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

Collapsing on his body for I’m not sure how long, I finally manage to whisper, “You waited.”

Instead of confirming it, he pulls out, peels off the condom, puts on a new one, and makes sure neither of us says another word the rest of the night, with me taking lead every single time our bodies come together.

Chapter Sixteen

Aiden

Mom used to say that telling the truth and making someone upset is always better than telling a lie to make them smile. I’m not sure where she got the quote from, but it taunts me as I replay my night with Ivy.

I didn’t mean to lie to her.

You waited.

I didn’t wait the way she thinks. There was no romantic gesture making me stop from taking things further with the few girls I screwed around with before she showed up.

There was only football.

The sport dictated my life for years, especially after she’d left. It served as a distraction that turned into an obsession. I worked my ass off to get accepted to Wilson Reed University and play for the Raiders. As one of the best division one schools, I knew my career would be guaranteed if I showed the team and spectators what I could do. My grades were some of the best at the school, my reputation solid, and my stats strong.

Dad’s constant reminder not to distract myself with women, booze, and partying had stuck in my head long enough to prove what I was worth to them, but after a while some of my teammates wore me down.

Like Jacob Mahone.

Mahone was one of the best starting tight ends for the Wilson Reed Raiders and damn good at what he did. I was always mesmerized every time I watched him play the field, running faster than a guy his size and stature should, and barely being taken down even when he had someone twice his weight on him. He was a powerhouse and having him take me under his wing made me feel confident that I could get better from his guidance.

The problem with the Raiders is that once they have a team they trust they don’t like outsiders coming in and messing up their dynamic. Especially not ones who come in as freshmen and soak up the spotlight from everyone who matters.

I usually ignored the attention from the coach and cameras, nodding along to whatever I was told to do, and left it at that—go to practice, go to games, kick ass with my team and not once focus on what the news would say about me. If I let the sportscasters’ remarks go to my head then, I would have gotten cocky and forgotten that the only way to rise to the top is with hard work. Not luck.

I didn’t start the first few games, but the second Coach Thompson put me in to test me, there was no taking me out again.

I had no reason to believe that anyone on the Raiders had bad intentions when they insisted on taking me out to blow off steam.

“See what wearing our jersey can get you, Griffith,” they’d always tell me. We’d bar hop on occasion, hit up house parties where people idolized us, and soaked up the attention from guys and girls alike. I only drank if Mahone and the others did, and usually never before game days.

“One drink won’t kill you,” Mahone had constantly pushed until saying no felt like an act of betrayal against the team. Except one drink turned into two, then three because they’d keep passing them over. One weekend of drinking turned into another. House party after house party with the guys became a common occurrence. Girls would hold onto both arms and leave lipstick on my clothes and skin and the guys would all take pictures as a reminder of what the good life was like as a Wilson Reed athlete.

But I’d be the only hungover player to show up for practice despite being outdrank by everyone else. I’d get drilled hard by Coach Thompson until I’d hurl on the sidelines and get hounded by the guys who recorded it because they thought it was hilarious. My grades started slipping because every time I’d try staying in to study, someone would show up at my door and drag me out again.

The life I was molding for myself slowly started falling apart right in front of my eyes as pictures of me from parties started surfacing on social media and getting me the opposite kind of attention that the college wanted.

Coach Thompson had warned me with the kind of stern, fatherly look my own dad gave me when he made a point. “Be better, son. We can’t have anyone on the team slacking. Doesn’t matter how good you are. I don’t give anyone special treatment here.”

I’d promised to focus.

But Mahone got his way in the long run.

The day I was kicked off the Raiders for failing a handful of classes and showing up on the field fucked up one too many times, the guy I’d trusted to help me slapped me on the shoulder with a seedy smirk and said, “Better luck at your next school, Griffith. Good luck ever starting again after this year.”

Mahone’s friends laughed and watched me walk from the turf, not one of them giving a shit that they’d ruined my chances. Their amusement still echoes in my head every time I think about the parties they’d bring me to and the women they’d force on my lap like I was supposed to follow suit with everyone else.

Don’t be a pussy, Griffith.

Trust us on this one.

We got your back.

I should have known better than to believe someone with as much to lose as Mahone did would offer me any help. I don’t like thinking the worst in people because it gets you nowhere in life. But thinking the best of them usually leads to nothing but mistrust and disappointment.

When my parents found out