“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. Anything 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
