, and the guys all forced smiles and waved back.
At long last, the last boring old white guy finishes blabbing about integrity and hard work and whatever other hypocritical nonsense he’s been spewing, shakes Coach Hanson’s hand, and Coach Hanson himself steps up to the microphone. My sigh of relief is almost too loud in the relative silence.
But fortunately, Coach clears his throat at the same time and covers my faux pas. “Thank you all for coming,” he says. “I won’t drag this out for too much longer.”
I have to fight back the, “Thank god!” that wants to come out, but I manage to hold it in.
Chris reaches over and threads his fingers through mine, giving them a squeeze. When I look at him, his hazel eyes are dancing with mirth.
“Did I accidentally say that out loud?” I whisper.
He nods. “Very quietly, but yes.”
I start giggling, and so does Chris. Layla gives me a quizzical look, a smile fighting for dominance on her face, and pretty soon she’s giggling too. It spreads around our table like some kind of virus, and pretty soon we’re all shaking with suppressed laughter, only able to release it when Coach Hanson says one last thank you and steps away from the mic. When everyone bursts into applause, we can all giggle freely as we clap, and we finally manage to control ourselves by the time the applause dies down.
“What’s so funny?” whispers Abby, leaning across the table to me.
Still smiling, I shake my head. “I’ll tell you later.”
“I wanna go talk to Coach for a minute,” says Chris, and I give him a nod. The other guys, all former teammates, follow him, leaving us girls alone at the table.
Abby stands from her seat and slips into the seat next to mine. “Have you told him yet?” she whispers into my ear.
“I haven’t had time,” I answer, keeping my voice low, but Layla, Elena, and Hannah have moved next to each other and are discussing something else, so I’m not too worried about them overhearing. Plus, they’ll all find out soon enough, anyway. Because once I tell Chris, I know he won’t be able to keep the news to himself.
Thankfully, the guys return after only a few minutes, all looking like lost little boys. Abby stands and goes to Lance, while Chris slips into her vacated seat. I stand and gesture for him to scoot back from the table so I can settle in his lap.
He sighs, a sound equal parts sadness and relief, as his arms wrap around me and pull me close. I examine him while his attention is elsewhere, his gaze abstract and pointed somewhere off to his right, the muscles in his jaw tightening and relaxing rhythmically.
“Are you okay?” I whisper, just loud enough to be heard.
His hazel eyes find mine, and he sighs again. “Yeah. It’s just …” He looks around the room again before refocusing on me. “Coach confirmed what Evan said. He put a good face on it, smiled and said it was time, he’d had a good run, he was looking forward to spending time with his new granddaughter and fishing more instead of hanging out in a smelly locker room full of arrogant jocks. We all laughed and joked about how great retirement will be. But he’s a damn good coach. The best. He cares about his players and gets the best out of them. He built this program basically from nothing, has taken it through one division change years ago and built it up to be ready to make another hop to Division I, and now they’re shitcanning him? It’s not right.”
Cupping his cheeks in my hands, I hold his face still and place a soft kiss on his lips. “Should we go?” I ask quietly.
He leans forward and kisses me again before nodding and letting me go so I can stand. “Yeah. I need a few minutes to settle down, then we’ll head to Lance’s. I’ll let him know we’ll catch up to everyone there.”
I gather my purse while he leans in and tells Lance our plan, and my stomach flip flops. This is my chance.
No, granted, this might not be the ideal time, since he’s upset about Coach Hanson’s retirement, but I’ve been waiting for the ideal time for days. Maybe this news will cheer him up.
Yeah. That’s how I’ll frame it. I know you’re sad about Coach Hanson and worried about your shoulder, but I have some good news that might make you feel better, or at least distract you from the other stuff. We’re having a baby.
And then he’ll hug me and kiss my belly and cry happy tears of joy. That’s what happens in all the best stories, right?
But looking at his despondent face, I somehow doubt that’ll be exactly what happens.
I give him my best hopeful smile as he tangles his fingers with mine and leads me out of the conference room. We collect our coats from the coat check in the hall, and he holds mine for me to slip into, puts on his own, then we head for the door, hand-in-hand.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he murmurs once we’re outside, our breath puffing in clouds over our heads. He glances at me, his brows knitted together as he looks me up and down. “I know you’re not really dressed for a walk. Hell, I’m not either. But I need to move to process this.”
Nodding, I release his hand, but only so I can thread my arm through his. “Let’s wander around campus a bit. We’ll take the long way back to the car. I
haven’t been here in ages. It’ll be a nice walk down memory lane.”
He gives me a grateful smile, and we set off into the night, the skeleton trees reaching their arms up to the cloudy sky, our feet crunching on the ice melt scattered across the walkways. Fortunately I wore ballet flats, so while they’re not the warmest shoes and my toes will be freezing by the time we get to the car, they’re more comfortable for walking around than heels.
We wander in silence for a few minutes, slowly making our way over the brick-paved center mall of campus, past the student center, over toward the athletics complex. Memories flicker through me—bumping into Chris there, going to his football games, hurrying from one class to the next, all the late nights in the tutoring center—and a small smile lifts the corners of my mouth.
Chris glances at me, an answering smile on his face. “What are you thinking about?”
I turn my face to his, the yellow glow from one of lamps illuminating us. “You. Us. When we first were getting together, and how you were all protective of me when Isaac was being an asshole.” He lets out a growl that makes me laugh. “And I see nothing’s changed.”
He pulls me in and settles his hand on my waist, lowering his head to touch his lips to mine. “I’ll always be protective of you.”
“Back atcha,” I tell him, and his grin grows wider.
We stand in our bubble of light, just looking at each other, and slowly the smile on his face dims, and he examines my face, his eyes narrowing. “I feel like things with you have been a little off since we got here. Is everything all right? Did something happen before I got here that you didn’t tell me about? Or back at home before you left?”
I suck in a sharp breath. Of course Chris noticed I’ve been distracted and quieter than normal.
“What’s wrong?” he demands. “Tell me.”
Squeezing his arm, I shake my head and muster up my best smile. Because as much as I’m excited about the possibilities of having a baby with him, some part of me is still worried. And afraid. And ashamed. It’s stupid, the shame, but it’s the legacy of growing up in the fundamentalist cult I escaped from. Having a baby and not being married is a sin, according to them. And even though I don’t believe any of that nonsense anymore, I still wish I could tell my parents and have them be happy for me. And excited to meet their grandchild.
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