If You Hate Me: Chapter 17

There’s a shift with Tristan after our date night. He’s the first person to text me in the morning and the last person to text me at night. And he’s more affectionate. Or as affectionate as he’ll allow himself to be. He’ll come up behind me and wrap an arm around my waist. His other hand ends up around my throat. He’ll nuzzle into my hair and press his lips to my skin. At first, I expected him to whisper something dirty in my ear, but he just stands there, breathing me in for a minute. Then he kisses my cheek and walks away.

As the first game of the season approaches, I hold off on looking for an apartment, like Tristan asked. Eventually this has to end, but I’m in no rush to get there. And it seems he isn’t either. We’re definitely not hate-fucking anymore. But qualifying it as anything else seems like a bad idea.

It’s a Saturday afternoon, and Tristan is working out with Dallas and Roman. I’m prepping meals. I want them eating the right food for peak performance.

Flip walks into the condo looking like he needs a nap and a shower. “Hey, sis.” He gives me a side hug, and points to a freshly made yogurt parfait. “Can I eat this?”

“Of course.” I pass him a spoon and the box of granola.

“Thanks.” He takes a seat across from me, and dumps granola on top. “I haven’t seen much of you lately,” he says before he digs in.

“That’s because you’ve been keeping the bunnies happy.” I squeeze lemon juice on the apple chunks and add those to another parfait. The apple cinnamon ones are Tristan’s favorite, whereas Flip prefers melon.

“Fair. You got plans this afternoon? You want to hang out?” he asks.

I stop cutting fruit. “You and me?”

“Yeah. We haven’t done much of that since you moved in. Hell, we haven’t done much of that since we were kids.” He frowns, like this bothers him.

“To be fair, when we were kids, you were forced to bring me along until I could stay home on my own,” I point out.

“You got dragged to a lot of street-hockey games and arcades,” he muses.

“The street-hockey games I didn’t mind. The arcades were boring as hell.”

“Wanna play a round of mini putt and eat some East Side’s?”

“I could be convinced. I just need to finish up here.”

“You want help?”

“I’m good, but thanks.”

“Cool. I’ll hop in the shower. Then we can roll out.”

I put away the prepared food while Flip showers, and when we’re both ready, we take the elevator to the parking garage. I bring a cooler bag with an ice pack for my leftovers. I’m always prepared.

“The job is still a good fit? You liking it okay?” Flip asks once we’re on the road.

“Yeah. It’s so much better than my old job, and more interesting. Thanks for letting me tweak your financial portfolio. It helped during the interview.”

“My investments are up more than fifteen grand since you did that.”

“That’s great!” I can’t imagine making fifteen grand in a span of weeks from investments, but it’s all relative.

“I had no idea how much I was spending on takeout and bars. Well, I could’ve guessed about bars, but the takeout was a lot. I’m gonna miss all the good food when you get your own place. And having someone do all the shopping and food prep…” He runs a hand through his hair and frowns. “How are you getting all that shit done and working full time?”

I shrug. “It’s no big deal. I like grocery shopping and making meals. It’s my happy place, and I’m not paying rent, so this is one way I can contribute.”

“We’re giving you enough for the groceries? I don’t want you spending your money on food when you’re doing all the prep and shopping. I know you’re used to taking care of that stuff on your own, but I can help,” he says.

“Between you and Tristan, there’s always more than enough.” I don’t say anything about my own food budget.

“I noticed the OJ from concentrate, Rix, and the fakle syrup. You don’t need to buy separate stuff.” That’s what we always called fake maple syrup.

“I like it better.”

“No you don’t.” He stops at a light. “You can and should be using what’s already there. I get where you’re coming from. Logically, unless I develop a serious drug problem, I have enough money to last a couple of lifetimes. Sometimes I worry, but I don’t need to. So let me and Tristan take care of the groceries while you’re staying with us.”

“I never want to go back to the way we were,” I admit.

“Me neither. It’s why I have all the investments and endorsement campaigns. You’re making okay money now, though? They’re paying you well?” he asks.

“Yeah. Eighty thousand a year to start, with end-of-quarter bonus opportunities. I should be able to afford a nice studio.” I just have to get over paying two thousand a month for four hundred square feet of space.

“How’s the hunt for an apartment going?” he asks.

“Okay. I’m probably looking at a November first move date, though.” Because Tristan has asked me not to get a place before then.

“Don’t worry about it. The season’s starting. I want you in a nice place, and I want to help you with that,” Flip says.

“You helped with university. I can cover my own rent.” He already helps our parents. I can make my own way.

“I know you can, but I can make it easier on you, Rix. So let me, okay?”

“We’ll see.” I hate taking money from Flip, but he has a point. A little help would open options for a better apartment. “I’m sure you guys would like your game room back.”

“Eh, it’s been nice having you around—and not just because you’re a master at meal prep. We haven’t lived in the same house since I was called up. It’s been cool seeing you rocking it at life.” He taps the steering wheel. “You and Tris seem to be getting along okay. Or at least being civil?”

“Oh yeah. Mostly, we stay out of each other’s way.” When he’s not busy turning me into a human pretzel, anyway.

Or taking me on the most thoughtful date I’ve ever had.

“He’s not a bad guy.” Flip sounds defensive.

“I didn’t say he was.” I honestly think he’s a great guy. He’s thoughtful, and the way he is with his brothers makes my heart melty. He’s a caretaker. Maybe not on purpose, but I see it.

“His mom leaving really fucked him up.” Flip stops for a red light. “Like, more than I think he’s willing to admit.”

“I vaguely remember when that happened, but I was only eight, I think?” I try not to sound too eager for information. Tristan is pretty closed off when it comes to talking about any emotion apart from lust. And sometimes anger or jealousy.

“Her leaving was probably the best thing that happened to that family. She was…not a good mom.” He taps on the steering wheel. “Not like ours. I know we struggled a lot, but we were loved. Are loved.”

“Yeah, we really are.” I message my mom daily, and we talk on the phone twice a week. Though I haven’t said anything about Tristan for obvious reasons. My parents couldn’t give us financial stability, but they gave us love, and a lot of it.

As if she knows we’re talking about her, Mom messages. I set the phone in Flip’s holder and take the opportunity to call her.

“Well isn’t this lovely! My two babies spending time together.” Mom says. “Are you in the car? What are you two up to?”

“Heading to East Side’s for lunch.”

“You’re still doing that once a month?” Mom asks.

“We try.”

We chat for a few minutes, Mom asking Flip about the upcoming season and me about my job. My dad has taken a cash job over Thanksgiving weekend, so we’ll have to figure out another time to see them. They only have two days off, anyway, so the drive would have been hard to manage.

After we end the call, I ask, “What was Tristan’s mom like?” I only met her a few times. His dad would come by and have beers with my dad sometimes, but his mom never came.

“She had a short fuse, and she was hard on everyone. She was always yelling. Always. I don’t remember ever being at Tris’s house when there wasn’t a fight. Not until after she left. She went off about anything and everything. Once she even screamed at me. I think I left an empty pop can on the coffee table or something. I remember being confused by how upset she was over something that wouldn’t have been a big deal in our house,” he says.

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” I muse.

“Yeah. It was messy. And Tristan took the brunt of it because he was the oldest. He hates yelling. Like, hates it. Last year he was seeing this woman for a while, not long, maybe a couple of months, and she threw this absolute fit about something. A picture someone took, maybe? It was out of context, as stuff often is. But she lit right into him. I’ve never seen anybody shut down the way he does.” He runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head at the memory. “She was screaming her head off, and he went into his room, got all her shit, tossed it into the hallway, and told her to get the fuck out. And that was it. He blocked her contact and never spoke to her again.”

“Yeesh. Sounds like she needed some anger management.”

“Yeah, she was on fire for sure. But he doesn’t deal with conflict well.”

“Maybe he has his reasons.” And it explains so much—like his reaction to me getting upset over the ice cream and cake. Tristan and I push each other’s buttons, often on purpose, but he never yells. He gets agitated, and cruel, but he doesn’t raise his voice.

“Yeah. And his brother’s eighteenth birthday is coming up. He’s stressing because he doesn’t think their mom will call Brody,” Flip confides.

“Why wouldn’t his mom call on his birthday? Is she off the grid or something?” Tristan never talks about her. Ever.

“She only ever sends Tris a Christmas card. He hasn’t heard from her in years. I guess she was better with his younger brothers, but the past couple of years she’s missed Brody’s birthday, and she stopped sending cards and calling Nathan a few years back.”

“Geez. That’s awful.” I knew Tristan’s relationship with his mom wasn’t good, but I didn’t know it was this terrible. If my mom didn’t remember my birthday, I’d be heartbroken. No wonder he has so many walls.

“Yeah. She’s a real gem. Tristan tends to go all out for his brothers on their birthdays. He’s getting Brody a car.” Flip pulls into East Side’s parking lot.

“A car? A real one? Like vroom-vroom?” I pat the dashboard.

“Yup. He consulted with his dad and made sure it wasn’t something that would get Brody a million speeding tickets or anything. But he did it for Nate, so he’s doing it for Brody, too.”

“That’s sweet, even if it is a bit extra,” I say.

Flip and I exit the car and head for the restaurant. The smell of fresh bread and garlic butter instantly makes my mouth water.

“His mom is a waste of air. He’s trying to make up for it,” he says.

“I can see that. He’s doing his best to be a good brother.” He’s at one of Brody’s hockey games right now. This conversation sheds so much light on so many things. Those backwards hugs mean even more now. That’s Tristan letting his guard down.

Adelaide is our server again today. We plow through several bowls of salad and loaves of bread. Flip eats his entire meal, and I do what I always do, eat a few bites and save the rest for later. We still get dessert, though.

Afterwards, we head to the indoor glow-in-the-dark mini putt.

By the third hole, I’m kicking his butt. “For a professional hockey player, you sure suck at mini putt.”

Flip keeps overshooting. By a lot. He’s almost hit three people, and he can’t get the ball in the hole in fewer than seven tries. Even the five-year-olds are better than he is.

“Shh… You’re killing my concentration with all your smack talk.” He takes a few practice swings.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. Tristan wants to know where I am and whether I feel like bouncing on his cock. Obviously, I’d love to, but seeing as I’m with my brother, who is still unaware that we’re fucking on the regular, sex will have to wait.

I snap a quick pic of my golf club and neon yellow ball and send that along.

He ignores the dig.

“Hey, Rix, you’re up.” Flip snaps his fingers.

“Right. Sorry.”

“Who are you texting?”

“Just the girls. We’re getting together sometime next week for dinner at Hemi’s.” This is not untrue, and they did text a couple of hours ago, but I told them I was with Flip and I’d catch up with them later.

“You’re spending a lot of time with those girls lately, eh?” Flip stands off to the side while I take my first putt and get it within a foot of the hole.

“Yeah. They’re great. And it was super nice of Hemi to help me get that interview.” I approach the ball and try to decide what angle to hit it from.

“I would’ve put in a word for you.” He almost sounds hurt.

“I know, but this feels less like direct nepotism. I’ve gotten more than enough legs up from you.” I miss the hole the first time, but now I’m only six inches away.

“But Mom and Dad funneled most of their savings into my hockey, so me helping you out is balancing the scales,” he argues.

“They saw your talent and were smart about making sure it was realized.” This time I get the ball in the hole. This is the hard part of growing up in a family where money was tight. Now that Flip is making a lot, he feels like he owes everyone something. We all knew he was going to be a shining star. Investing in his future was a sure thing.

“You have lots of talents, too. Like outside of financial planning, which you’re amazing at, you know exactly how to feed us for games. That’s a huge skill. Players pay a lot to have someone do what you’re doing for me and Tris. I had no idea you were good at that stuff. Well, that’s not entirely true. You could always cook. It’s like you were born to dominate the kitchen.” He makes a face. “Sorry, that probably sounds sexist.”

“It would be sexist if you said I was born to be a kept housewife. And I love that I get to do that for you.” I pick up my ball, and we move to the next hole.

“My energy levels have been way up, and I know you’re the reason.” He sets up his ball for the putt.

“They’d be even better if you spent more nights actually sleeping,” I mutter.

“I’ll slow down during the season.” His phone pings, and he checks the message. “Uh, you okay if Tristan joins us?”

“Sure. That’s fine.” I roll the ball around between my fingers.

“It’s okay if you’d rather he didn’t,” Flip says.

“Do you not want him to come?”

“Sometimes you two get under each other’s skin.”

He doesn’t know the half of it. How upset would he be? How betrayed would he feel? I don’t want to risk telling him to find out. “It’s seriously fine.”

“If you’re sure…” He sounds unsure.

“Really. I promise not to bludgeon him to death with a putter.” I give Flip two thumbs-up.

“That’s not super reassuring.”

I roll my eyes. “Just tell him to come. We can be civil.”

“Okay.” He still looks skeptical as he fires off another message. “Looks like he’ll be here in ten minutes. Should we step aside and wait for him?”

“We could go back to the beginning and start over? Or he could skip the first few holes?”

“Tristan won’t want to skip holes.”

I cover a snicker by coughing into my arm. “So we wait here or we go back to the beginning. Up to you.” We step aside for a birthday party of seven-year-olds and supervising parents who are trying to keep the boys from using their putters as swords. Someone ends up getting hit in the shin and starts crying. That makes our decision to go back to the beginning easy.

Tristan arrives a minute later.

“It smells like the inside of a sneaker in here,” he complains.

“That should not be a surprise.” I inspect my nails so I don’t eye-fuck him. He’s wearing a pair of dark wash distressed jeans and a black T-shirt with his brother’s hockey team logo. He’s also wearing black running shoes and a black belt. He looks delicious and entirely too fuckable for his own good. “If I remember correctly, your running shoes used to smell like something died in them.”

“If you two could not bicker for the next hour, that would be awesome,” Flip grouses.

“She’s not wrong. My running shoes had a funk when I was a teenager. I learned later it was because my asshole cat took a dump in them.”

“Oh, shit! I remember that!” Flip laughs.

A mom gives him the stink-eye.

“Sorry. My bad.” He motions for them to pass. “You go ahead of us.”

We step off to the side so the mom and her two kids can putt putt their way to happiness. “How did you figure that out?” I ask.

“We watched the cat go into the closet and cop a squat over his shoe.” Flip chuckles.

“I guess my brother accidentally locked the cat in the closet once, and he did his business in my shoe while he was in there. My brother dumped out the mess, but the damage was done. And he kept doing it every time the closet was left open.”

“Why didn’t your brother just fess up in the first place?” I ask.

“They were Tristan’s lucky shoes. He wore them to every game,” Flip replies.

“Ah.” I nod knowingly. “Superstition shoes.”

Tristan rubs his bottom lip. “I tried everything to get the smell out, but eventually I had to get a new pair. I swear it was the reason we lost our chance in the playoffs that year. And to the second worst team in the freaking league.”

“Or it was because our team captain broke his ankle on the ski hill the week before and our number one goalie got mono and couldn’t stay awake for more than fifteen minutes at a time,” Flip counters. “But yeah, it totally could’ve been because your cat took dumps in your shoes and you had to replace them.”

I tip my head. “I didn’t know you were superstitious.”

“Just about certain things.” He swings his club. “Who’s ready to get their as—paragus handed to them?” He amends his swear on account of the family behind us.

The tween girl giggles.

We start again. With Tristan added to the mix, Flip’s competitive side comes out. He still keeps overshooting. And I keep hitting the balls within inches of the hole.

Tristan steps up and gives Flip a chin tip. “Watch and learn, Madden.” He takes a golfer’s stance, and I try not to ogle his butt. “You’re not trying to slam the balls into submission. Caress the balls. Be firm but gentle.” He smirks as he taps the ball. It rolls along the turf and circles the hole, dropping in on one shot. “That’s how it’s done.”

It’s my turn, so I step up and take aim. I fully expect I’ll need a second shot, but to my surprise, I sink it in one.

“For fuck’s sake,” Flip mutters.

“Nice shot. Looks like you know how to handle your balls.” Tristan turns to Flip. “You’re up. Any words of wisdom, Bea?”

“Firm and gentle. Tap, don’t slap.”

He overshoots again, and we heckle him.

Every time Flip is up, Tristan stands beside me, and we talk shit. He also keeps touching me. A soft brush of fingers down the back of my arm, skimming my hand, sliding under my hair to squeeze my neck. They’re all innocent touches, and it’s dark so the balls, sticks, and courses can glow, but they ramp me up all the same, because Flip is right here. Of all the naughty things we’ve done, this feels particularly scandalous. I don’t want to ruin what we have by slipping up and making a mistake, but it’s hard to keep my hands to myself.

By the time we reach the end of the course, Flip is seriously annoyed because he’s had his ass handed to him by both of us. Tristan suggests we drop the cars off at the condo and walk over to the pub. Philly is playing against New York in an exhibition game. Kodiak Bowman, one of the most sought-after rookies in the league, started his career with Philly but got traded to New York along with another member of his team. His dad played professional hockey for years, and Kodiak is on track to blow all his records out of the water. It doesn’t hurt that he’s nice to look at, either.

We grab a table with a great view of the game and order drinks and appetizers. I’m tucked into the corner with Flip beside me and Tristan across from me. These booths are bigger than the ones at East Side’s, but despite that, Tristan manspreads into my leg room. When he feels my foot against his shin, he lifts it and tucks it beside his leg.

“New York is playing tight.” The score is already two-zip and Bowman has a goal and an assist.

Flip glances at the screen as Connor Grace, another recent trade, takes a shot on net. “I can’t stand that guy,” he mutters, then turns his attention back to Tristan. “How was Brody’s tournament, anyway?”

“Good. They won the first two games, lost the third, but pulled it together in the fourth and won the final. Brody really needed the wins. He played well and scored a bunch of goals, which is good because he’s had a few off games recently, and he’s a lot like me and gets up in his head.” Tristan kneads my calf under the table as the server drops off our drinks.

“I’m glad they won. That’s good for him. Any scouts at the game?” Flip asks.

Tristan nods. “A couple recognized me. There was one from Ottawa and one from Montreal. The ones from the States usually come up later in the year. But they’re looking at him, so that’s good news.”

“Is he excited about his birthday?” Flip takes another swig of his beer.

“Yeah. And it falls between games this year, so I’ll be able to celebrate with him. Are you two visiting the ’rents for Thanksgiving?” Tristan motions between us.

I shake my head. “My dad took a job on Sand Lake. He’s working the whole weekend for cash, so we said we’d find another weekend to do the turkey thing.”

“Do you want to come to my dad’s? Nate is coming back from uni for the weekend. Brody has games on Saturday, but he’s off Sunday and Monday, so we’re deep-frying a turkey in the backyard. There’s always way too much food and leftovers for days.” Tristan’s gaze shifts to me. “You’re both welcome to join us.” He squeezes my leg, then runs his hand through his hair.

“I’m down for deep-fried turkey,” Flip says and looks to me.

“Sure, that’d be great. I can bring pumpkin pie, or whatever kind of pie you want. Tell your dad I’m happy to help with whatever.”

“Pecan pie. I want pecan pie. And your candied sweet potatoes,” Flip says.

“I can do both. All three even.”

“Cool.” Tristan’s smile is genuine. “I’ll let my dad know you’re in.”