Dare You to Hate Me

But tell him what?

That I’ll miss him when he leaves?

That I’ll be waiting for him?

I’m not sure he even wants me to.

So I settle on saying nothing.

Nothing at all.

Aiden sets our things down on the couch in the middle of the huge hotel room, unfazed by the expensive-looking furniture we’re surrounded by. According to Coach Pearce, who met us in the lobby, all the players are bunking together in one of these massive rooms except us. Someone pulled his attention away as we got our keys, but I felt the middle-aged man’s eyes on me, except there was something oddly praising about the way they flitted over me unlike at the bakery.

I’m examining the beautiful view out the windows by the queen bed when Aiden reemerges from the bathroom. “Coach wants all the guys to meet in the lobby soon.” His tone is distant as he digs through his bag and pulls out a jersey. I think he’s about to exchange it for the sweatshirt he’s wearing, but instead he tosses it at me. I barely catch it when he says, “You have ten minutes to get ready.”

I blink. “What? I thought I’d stay—”

“You’ll have company to show you where to sit.” His no-arguing attitude makes me scowl. “Don’t give me that look. You may not like it, but it’s what you need right now. Maybe you’ll even thank me later.”

Dread threatens to suffocate me, wrapping around my heart and trailing up to my windpipe. “What does that mean?”

He gestures toward the jersey. “Put that on and maybe I’ll tell you.”

The material wrinkles in my clenched hands as I watch him walk toward the door. “You know I need more than that.”

Aiden’s spine straightens, his hand letting go of the doorknob to turn and face me with anger across his shadowed features. “That’s your problem, Ivy. You refuse to let anybody try convincing you otherwise. Peoples’ needs change. Put on the goddamn jersey and trust me.”

He doesn’t offer me any room to reply before storming out and slamming the door shut behind hi

m. The picture on the wall rattles with his exit, leaving me gaping at the empty space.

My eyes drop down to the jersey.

I’d asked him to trust me before.

“You have to let me go,” I whisper, burying my face in his neck and squeezing him as hard as I can. His arms are like a hook around my waist, anchoring me to the bedroom I’ve spent more time sleeping in than my own. “Trust me, Aiden. I’ve got this.”

Sighing in defeat, I slide the red jersey on over my long sleeve shirt and watch it drop mid-thigh on me. I flatten my palms along the slick material and turn toward the large mirror on the wall perched over the dresser.

Number 89 is plastered in big white letters on the front, and when I turn to glance at the back, my lips waver at the bold GRIFFTH across the back.

I’m remembering all the times I wished Aiden would have offered me his team jersey in high school knowing it would have meant something. The girls who tried worming their way into my good graces would beg me to convince him to let them wear it “in support” at the games they attended. But I knew better. They wanted to date him, to claim him, to hang on his arm. And I never liked that, so I’d always find a reason not to tell him about their interest. It wasn’t like he didn’t already know girls wanted to be with him. Sometimes I’d even wonder why he didn’t take up offers to go to parties or dates when they’d ask him. Instead, I’d soak up how he’d tell me he preferred staying in with me. I don’t know if it was a lie, but I liked to believe it wasn’t.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I pull at the shirt and blow out an exhausted breath. He was always the better one of us two, always good to me and willing to absorb my drama whenever I brought it to him. His family treated me with respect even though they knew who my parents were, and never made me feel unwelcome even if I struggled to make conversation.

Aiden made that pact in the old war fort behind our houses knowing it wasn’t for his benefit. It was for mine.

A knock at the door has me staring from the new shirt covering my body to the wood separating me and who I assume is Aiden. My first response is always to avoid the problem and pretend it doesn’t exist, but he won’t let me do that anymore if our conversation has any indication of what’s to come.

I expect a mountain of a man standing behind the door when I open it, not a curly-haired dirty blond with dark brown highlights and hesitant honey-colored eyes pointed at me.

Oh my God.

“Porter?” I whisper, stepping back in shock as I stare at my not-so-little brother. He towers over me now, something I’m not accustomed to. I look him over, waiting for him to disappear like a figment of my imagination.

It takes him a few seconds, but he slowly nods and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. One of the knees has a rip in it that looks artfully done, and he’s wearing a pair of sneakers that look exactly like another pair of Nikes he loved in the past. His favorite brand—always expensive but…him. “Yeah, it’s me.”

His voice is deeper, the baby fat on his face long gone and in its place a narrow jawline and envious cheekbones all clean of scruff except for a little peach fuzz over his top lip. Those eyes haven’t changed, and I start to wonder if mine show as much emotion as his.