Dare You to Hate Me

He goes to reach for me, but I take a step back, halting when he states, “I won’t make that mistake twice, Ivy.”

Blinking slowly, I gape at the massive man built on muscles, lean protein, and hard work. “That’s not up to you, Aiden.”

“You didn’t miss me?”

Every day.

But I say nothing.

“You didn’t regret leaving?”

Stop talking.

He manages to grab ahold of my hand, threading our fingers together like he needs the connection more than air itself. “You don’t hate me?”

This time with my silence comes a hand squeeze that causes me to look up at him with a wary expression weighing my lips downward.

I’m not sure what’s going on in his mind, but his jaw moves back and forth and the tendons in his neck tighten. “I dare you to hate me, Ivy. Because we both know you don’t. You couldn’t even if you tried.”

Because he gave me time.

I let out a tiny breath and unwind our fingers. “Thanks for the change,” I murmur, distancing myself from him again.

His lips twitch into a frown before they settle into a flat line that shows his feelings about the matter. Hurt and anger—it’s all in the narrowed blue eyes lined with thick, long lashes that make the bright tones pop that much more.

“We’re not finished,” he informs me.

But we are.

We have been for a while.

Chapter Seven

Aiden

Coach Pearce screams at us to reel it in after another bad practice, leaving us all in shit moods by the time we make it to the locker room drenched in sweat and bitter as hell. Half of us are dragging, and the other half are bitching about the newbies on the team.

DJ and Caleb are grumbling over Justin Brady’s ACL injury that’s going to leave us with the second string alternate whose team spirit is about as nonexistent as Ivy’s is these days.

By the time I’m showered, dressed, and grabbing my shit from my locker, Caleb is on his way out too. “You good, man?” he asks, knowing damn well I’m not.

“Can’t stand that kid,” I murmur, looking over my shoulder at Ricky Wallace. He’s a year younger than most of us and has the skill to be a great fucking quarterback, but he’s stuck up because he knows he’s good.

As if he knows I’m talking about him, the kid looks up and flashes a cocky grin. “You talking about practice? It’s okay, Griffith. Maybe you’ll be better next time.”

My teeth grind.

It’s Caleb who murmurs, “Ignore him.”

Jaw ticking, I grumble, “I dropped three fucking passes.”

“But you’ve never done it before,” he reasons like he always does to disperse the tension building. “It was a bad day. Tomorrow is a new one. Just gotta focus better.”

Shaking my head, I gesture toward the door to leave. I don’t feel like listening to the asshole inside gloat about his new position. Somebody needs to remind him that he wouldn’t have this chance if Justin’s knee hadn’t gotten fucked up.

Caleb’s expression looks contemplative as we push open the door and head out to the hallway. “Brady is going to be pissed off once he hears about Wallace.”

“What’s he going to do? He’s out. There’s no way he’s playing the rest of the season with that knee. Not since it’s a repeat.”