7. Charlie
The Barrel was a dive bar two blocks from campus, all sticky floors, dim lighting, and a jukebox that only played music from the nineties. Charlie had been coming here since freshman year, back when Grant had discovered the bartender didn’t check IDs too closely.
Now, four years later, the place was a second home. The kind of home where no one expected anything from him except a decent tip.
The group claimed a corner booth, bodies packed tight. Seb slid in first, then Wyatt, then Booker. Grant pulled up a chair at the end. The cheerleaders who’d tagged along squeezed into the opposite side, Chloe already flagging down a server.
And Skylar.
She’d traded Poppy’s uniform for jeans and a thin T-shirt. He missed the uniform. The thought was inappropriate, but he didn’t care.
All afternoon, she’d been in his arms. Her waist beneath his palms. Her body pressed against his chest. The weight of her, warm and solid and real, as he’d cradled her for the final shot.
He could still feel the phantom impression of her head in the hollow of his shoulder.
Could still smell the faint floral scent of her shampoo.
She’d fit perfectly. Like she’d been designed to be held by him.
Except she was his girlfriend’s roommate.
Skylar rubbed her goose-bumped bicep and shivered. Charlie stood, peeled off his Thorndale sweatshirt and handed it to her. “Here.”
She shook her head. “I’m—”
“Fine.” He finished her sentence. “The air conditioning is way too high. I’m always a furnace.”
Skylar looked around the bar like there might be a clothing store in the corner she could purchase something at before reluctantly taking his sweatshirt. “Thanks.” She hesitated at the lip of the booth, scanning the crowded seats like she was calculating escape routes.
“Here.” He gestured to the space beside him. “There’s room.”
She slid in, her thigh pressing against his in the cramped booth. The contact sent heat racing up his leg. He didn’t move away. Neither did she.
The server appeared with menus. Charlie ordered three pitchers for the table and his usual from the bar.Wyatt reached for the first pitcher the second it landed and poured with the ease of a year’s practice.
Back home in Canada the kid had been legal since nineteen.
Here he was a year shy of the line and Charlie had stopped reminding him.
“Pretty sure that photographer has never even seen a football game,” Grant grumbled.
“Oh, I don’t know. He seemed a fan of the cheerleaders.” Seb wiggled an eyebrow at Chloe.
She ignored him, leaning across the table toward Charlie. “You looked great out there, Charlie.”
Charlie sat back, his elbow bumping Skylar’s. Chloe had never been vague about her intentions.
“Hey.” Seb pointed at Skylar with his beer. “You never told us where you’re from.”
“Ironwood, Pennsylvania.” She took a sip of her drink. “Population eight hundred on a good day.”
“Small-town girl.” Seb nodded approvingly. “That explains the football knowledge. Does your ex want to turn pro?”
Charlie’s hand tightened on his water glass.
“He does.” Skylar played with the cuff of the hoodie’s sleeve.
“Messy breakup?” Wyatt asked.
“Clean breakup. Wrong timing.” She shrugged. “He’s in Ironwood. I’m here. End of story.”
Relief wasn’t the appropriate response to that information. He had no right to feel anything about Skylar’s romantic history.
Grant nudged his elbow. “Is Poppy okay?”
Guilt flashed through Charlie. He should excuse himself and check on her. “She texted that she’s resting back at the apartment.”
Grant took a long draft of his beer. “Skylar was a lucky break.” His gaze flicked to Skylar, then back to Charlie. “The photographer sure liked the two of you together.”
Charlie’s jaw tightened. “Drop it.”
“Dropped.” Grant raised his hands in surrender. But his eyes said we’re talking about this later.
The pitcher emptied faster than Charlie expected. Seb declared time for round two and started collecting orders. Charlie slid out of the booth before anyone could argue.
“I’ve got this one.” He gathered the empty glasses. “Same again for everyone?”
The bar was less crowded than the booth, just a few regulars nursing drinks and a couple on what looked like an awkward first date. Charlie set down the empties and caught the bartender’s attention.
“Another pitcher of whatever’s on tap. Two gin and tonics, one vodka soda, and my usual.”
The woman, who probably had been working here since before Charlie was born, nodded.
He leaned against the bar and let his mind wander back to the booth.
To Skylar. To the way she’d seemed to relax as the photoshoot went on, but the tension had returned.
He itched to get that ease back, to see that smile when she’d joked with him. The sight hit him beneath his ribs.
“I can pay for my own drink.”
Charlie turned to find Skylar sliding onto the barstool beside him, her hand in her pocket. She produced a crumpled five.
“Put that away.”
“I’m not letting you buy me drinks all night.”
“You’re not letting me do anything.” He plucked the bill from her fingers and tucked it back into her pocket. The brief contact with the denim made his pulse jump. “My father’s credit card is funding this entire evening. Consider it his donation to team morale.”
Her mouth twisted. “I don’t want your father’s money.”
“Neither do I. That’s why I’m spending it.”
In the dim light of the bar, the gold flecks in her hazel eyes caught the neon from the jukebox. “Revenge spending?”
“Exactly.” He signaled for another beer. “It’s the only kind of spending I enjoy.”
Skylar accepted the fresh glass but didn’t drink. Her fingers traced patterns in the condensation, and Charlie found himself mesmerized by the movement. Long fingers. Short nails. A callus on her right index finger that probably came from holding a camera.
He wanted to know everything about those hands. What they’d photographed. What they’d touched. What they’d feel like tracing patterns on his skin instead of a beer glass.
Get it together, Carnell.
The bartender set down the last of the drinks, including a tall glass with clear liquid and a lime wedge that she placed directly in front of Charlie.
“Your usual,” she said.
Skylar’s gaze landed on the glass. Her eyebrows rose. “What’s that?”
“My drink.” Charlie picked up the glass and took a long sip, maintaining eye contact over the rim.
Skylar’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t like beer?”
“I do. Just not when I’m out.”
“What?” Skylar eyed the glass. “Does the golden boy quarterback also have a sponsorship contract with a vodka company or something?”
“Or something.” He set down the glass and slid it toward her. “Try it.”
“I have my own drink.”
“Scared?”
Her chin lifted. That stubborn streak he was beginning to adore flared to life in her eyes. She grabbed the glass and took a defiant sip.
Her expression shifted. Confusion first, then surprise. “This is water.”
“Ten points to the substitute cheerleader.”
“But—” She stared at the glass, then at him. “The lime. The fancy glass. I thought—”
“You thought the quarterback was getting drunk on a Sunday afternoon.” Charlie retrieved his water, letting his fingers brush against hers in the exchange. She didn’t pull away. “Interesting assumption.”
Color rose in her cheeks. “Black coffee at the diner. Water at the bar.” Her gaze searched his face. “You don’t drink.”
“I don’t drink.”
“Is that a health thing? A training thing?”
“It’s a staying sharp thing.” He took another sip. “Partially.”
“Partially?”
The question hung between them. Charlie could deflect. Could crack a joke and change the subject the way he’d done a hundred times before with a hundred different people.
But Skylar wasn’t a hundred different people. She looked at him with those hazel eyes, gold catching the bar light, and he found himself wanting to give her something real.
“I don’t like who I become when I lose control.” The words came out quieter than he intended. “Alcohol makes that harder.”
She sat silent for a moment. He braced himself for the follow-up questions about what kind of person needed to worry about control.
Instead, she just nodded. “That makes sense.”
He blinked. “It does?”
“Everyone has their reasons.” She turned her glass in her hands. “Curious isn’t the same as entitled. I’m not going to pry.”
The persistent knot he always carried in his chest in public loosened. “Most people pry.”
“I’m not most people.”
No. She definitely wasn’t.
A girl brushed Charlie’s arm, her “Hi Charlie” full of innuendo.
Charlie gave her a smile and then turned back to the bar.
Skylar watched the girl pout and walk away. “The playboy life is really rough.”
He scoffed. “You have no idea.”
The words came out sharper than intended. Skylar’s eyebrows rose, and he forced his jaw to unclench.
Everyone assumed he collected women like trophies. His teammates joked about his “expiration dates.” Even Skylar, watching that girl walk away, had already written the story in her head. Rich quarterback plays the field because he can.
None of them knew the truth.
He kept relationships short because short was safe. Because if he stayed long enough to start to care, he might hurt them. For years he’d witnessed his mother take the blows of his father’s rage and Charlie vowed to never be like that man.
Better to leave first. Better to be perceived as the villain than become one.
“Sorry.” He lifted his glass. “That came out wrong.”
Skylar studied him for a moment, her head tilted slightly. “Did it?”
Behind them, loud voices cut through the bar, aggressive and alcohol-soaked. Charlie turned instinctively, his body shifting to put himself between Skylar and whatever was coming.
A thick-necked guy in a frat hoodie had his arm around a girl who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else.
Charlie’s shoulders tensed. His hands curled at his sides. He didn’t like how she kept trying to pull away without making a scene and the forced smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
The thick-necked guy laughed at something his friend said and yanked the girl closer. She stumbled against him, wincing as his fingers dug into her arm.
“Hey.” Charlie stepped forward. “Maybe give her some space.”
The guy’s head swiveled toward Charlie. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. “Mind your own business.”
“I’m just saying. She doesn’t look comfortable.”
“She’s fine.” The guy’s arm tightened around the girl’s shoulders. “Aren’t you fine, baby?”
The girl nodded quickly. Too quickly.
“See?” The guy’s lip curled. “She’s fine. So why don’t you turn around and—” His gaze sharpened suddenly, recognition dawning. “Wait. I know you. You’re Charlie Carnell.”
Charlie bit the inside of his cheek.
“The quarterback.” The guy released the girl and took a step toward Charlie. “Mr. My-Daddy-Bought-The-Athletic-Center.” His friends snickered. “What, you think you can just walk in here and tell me what to do?”
“I’m not telling you anything. I’m suggesting you give the lady some room.”
“And I’m suggesting you shut the hell up.”
The guy shoved Charlie’s shoulder. Hard.
Charlie didn’t move. Years of taking hits from linebackers had taught him how to absorb impact. He planted his feet and kept his expression neutral.
“Walk away,” he said quietly. “Before this becomes something neither of us wants.”
“Or what?” The guy shoved him again. “You gonna run to daddy? Get me expelled?”
Next play. Next play. Next play.
“Charlie.” Skylar’s hand found his arm. Her fingers pressed against his bicep, warm and steady. “Let’s just go back to the booth.”
He wanted to listen to her. He wanted to turn around and walk away and pretend this wasn’t happening.
Instead, he stepped around the man and asked the girl. “Do you need a ride home?”
The guy grabbed Charlie’s shirt. His breath reeked of cheap whiskey. “You think you can just swoop in here, play the hero, steal someone else’s girl?”
Charlie kept his hands at his sides. “Nobody’s stealing anyone.”
A phone rose. Then another. Someone was always recording.
“Rich boy thinks he can have whatever he wants—”
The guy cocked his arm back.
Charlie braced for the hit. He wouldn’t swing back. Wouldn’t give them the footage they wanted. He’d take it, file a report if needed, and move on. Next play.
But the punch never landed.
Wyatt came out of nowhere.
The freshman must have left the booth when the shouting started. He barreled into the space between Charlie and the drunk guy, shoving hard with both hands. “Leave him alone.”
The guy stumbled backward. His heel caught on a barstool. His arms windmilled, grasping at empty air.
Time slowed.
Charlie watched the guy’s head arc toward the corner of a high-top table. Heard the sickening crack of skull meeting wood. Saw the body crumple to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.
Silence.
Then the screaming started.