Instead, he peeled the clothes from her while she was mostly unconscious, and the partly conscious part of her smacked at his hands and told him to leave her alone instead of helping. He'd finally gotten her down to her panties—a lacy thong, dammit—and tucked her into bed before he’d stripped down and climbed in next to her. He'd lain awake for a while, holding her, making sure she didn't vomit in her sleep. He knew she'd had quite a bit to drink, but couldn’t be sure exactly how much or how well she could hold her liquor. Apparently pretty well for such a tiny person.
Megan stood at the sink splashing water on her face when Chris came back to their bedroom. He deposited the pills in her outstretched hand and watched her toss them back, drinking just enough water to swallow the pills before setting the cup down on the counter next to the sink. “Thanks for getting that for me.”
“No problem.” Chris stood in the doorway with his arms crossed and leaned against the doorframe. “Are you done puking for now? You should drink a little more water.”
She started to nod, but stopped, holding her head in both hands and letting out a moan of pain. “Nodding is a bad idea.”
Chris couldn't help grinning. “I know that feeling. Come here.” He scooped her into his arms and deposited her back in the bed before grabbing the glass of water. After setting it on the nightstand, he climbed in with her, pulling her against him so they sat propped against the headboard, her head resting on his shoulder.
Megan closed her eyes and relaxed against him. She smelled like a distillery, but he didn't mind. He enjoyed the feeling of her body against his, the way she snuggled into him, the simple pleasure of just holding her. More than he had ever expected. They stayed that way for a while. Chris coaxed some more water into her, which she was able to keep down.
After a soft tap on the door, Matt poked his head in. “Hey. I'm going for burritos. You guys want some?”
“Shhh.” Megan put one hand over her ear. “Not so loud.”
Chris grinned again. “Yeah. Get my usual for both of us.” Megan smacked at his chest weakly, shushing him some more. Matt chuckled before he closed the door behind him.
Pulling Megan closer, Chris held her while she dozed off. He'd let her rest and get an egg, bacon, and cheese breakfast burrito in her belly before he tried to figure out what had freaked her out the night before. While she seemed totally miserable, he didn't think she'd had enough to drink to make her black out.
But if she decided not to tell him, would he be able to convince her to talk to him? Or would she just pretend she didn't remember?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Megan woke up Monday morning when Chris brushed a kiss across her lips and whispered goodbye. He did it every weekday morning. He had since that first time when he'd woken her up before he left to make sure she had an alarm set. She normally roused a little at his kiss and whispered words, then drifted back to sleep with a smile on her lips.
This time she was awake and couldn't go back to sleep. She still felt groggy and out of sorts from her hangover the day before. Her head didn't hurt and she wasn't nauseated anymore, but a lingering feeling of malaise and unhappiness followed her like a cloud. She didn't party often during the school year, so she wasn't used to having a hangover linger. Usually it was the headache and faint sense of nausea that stayed into the second day. This felt different, but she couldn't figure out what else it might be.
Chris had been sweet all day yesterday, just hanging out with her, holding her, making sure she drank water. They watched some movies in the evening, and she managed to do a little bit of reading. Not everything, though, which wasn't like her.
She kicked off the covers and decided to tackle the rest of her homework since she was awake anyway. Maybe that's what was bothering her—some sort of guilt for not having finished her homework over the weekend? That seemed unlikely. She was a good student and didn't often blow things off, but she knew how to fake her way through a class when she needed to, especially if all she'd skipped was some reading. If she’d read at least the first few paragraphs and skimmed the next several pages she could count on being able to answer one of the first questions a professor asked. If she volunteered a response right away, the professor would be unlikely to just call on her when she wasn’t prepared. And if all else failed, she’d comment on someone else's comment.
The memory of the party came back to her in the shower. It was always where ideas and stray bits of brain fluff popped up. Showers often jogged memories clouded by alcohol as well. It wasn't uncommon for her to have memory gaps while she was hungover, but she'd never had one not get filled in by the end of the next day. Today was no different.
She was minding her own business, washing her hair, humming to herself, when wham. That she-devil with her arms around Chris, that bitch of a fake Playboy bunny talking about Chris and his fuckboy ways. How he was only with her because she was a convenient hole to stick his dick in. So convenient that they shared a room and a bed.
It hit her like a kick in the gut. The anger. At the she-devil. At the talking bunny cliché.
At Chris.
At herself.
The fear that maybe that jersey chaser was right, that she was nothing more to Chris than a convenient hole. He could be so charming, and he had a reputation for making a girl melt under his undivided attention. He just didn't normally maintain that attention any longer than it took for him to get off and get out.
Was that all this was?
Sure, it had lasted longer than his normal one-hour hookups. But did it amount to little more between them? Were they really just fuck buddies?
And that led her to the final feeling. Disgust. With the whole situation, but mostly with herself. For falling for him when she went into this with no illusion that it would turn into something more, something lasting. How could she have fallen so hard, so fast?
Turning, she let the water wash over her, rinsing away the shampoo, then tilted her head back so the water pounded on her upturned face. “Fuck.”
What was she going to do now?
* * *
Chris knocked on the open door of the head coach's office and stuck his head in. “Hey, Coach. Coach Riggs said you wanted to talk to me?” The assistant coach had grabbed him at the end of practice, emphasizing that Coach Hanson needed to talk to him before he left.
Coach Hanson looked up from the papers on his desk. “Sure, Watkins. Have a seat.” Shuffling the papers around, Coach put some in a folder and set it off to the side while Chris dropped his bag on the floor and sat down. Coach sat back in his chair and watched Chris for a moment before he spoke again. “I wanted to talk to you about graduation eligibility and what you're planning for the future.”
Chris shifted in his seat. “I’m still passing all my classes.”
A nod of agreement, but Coach’s face remained impassive. “Yeah, for now. Your assigned tutor says you haven't been keeping your appointments with her. You going to be able to maintain your C average?”
“Yeah. My, uh, girlfriend's been helping me with my classes. She's helping me figure out what I need to take next semester so I can graduate.” He hoped that’d be enough reassurance to end this conversation. Even with Megan’s help and reassurance, he still didn’t know what to do with himself after graduation. And he hated the vulnerability that came with not having the right answer. On the football field, he always knew the right thing to do. Not that he always managed it, but at least he knew.
Off the field? That was a different story.
Coach's blue eyes sharpened, and he sat forward again, his beefy forearms resting on his desk. “Girlfriend, huh? Is she smart?”
“Yes, sir. She works in the tutoring center. She's the one that you gave special permission for Matt Schwartz to use.”
Coach’s brows furrowed. “I thought Schwartz said she was his roommate. Don't you live with him, too?”
“Yes.” Chris didn't think it was necessary to elaborate. The man was obviously coming to his own conclusions.
Shaking his head, Coach let out a low whistle. “She's your girlfriend now, huh? Careful there.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk once. “Anyway, glad to hear you've pulled your head out of your ass enough to get serious about school. For a while there I didn't think you were going to finish.”
Chris shrugged. “I wasn't planning on it until recently.”
Coach sighed, studying him. “I know you were disappointed that you didn't get an invite to the National Scouting Combine. Have you thought about going to a Regional Combine? You'll be eligible once the season is over at the end of the month.”
Chris swallowed, but didn't say anything. Coach Hanson's blue eyes had that look in them like he was trying to read Chris’s mind. He always looked like that when he didn't get an answer as fast as he liked. He was an intense man. It was part of the reason he made such a good coach.
Finally, Chris shrugged again. “I hadn't really considered it. I figured that if they wanted me, they'd send an invite.”
Coach Hanson made a dismissive sound. “Watkins, I've never thought you were stupid. I know academics isn't your strongest subject, but that doesn't mean you're an idiot. You go to school in what amounts to the middle of nowhere in a pretty minor division. If you really wanted to be able to get an invite, you should've gone to a school with a bigger program. Or you suck up whatever stupid thing you've got in your head about being too proud to go to a Regional Combine and go after what you want. This is your chance.” When Chris didn't immediately respond, Coach kept talking. “There's no shame in going to open tryouts, you know. Plenty of good players started as walk-ons. If you want to go pro, you should do it. You regret the things you don't try more than the things you do.”
Coach stared at him, waiting for him to respond. Chris wasn't sure what to say but knew he wouldn't be dismissed until he came up with something. After a long day, he was hungry and tired and just wanted to go home. Thinking about graduation, Regional Combines for the NFL, or what to do beyond cuddling up with Megan and falling asleep wasn't what he wanted right now. He just wanted to leave, but knowing he'd get his ass chewed tomorrow, plus extra speed drills as punishment, kept him in his seat.
He forced his brain to grind out some kind of answer. “I’ll think about it.”
Coach nodded once. “Good. Do that. Tell me which Combine you plan on registering for by our last game.”
Chris's eyes widened, but he didn't say anything in the face of Coach's stare. Instead, he nodded. “Okay.”
Coach indicated his dismissal with a wave of his hand and turned back to the papers he'd stuffed in a folder. Chris collected his bag and headed out, his mind churning with thoughts of the future.
* * *
“Charlie? This is unexpected.” Megan slid a few more things into her bag, packing up to leave the tutoring center. She'd just finished with her last appointment when her phone rang, flashing her brother's name and the picture she’d taken of him last Christmas when they'd all been home.
“Hey, Megan.” His baritone voice carried over the phone, and she could tell he was smiling just from the way he said her name.
She smiled back. “What's up? Did someone die? You never call me.” Her tone was half-joking but a niggle of worry squirmed in the back of her mind. They only called each other on their birthdays and major holidays. November fourth was neither of those things.
Charlie laughed. “No, everything's fine. A guy can't call his little sister without having a death notification these days?”
“Ha. No. It's just unusual for you to call me out of the blue. How's it going? How's school?” Charlie attended Seattle Pacific University. A year ahead of Megan in school, he would graduate at the end of May.
“Good. Just jumping through all the hoops so I can finish this year. You know how it goes.”
Megan pinched her phone between her head and shoulder as she finished gathering her things to head out. “Yeah. I'm not quite there yet. Next year, though.”
“Yeah. So've you given any thought to getting your teaching certificate?”
Switching the phone to her left hand, she grabbed her bag and slung it over her right shoulder, heading for the door. “What? No. Why would I do that?”
Silence greeted her question. Finally, with a sigh, “No, I guess not. Why get something you know you could make money with?”
“Seriously, Charlie? You called to lecture me about my life choices? I get enough of that from Mom and Dad.” She stopped in the hallway, halfway to the door, frustration tensing her muscles. Her brothers didn't understand her any more than her parents did, though they were usually more tolerant. They were both good little boys who toed the line. Logan, the oldest, had gone to law school, and Charlie, fun-loving Charlie, became serious and studious, majoring in theology, with plans of getting his Master of Divinity next. Their parents were so proud of their sons. She was the black sheep, and they constantly tried to herd her back into the fold.
Charlie's sigh carried through the phone. “I care about you, Megan. I want you to be able to support yourself once you graduate. I just don't think—”
“Yeah, that's the problem.” God, she was tired of getting lectured about this. “You don't think. You don't think I can succeed as an artist. You don't think I should blow off Mom and Dad so much. You don't think that I know what I want and have what it takes to get it. You don't think about me.” Charlie's disappointment with her was the hardest to take. They'd been so close when they were kids, but had grown apart in high school once she began to take her art more seriously. When he'd left to go to college, their relationship had fractured further to the strained truce they currently operated under where they saw each other at their parents' house when they both happened to be there and talked on the phone for a few minutes a few times a year.
“Megan, come on,” he cajoled, sounding like someone talking to a recalcitrant toddler.
She bristled, unwilling to suck it up and swallow it down. Not from her brother. “No, you come on. Look, I know you don't agree with all of my choices. And that's fine. You don't have to. I don't agree with all of yours, either. But I at least respect your right to make those choices and don't try to pressure you to be different. The least you could do is extend the same courtesy to me.”
Charlie blew out another long breath. “You're right. I'm sorry.” A few moments passed in silence. Megan wasn't sure what to say, so she didn't say anything. She still didn't know why Charlie had really called. It was a busy week, with two papers due and a major test on Friday, not to mention her ongoing projects for figure drawing and painting. All she wanted was to get off the phone and get home so she could relax for a little while before tackling her homework.
She walked the rest of the way toward the door. The oppressive clouds from earlier in the afternoon had opened up, and now it was pouring. Cold and dark and raining like Niagara Falls. “Shit.”
“Megan!” Charlie’s scandalized voice squawked in her ear.
Oops, she was still on the phone with her theology-student brother who never cursed.
“Sorry, Charlie. It's pouring out, and I have to walk halfway across campus to get to my car to go home.”
“At least you have your car today. Don't you usually walk?”
Megan shifted her feet. “Um, didn't Mom and Dad tell you? I moved. I don't live close enough to walk anymore.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, do you have an umbrella?”
“No. I didn't bring it today.” She let out a long sigh. “Look, I need to go. I don't want to walk through the pouring rain on the phone. Did you need to talk to me about something? And if it's an in-depth discussion, can I call you back later?”
Charlie let out a soft chuckle. “Yeah, right. Like you'd actually call me back.”
“Charlie, I really don’t—”
“No, it's fine. I get it.” It was Charlie's turn to interrupt this time. “I was calling to see if you’re going to come home for Thanksgiving.”
Megan froze, one hand still on
the push bar of the door. “Uh, I hadn't really thought about it. I might be going home with a friend.”
“With Abby?”
Megan snorted. “No. Come on, Charlie. You know what her mom's like. That Thanksgiving would be worse than one at our house.”
“Be nice. Anyway, what friend?”
“Just, y'know. A friend.” She was stalling and doing a terrible job of it. She didn't want to promise to go home, but she hadn't gotten an invite elsewhere yet. It hadn't come up, but she was hoping that Chris might invite her to go with him. If he did, that would put some of her doubts to rest. But she didn't want to bring it up. He needed to do it unprompted or it wouldn't mean as much.
“Does this friend happen to be male?” Charlie's voice was overly casual. Megan snorted at his attempt to find out more without trying to be obvious about his insane curiosity.
She decided that ignoring the question was the best plan. “I’ll think about coming home if I don't get invited elsewhere. I gotta go, Charlie.”
“Okay. I know Mom and Dad would really like it if you came.”
“I’ll think about it. That's the best I can give you right now.”
“Fine.” He sounded resigned. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay, sure. Bye.” Megan ended the call and stared out the glass doors. The rain hadn't let up at all during the few minutes on the phone with Charlie. She'd hoped it would, but with her luck right now, it wasn't surprising. Busy, crappy week. Unpleasant phone call with her brother who she used to be close to. And a command to come home for Thanksgiving.
It had been issued as an invitation, but she harbored no illusions about the true nature of it. She was sure her parents had put him up to it, hoping her brother would have more influence over her than they did.
He didn’t. It was hard to maintain a close relationship with someone who disapproved of your every decision, whether that was her parents or her brothers.
Players of Marycliff University Box Set, Books 1–3 Page 38