A Very Marycliff Christmas Page 7

  My eyebrows wing up in surprise. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but that wasn’t it at all. “Oh?” It’s all I can manage to say, stalling while I process this.

  Matt offered him a job? Is Matt’s business that steady that he needs two marketing people? Although Hannah did mention working part time for an environmental organization and feeling overwhelmed, so maybe she’s not going to be working for Matt anymore?

  If that’s the case, does that mean there’s trouble in their relationship? Or that working and living together isn’t working out so well? But then, Matt’s gone often enough that it’s not like they’re in each other’s space twenty-four seven.

  “Hey,” Lance says softly, sitting on the couch and taking my hands in his. “If the thought of me quitting my job and working for Matt makes you that uncomfortable, I can tell him no.” He gives my fingers a squeeze, and the way he’s obviously trying to comfort and soothe me makes me realize my surprised face has turned into a scowl.

  I give him a smile and squeeze his hand in return. “No, sorry. I’m just confused. What about Hannah?”

  Lance sighs, like he’s relieved I’m not as upset as he originally thought I might be. “You know she’s been working for Earth Ambassadors.” At my nod, he continues. “According to Matt, she’s having a hard time juggling working for them and running his marketing. Plus, Earth Ambassadors really wants her full time, and that’s her dream job, so Matt’s looking for someone to replace her.”

  “And he wants you.”

  He lifts one shoulder an inch and lets it drop. “Yeah.”

  “What are your thoughts?” I ask, because I’m still not sure what mine are. But it’s even worse since I can’t read his. Is he excited by the idea? Torn? Wants to reject it outright and it would be easier if I were vocally against it from the beginning so he doesn’t make his friend mad? Well, you know how Abby is. She doesn’t like change, and security is important to her. Which is true, and would make a convenient excuse if he doesn’t really want to do this. But if he does … do I want to be responsible for holding him back?

  His dark eyes search mine. “I … don’t know, actually. Part of me thinks it sounds really cool. I’d get to work with one of my best friends, and since we were teammates and roommates for years, I’m confident we can work together without wanting to kill each other. He sent me a financial overview of his company to prove that he can afford to actually pay me a salary.”

  “That’s good,” I murmur.

  Lance nods. “Yeah. It would be less than I’m making now, but we’ve been living off less than I make already. We have savings, and his email said as revenue increases, so would my salary.

  It’s my turn to study him, catalogue all his tells. He’s cautiously optimistic about this idea. “But?” I prompt, knowing him well enough to know there’s a but. “Would you be happy spending all your time working on just one person’s marketing? Right now you handle a diverse client list, so it keeps you on your toes. Will you get bored just doing things for Matt? Why doesn’t he contract with your firm instead?”

  Lance huffs out a low chuckle. “I actually thought that’s what he was asking at first. And from his reaction, that idea didn’t even occur to him.”

  Actually, that seems like the best idea for me. Narrowing my eyes in thought, I drum my fingers on my lower lip. “Why doesn’t he do that, though? Doesn’t that make the most sense? Farm out the marketing to you, he still gets the peace of mind of knowing his friend’s going to do good work and not have to trust a stranger—which I completely understand, by the way—plus you don’t take a pay cut or any additional risk.” My eyes widen and I sit up straight. “Plus, if he shows up to your schmooze-and-booze networking events, he could even land new clients. It’s a win all around, isn’t it?”

  Lance seems to deflate a little, and I bite my lip, worried I’ve popped his balloon accidentally. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That … actually does make the most sense.”

  Yup, I really have ruined the moment. “I’m sorry. You were getting excited about working with him full time, weren’t you? And I just ruined it.”

  He shoots me a reassuring smile and scootches next to me on the couch, pulling me against his side and dropping a kiss on my head. “You didn’t ruin anything. You brought your logical brain to a discussion that should be made with a clear head and not clouded by grand delusions. Part of me thinks it would be great fun to hang with Matt all the time, go with him on some of his trips, and bring you along to translate for us in the Spanish speaking places.”

  I grin, envisioning that too. I have to admit, it does sound like fun. “Is there anything that says we can’t do that anyway? You suck at taking your vacation time, something I still blame on your dad, by the way. If we plan biannual week-long surf trips with Matt, that would give you an excuse to use your vacation time. Or”—I straighten—“if he becomes your client, couldn’t you use it as a work trip? I mean, you need to keep up with what he’s doing so you can make sure you still know who his ideal customer is and adequately convey the experience to them, right? Isn’t that part of the deal?”

  Now he’s full on laughing. “I’ll have to bring you in to sell that to my bosses.” He pulls me back down against his chest, and I lie against him with a contented sigh. His hand skates up my back. “That’s the kind of sound I like to hear from you,” he whispers against my hair.

  “I’m always happy being like this with you. You know that. If you really want to take this job, if you think you’ll be happier working for Matt full time rather than staying on at the Forrester Group and adding him to your client roster, then … well, we can look at what he’s offering and see what we’d need to do to make it work. If you say we can swing it, I believe you, but I’ll feel better seeing the numbers myself.”

  He’s quiet for long enough that I turn over so I can look at him. His hand now rests on my belly, and he slips it beneath the hem of my top so it rests on my bare skin, but his gaze is abstract and pointed at the wall, his brows drawn together as he thinks things over. I wait, leaving him to his thoughts for now.

  After several minutes tick by in silence, I rub my hand up his arm and give him a squeeze. “You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” I whisper. “Let’s go to bed.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Evan

  Showing up for the retirement party in one of the administration building’s conference rooms takes me back down memory lane. Donor banquets where we were required to schmooze, end of season awards banquets, various departmental functions over the years, they all took place here, and just like those, this one is the standard university banquet buffet. Round tables dot the room covered in alternating white and red tablecloths—Marycliff University colors that nicely double as Christmas decor. Each table has a small pot of poinsettia in the center, either white or red to contrast with the tablecloth, and football, M, and U confetti is scattered around.

  Daniel and Elena trail behind Layla and me as we walk into the room, looking around to see who else is here already. Chris and Megan are already here, and Megan waves us over to the table they’ve claimed near the front. Chris is one of the speakers during the stuffy, boring portion of the evening.

  Megan’s all smiles as we approach, patting the seat next to her and saying, “Layla, sit here.”

  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. 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 abou
t 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.