Dare You to Hate Me

Epilogue

Ivy

“You have no idea what’s going on, do you?” the woman with blue streaks in her blonde hair muses. My hands have been curled tightly together as I watch Aiden fly across the field with three opposing players chasing after him and the ball he’s cradling close to his chest.

The smile I offer is shy. “Is it that obvious?”

Her lips tilt upward, causing the blue paint on half her face crinkle. “You’ve looked lost this whole time, and maybe a little nauseous. I was wondering who you were here with since you don’t seem that educated on the game.”

An amused laugh bubbles from me because I have felt like I’m going to be sick whenever Aiden is nearly taken down. “You’d think I’d have it figured out after all the games I’ve been to by now, but you’d be wrong.”

She laughs, holding out her hand. “At least you’re honest. Most women pretend they know what’s going on, but they’re really only here to try getting attention from the players in hopes of going home with one of them. I’m Cassy, by the way.”

“Ivy.” Our eyes turn back to the field when a commotion stirs a few strangled gasps from the people around us.

Cassy sucks in a breath when Aiden jumps over a fallen player who must have failed at taking him out, before twisting around another, barely avoiding a tackle, and diving into the end zone right as the last quarter ends.

“Holy shit,” my seatmate whispers in as much awe as I feel. The referee jogs over and gives the signals to someone before the scoreboard changes to appoint the New York Giants another 6 points. “We won. WE WON!”

The sea of blue and white people around us go wild, jumping up and down and screaming out the number of the newest tight end on the team as he gets up and grabs the ball as other members of the Giants come running over and surround him in celebration.

“They may go to the Super Bowl if they keep this up,” Cassy tells me, screaming over the others still celebrating the victory.

I nod along, trying to see over the crowd. Aiden and the others are walking off the field together, and I know I’ll get a text within minutes of him getting safely back to the locker room to let me know where and when to meet him outside.

“So why are you here?” my seatmate asks as we collect our things.

A sly grin stretches across my face. “I’m hoping to go home with one of the players.”

Her eyes widen and cheeks pinken as her gaze darts to the jersey I’m wearing. It’s brand new, with GRIFFITH printed on the back and 88 on the front. If he got his way, he would have had one custom made that said GRIFFITH’S HANDS OFF, but I told him I’d shred it before anyone saw it on me.

Something flashes over her face after she’s done giving me a once-over. “What’s your last name again?”

All I say before elbowing my way out of the row of seats is, “I didn’t tell you.”

I was supposed to meet Porter here for the game, but he had a last-minute schedule change that made him have to stay on campus. Since the Giants went to Miami to play the Dolphins, it would have worked perfectly with Porter at the University of Miami. Aiden convinced him to accept the full scholarship that covered everything he’d need as long as he played for the Hurricanes while he attended. Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to pay a dime, which is good considering the

ir divorce was finalized last Valentine’s Day. It’s oddly appropriate for the cycle of things my family has done wrong to include a legal separation on the day people are supposed to express love to one another, but for the first time, I see contentment between them instead of resentment whenever I visit.

I follow the directions I’m given via text and find myself in a concrete hallway with a few other significant others I’ve talked with before. Aiden told me I should stick with them but I’m still no better at socializing than I was before, especially after dropping out of college once my first semester was done.

DJ took it the hardest since he had over a year left and wasn’t planning on going into the draft. He managed to get my phone number before I moved to the New York Metropolitan area after Aiden signed a contract with the Giants and still sends me random messages about his day, including pictures—of food he made, himself giving the puppy dog eyes and telling me he’s lonely, and his grad professor he thinks look like a clone of Snape from Harry Potter.

“Hey, Ivy,” Malissa Melburne greets, bouncing her son in her arms. A diaper bag rests on the ground beside her, and a carrier on the other. As soon as Aiden introduced me as his girlfriend to everyone, the amount of advice on what to wear and what not to, when to get married, and when to have babies started pouring out of the women I barely knew.

Admittedly, that’s the biggest reason I don’t sit with them if I can help it. I wouldn’t have minded being the mute among them as I watched the game and let them think whatever they wanted of me but having the added pressure of when best to move forward with Aiden so it doesn’t impact his season doesn’t help my anxiety any. I’ve gotten better, sought out help, but there are triggers that still make my skin itch with a desire to do something controllable.

And I do.

I call Aiden.

Then I call my therapist.

The apartment we settled into is a spacious three bedroom with a huge kitchen that Aiden told the realtor was non-negotiable. The free time I had after saying goodbye to Lindon was spent learning how to better my baking skills with the help of Aiden’s mother and all the recipe books both she and my own mother got for me. Things have been better with my family, specifically my mother, but it’s still a work in progress. She’ll occasionally send me bakeware items and books using the money she’s earning as a secretary at an architectural firm not far from where I live while she attends college online to get her degree in the focus. Her and Dad both have separate houses a few hours away from each other. Dad sold the store, and the house, to pay back what he’d owed the bank for his failing business and is back working at the old bank he was employed at in central New York.

With the help of Aiden, I’ve managed to earn a little money of my own from blogging about my baking adventures. My following is still minimal, only jumping in views whenever Aiden is involved in the little videos I post online, but it’s enough to cover some of the smaller bills and the therapy sessions I’ve been attending. Once in a while, Mom even joins me. It’s how I finally showed her the scars on my arm and told her the story. My therapist opened the room for the conversation, which ended in both Mom and I crying on the couch while holding each other.

We said we’d try.