Dare You to Hate Me

When am I not? “No more than usual.”

He grumbles under his breath. “Good thing you’ll be done soon then. You don’t need the extra bullshit that comes with college.”

Instead of giving him a verbal reply, I shoot him a wave and head out. I think about what Ivy said in the laundromat and can’t help but fight off a frown. I’m not angry that you didn’t come along with me. It meant that you were going after your dream.

Ivy’s weakness is selflessness—it always has been. It’s her fatal flaw.

And mine is undoubtedly her.

But the two can’t seem to coincide in Coach’s eyes, and I’m not sure how I can convince him otherwise.

When I walk out of the rain into the café, I brush off my jacket, swipe a hand through my damp hair and glance at the counter. My shoulders drop slightly when I see it absent of the person I’m here for.

Bea Olson, the owner, and avid football fan turns the corner with an empty tray in her hand and gives me a wide smile. “There’s Lindon’s star player. A bunch of your boys just left. Missed them by a few minutes. How are you, honey?”

Sliding my hands in the pockets of my jacket, I lift my shoulders. “I’d be better if this rain would stop, but otherwise I’m all right. I’m actually not here to meet up with the guys.”

“It’s supposed to dry up tomorrow just in time for your game. Ready to kick Gator butt?” On cue, someone a few tables back start hooting like fans always tend to when our rivals ar

e mentioned.

Lindon is a loyal community, filled with people who always have the team’s back. “You bet.” My eyes trail back to the empty counter. “Is Ivy working today?”

Something sparks in the old woman’s eyes before the corners of her lips curl. “She was feeling under the weather, so I sent her home. Had to fight the girl. Always stubborn, that one.”

I huff out a laugh. “Got that right.”

Her head tilts. “You know my girl?”

My chest tightens over her careful choice of words as I study her features. Her girl. I nod slowly, grateful Ivy has her since she hasn’t had anyone else in a long time. “Is she okay?”

When I saw her a few days ago on campus, the washed-out color of her skin alarmed me. She’s always been pale but paired with her glassy eyes and faded lips I knew something wasn’t right. It’s more than being worn out like she insisted.

“Why don’t you see for yourself? I told her to get some rest, but I’m sure she’s doing anything but. In fact—” She holds a finger up and walks over to the counter, snatching up a bag and filling it with a few pastries from the case. By the time she’s done, I’m balancing a white bag, container of soup, and drink carrier in my hands. “—bring her this. They’re all her favorites. Homemade cream of broccoli soup, my famous hot chocolate, and a few fresh cookies.”

I’d bet a kidney that the cookies are chocolate chip. It’s always been Ivy’s go-to ever since my mother taught us how to make them shortly after the first time I invited her inside my house. We’d spent more time making a mess of the kitchen than being successful at making edible cookies, but it never stopped Ivy from trying again. Mom encouraged her to keep practicing, always keeping an open invitation to the girl who clearly needed it.

I clear my throat, fighting a wavering smile at the small woman in front of me. “How much do I owe you?”

Her hands go to her hips. “Don’t you dare insult me, Aiden Griffith. I’m doing this for her. All I ask is that you treat her right.”

My lips part, but she eyes me into silence. Pressing them together again, I find myself nodding and walking toward the door that she points at in dismissal.

She calls out, “You have her address?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A scoff comes from the small woman that makes me snicker slightly to myself. “Ma’am. I’ll let it pass because you’re going to take the team to the championships. I’ll be rooting for you someday on the big screen too. But call me ma’am again…”

I shoot her a wink from over my shoulder, amused by her theatrics. “Sorry, Bea.”

“I don’t want her getting cold soup, so hurry along. And don’t think I won’t be asking for details from her later on.”

Good luck getting them, I want to tell her, but something tells me she already knows.

It doesn’t take long to get from the bakery to the house from hell. Caleb has told me horror stories about the parties held here and I hate knowing Ivy has to deal with the girls who run the place in addition to the entitled frat fuckers and players that always try making moves.

But I also know she won’t accept any help unless she has no other choice.