Dare You to Hate Me by B. Celeste (classic fiction .txt) 📕

on his face isn’t that different from any other day, and it doesn’t falter when I narrow my eyes at him like I’m trying to figure out what game he’s playing.

Rubbing a closed fist over my sternum, I slowly focus back on the girl who’s purposefully staring at the notebook in front of her instead of me. “Yeah. I remember her.” I have to bite my tongue from adding, gave me the nastiest case of blue balls, so watch out.

Just because she’s a self-proclaimed bitch doesn’t mean I need to stoop to her level. That’s not who I am, and I know damn well it isn’t who she is either. It’s a mask she’s wearing, and I have every intention of finding out why.

“Not going to say hi?” I prod her.

She finally looks up, makeup caked on her face even though she sure as hell doesn’t need it, only to mutter, “Hi.”

It’s more than I thought I’d get, dry tone and all. “What are you two doing?” DJ is usually handsy with the women he brings by, but the small distance between them is safe enough for sanity. Since the girls he usually messes with are jersey chasers, they don’t care who’s around to witness it as long as they’re getting attention from someone on the team. Ivy isn’t like that. At least, not from what I’ve heard when I asked around.

It’s obvious based on the scattered textbooks and notebook paper between them that they’re doing something for school. A few of the guys share a class with her and make sure I know it every time they come home.

Ivy let Marks borrow a pen.

Ivy flipped off one of the Cappa-O’s.

Ivy ignored DJ’s advances.

Up until now, the last comment always made me feel relieved. DJ flashes chicks a smile and shoots them a wink and they practically throw their panties at him. I’ve heard plenty about Ivy since opening the can of worms, but nothing I could discern as truth or rumor.

I regret filling my schedule with core requirements for my business major instead of easy gen eds like the others tried convincing me of. It was Caleb who suggested I not go into sports therapy like I planned, so I mirrored his courses until I realized I liked the idea of business management more than I would have training to be a physical therapist. I could still coach and train and even make my own business out of it if for some rare reason playing doesn’t work.

By the time I realized Ivy was in class with the guys, it was too late to add it. And the assholes make sure they mess with me every time I ask if anything happened knowing it’s her I’m really inquiring about.

And the other night…

Shit. The second I realized what Ivy was going to do, my brain shut off and my dick took control. My mother would have smacked me upside the head and told me not to think with that head, especially if she knew it was Ivy I’d fooled around with, but I did.

The problem is that I would have screwed her right there. I would have let her control every goddamn second of us fucking on the couch, when I’ve never let anyone have that same courtesy. I played her game until I realized it wasn’t real and stopped anything from going further. My ego and dick are still bruised over it.

“Studying,” Number 81 says casually as I walk further into the room and start digging through the fridge for things to eat. “If I’m going to ace this thing, I need to use my secret weapon. Did you know Ivy is a closet nerd? She enjoys school. Takes notes every single class.”

I turn on my heel, bread and deli meat in hand, and eye Ivy as if to say, since when? She never liked school. Every time we’d get into trouble, it was because she was cutting class and I was dumb enough to follow her.

I notice the slight way she sinks into the wooden chair, as if she doesn’t want the attention. Mine or anyone else’s. Too bad. “I like the structure,” she corrects him, picking up her pen and jotting something down on the stapled packet off to the side. “And are you even filling this thing out? That’s the whole reason I’m here.”

DJ’s hand shoots to his chest, a palm flat over his heart. “And here I thought it was to see me.”

I snort as soon as I see the way she stares at him—deadpan yet deadly. He’s smart enough to back off, sighing, and reaches for his pen and much emptier paper.

“So,” I press, laying everything I need for a sandwich out on the counter. “You still planning on skipping the game?”

Clearly, our wide receiver didn’t know that based on the way he dramatically drops his pen and gapes at his study partner. “What? Why wouldn’t you come to the game?”

Ivy doesn’t even bother glancing up at him. “Because I don’t like football. Or any sports for that matter.” There’s a slight pause. “I’m partial to soccer, I guess. Plus, I like making money. Taking Friday night shifts means a bigger paycheck, not that I’d expect you to understand.”

My lips curve up slightly as I open the mayo. She used to play soccer in middle school. Goalie. She got pulled in eighth grade during one of the last games because the ball broke her collarbone, and she never joined again. Her parents couldn’t afford another hospital bill.

It’s not far off to assume DJ comes from money. His family has a big place in Boston, and he tends to wear nicer clothes. Brands I’ve never heard of until hanging around him. My family is middle-class, but it never stopped us from settling for something from a Target clearance rack back home.

“Are you a heathen?” my roommate asks.

Ivy doesn’t miss a beat. “Are you a hermaphrodite?”

I choke on my own saliva as I spread mayo on one