If You Hate Me (The Toronto Terror Series)

Toronto wins the exhibition game. I don’t love the gut-churning anxiety I feel knowing the team is out celebrating the win. But when they return the next day, Tristan fucks me into next week and asks for my cell number so we can sext during away games. Because he’s not going to screw anyone else while he’s screwing me.

Two days after they return from Winnipeg, I’m standing in front of the fridge post workout, frowning at the contents. Flip is meeting with his agent and Hemi. He brought two women back to his hotel room after the Winnipeg game, and they posted photos online. Unsurprisingly, it’s causing him trouble with his endorsement campaigns.

Tristan may or may not be in his bedroom.

“Where the heck is it?” I shift the contents around, searching for my post-workout treat. There’s a bakery on the way home from work that sells delicious mini cakes. I’ve been looking forward to the last slice all day.

Tristan’s bedroom door opens. He’s shirtless and wearing a pair of gray jogging pants. When the heat kicks on in the fall, it gets warm in here. Particularly in the loft. I take a moment to appreciate his rippling abs, cut chest, and popping biceps. But my appreciation fizzles the moment I spot the container in his hands. The one that used to contain my cake. It’s empty.

His eyes heat as they absorb my sports-bra-and-shorts combo. I’m sweaty. It’s not a deterrent for Tristan. More than once he’s yanked my shorts down and bent me over the kitchen counter when I’m back from the gym. He’s a big fan of licking my skin when it’s salty. The guy has some strange kinks, and most of the time, I’m down for it. But right now, I’m super pissed.

He tosses the empty container on the counter and moves into my personal space. He wraps my ponytail around his fist, but before he can lick a path up my neck, I cover his mouth with my palm. “Stop.”

He releases my hair immediately and steps back. “Is Flip home?”

“No.” I pick up the empty container. A swipe of icing is all that remains. “What does it say on the top of this box?”

He glances at the plastic container. My name is written in bold black letters. “Rix.”

“Why would you eat it when it’s clearly marked as mine?”

“Because I was hungry, and it’s been sitting in the fridge for four days.”

“But my name was on it.”

He frowns. “It’s just a piece of cake, Bea.”

“That’s not the fucking point, Tris! It had my name on it. I was saving it for after my workout.”

He looks perplexed. “So buy another one.”

I’m heading for overreaction territory, and I can’t rein it in. I fling my hand in the air. “I can’t just get another one. The only place that sells them is by my work, which means I’d have to take a half-hour subway ride to get there. And the bakery closes in”—I check the clock on the wall—“a little more than an hour.”

“The grocery store is a five-minute walk. Go there and get something else.”

“That’s not what I want!” I snap. I’m being exactly the kind of problem Tristan hates, but I’m already out of control. It’s not just the piece of cake, but what it represents—not having enough, not being considered. I’m frustrated that he so easily plays this down while I’m heading for irrational, especially since we’ve done this before.

He rolls his eyes. “Why are you being so drama about this, Beat? You’re harping on me about a fucking piece of cake. Are you getting your period or something?”

“One.” I hold up a finger. “Fuck you, Tristan.”

“Why are you so worked up about a piece of stale cake?”

I exhale through my nose, working to keep my temper in check. My anger isn’t helping my cause. “Two, was I bleeding all over your face when I sat on it yesterday?”

His nose wrinkles. “The fuck, Beat?”

“It’s a question. Do I need to repeat it?” I cross my arms.

“No. And no.” His confusion would almost be entertaining if he wasn’t such an offensive asshole.

“I realize you didn’t grow up in a house with menstruating women, so let me enlighten you. My being upset with you for taking something that didn’t belong to you without asking first has nothing to do with my fucking cycle. I’m a human being with emotions, and they are not tied to the goddamn blood moon.”

“But it’s just cake. And it was stale. Why are you so riled up about it?”

I remind myself that Tristan didn’t grow up in a house where treats were rare, though I thought he understood that I did. That when we put our names on things, no one else would finish it. Sure, we might have a bite, but we always left some for the owner.

My eyes are pricking. I need to get away from him before I cry. “Just forget it.” I brush by him, but his fingers circle my wrist. “Just let me go.” My voice cracks, and I turn my head away.

“No.” He tries to get in my face.

A stupid emotional tear leaks out. He’s right about it being stale. I know how irrational I look.

“Are you crying?” He sounds appalled.

“Please let me go,” I whisper.

Instead of releasing my wrist, he pulls me against his bare chest. One hand cups the back of my head; the other winds around my waist.

I’m shocked by the affection. Tristan isn’t a hugger. He does that nose-brush thing, and sometimes he’ll spoon me, but spontaneous hugs are not the norm with him.

I allow it, mostly because it’s so unusual.

Eventually he pulls back, brows furrowed as he cups my cheeks. “God, I hate making you cry.” His thumbs sweep under my eyes, wiping away the tears. “Can you explain why this upsets you so much?”

The only way to avoid this happening again is to be honest with him. I bite the inside of my lip. This is my thing. My hang-up.

“Bea, talk to me, please. I want to understand.”

“I stick to a super-tight budget. I never want to end up in the same position as my parents.”

“Okay, but Flip wouldn’t let that happen.”

“I won’t use my brother as a bank account.” I’m circling the issue. I sigh and drop my gaze to his chest. “I have food insecurities. I’m always worried there won’t be enough. I plan when I’m buying a treat, and I savor it, even if it’s a piece of stale cake, because I won’t waste it, and what if something happens and I can’t afford it again for a while?”

“We have a fridge full of food. Is what Flip and I are giving you for groceries not enough? We can give you more. I’ll give you more if you need it. That’s not something either of us expects you to pay for.”

There’s an envelope of cash in the drawer labeled groceries that Flip and Tristan top up regularly. I put the receipts in the envelope. When it’s down to a hundred bucks, I leave it on the counter, and someone always fills it.

“That’s for your food, though. I have a budget for my own, and I pay for it separately.” Stupid tears keep leaking out. There’s such shame attached to this for me. I hated the days when the fridge was almost bare and we were still days away from a paycheck.

His expression is tender as he puts all the pieces together. “What? Bea, baby, no. You cook all our meals, prep our food, do all the grocery shopping, and the place hasn’t been this clean since Flip moved in. You don’t need to pitch in more than you already are, and you don’t need to buy separate groceries.”

“I’m living in your space, and you didn’t even want me here to begin with. And Flip’s always helping me. I can’t take advantage of that, because he worries about money like I worry about food. I don’t want to be a freeloader.” I sigh, trying to get myself together. “Anyway, that cake was a splurge for me. And last week I went out for drinks with Hemi, and that can be expensive.” I wring my hands. Even talking about it freaks me out. It’s not entirely rational, but some mindsets are hard to rewire. “I know I’m really weird about food. I know that. But even when we were getting by okay, there wasn’t a lot extra for treats. It’s hard to let go of the fear that something might happen, and I’ll suddenly have nothing. I never want to resort to brown sugar sandwiches while I’m waiting for the next paycheck to clear.”

“Did that happen a lot when you were a kid?” he asks.

“Often enough. I know I keep freaking out on you, but this is one of my hang-ups.”

Tristan tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “If your name is on it, I won’t eat it. Unless it’s your pussy. I’ll eat that anytime.”

I roll my eyes but laugh. “I’m gonna jump in the shower.”

His eyes search my face. “Okay.”

I’m disappointed when he doesn’t join me, and I’m even more disappointed to find the condo empty after I come out. I have a new message from Essie asking about a video call, so I fire one back. A minute later, she calls me.

She makes a circle motion around her face. “What happened with the asshole now?”

I laugh. She knows we’ve been hate-fucking each other, but not the details. I fill her in on my freak-out, the hug, and the whole deal, including that he’s now disappeared.

“But he was good about it?”

“He listened. Or seemed to, anyway.”

“Maybe he had an emergency?”

“Maybe. But why didn’t he tell me he was leaving? I’m probably overthinking this. I’m definitely overthinking this. I know I’m weird about food.”

“You’re allowed to be. It was hard for you growing up.”

Essie knows what my situation was like. Her mom would pack extra snacks in her lunch for me. And Essie would trade me when I had sugar sandwiches. The next day, she always had an extra sandwich in her lunch. “It’s the second time I’ve cried in front of him. And both times have been about food. I feel like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot. It’s your childhood trauma, and you’re working through it. You’re used to struggling and working on a limited budget. It takes time and maybe a few years of making a stable income before you get comfortable and feel okay about loosening your purse strings. Look at Flip. He’s living with his best friend like he can’t afford a million-dollar house.”

She has a point. Flip still has the dresser from his childhood bedroom. It’s in terrible shape, and one drawer makes an awful screeching sound every time he opens it. “I feel like you tolerated a lot of nonsense when we lived together in university,” I tell her. “Maybe too much.”

“We all have quirks, and I love yours. It helps that we had years of friendship under our belt to work with when we moved in together. Besides, you spent four years dealing with my constant assumption that every guy I dated would be my forever.”

“You’re a hopeless romantic.”

“I’m a serial dater, and I want every guy to be the one,” she replies.

“Does that mean you’ve met someone?”

“Date number two is tomorrow night. I met him at a coffee shop, and we ordered the same thing. I’m trying not to turn him into my new husband right away. You’d be proud. I haven’t even merged our faces on that app that shows me what our children would look like.”

“You’re saving that until date six?” I ask.

“Maybe even number seven.”

I smile. “Have you kissed him yet?”

“Oh yeah. We sucked face for a good ten minutes at the end of our first date. My next goal is to hold off on sex until after date five, but my libido gets in the way.” Essie cringes. “I’m trying to stay mysterious, at least with what’s going on in my pants.”

“Seems reasonable. What are you doing on date two?”

“Having lunch and then grocery shopping.”

“A grocery-shopping date? That’s new.”

“But also smart. His food choices will tell me so much. Does he price match? Does he buy things on sale? Does he binge or impulse buy? Does he only buy brand names, or will he get the no-name kind to save a little since it’s the same product in a less flashy container?”

“That is smart. Who suggested it?”

“Me, of course. I really need groceries, and it seemed like an unconventional way to get to know him better.”

“So smart. I miss grocery shopping with you. And going through the flyers,” I admit. We did it every Thursday when the new ones arrived in the weekly paper.

“We were the price-matching queens. We should have had T-shirts made.” Essie smiles.

I return it, but talking about this makes me miss having her close. If she wasn’t halfway across the country, I’d probably be on my way to her house right now. “Our system was unparalleled.”

“What else is going on? You and Dickhead still hate-fucking each other?”

“Yeah. I think I might not hate him as much as I should.”

“He’s softening you up with the D, huh?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Sometimes he can be almost…sweet.” Like earlier when he wouldn’t let me walk away. Or when he’s not busy saying filthy things and turning me into a sex pretzel. “I need to find an apartment, but I can’t secure anything before October first.” And maybe that’s okay because moving out means the sex with Tristan ends.

“The offer stands. You can always move in with me. I have a king bed. We could make it work.”

“Unless this new guy turns into your boyfriend. Then it would just be awkward.”

“True. And despite my best efforts, I’ll probably have us married by date four. It’s sort of my thing.”

“It kind of is.”

“What if I come visit you? We’ll time it when the guys are away. We’ll go to a bar, get drunk, and dance on tables. Flirt with dirtbags. It’ll be like old times.”

“You mean like last year’s old times?” I ask.

“Exactly.”

“That would be awesome.” A visit from Essie is exactly what I need.

“I’ll look at their schedule and check flights. I’m between events, and I need a reason to get out of Vancouver for a few days, so I don’t fall for this guy too fast.”

“This is perfect. I need some bestie time.”

The condo door swings open, and Tristan appears, laden with grocery bags.

“My roommate just got home,” I whisper.

“The one you’re fucking?”

“Yeah.”

“Love you. Play safe. Bye!”

She hangs up before I can tell her I love her back.

“I’m coming up whether you’re decent or not, Bea!” Tristan pulls the ladder down, and his head appears a few seconds later, followed by the rest of his body. He sets several bags on the floor, then pulls himself the rest of the way up.

“What’s this?”

“Stuff.” He grabs the grocery bags and one brown paper bag with handles and sets it all on the coffee table. He crosses his arms. Then uncrosses them and runs a hand through his hair. “For you.”

“For me?” I echo.

“Yeah. I went to that bakery. I hope I got the right one. I think it is. I ate three different kinds of cake to make sure.” He pulls out a full-sized version of the mini cake he ate.

“That’s four times the size.” And a fifty-dollar cake.

“Seemed like a small price to pay if I can make up for being an asshole.” He pulls out three more boxes. “These are the slices I bought. I ate half of each of them. They can be yours too, if you want them.”

“You didn’t need to do this.” My heart is at risk of pooling at my feet.

“Yeah, I did. I made you cry. Twice. So I’m making up for it. Plus, I got you this other stuff.” He motions to the grocery bags, then shoves his hand in his jeans pocket.

I peek in the first bag. “How did you find Thrills gum?”

“There’s a vintage-candy section in a grocery store about twenty minutes from here. It’s on the way back from the bakery. I’ll take you sometime, and we can get whatever you want.”

I riffle through the contents. It’s literally all my favorite treats. “How did you know I like all this stuff?” I’m at risk of getting emotional again. Part of me wants to squirrel it all away and eat it one piece at a time.

“I remembered from when we were kids, I guess. It’s all the crap your parents got you for your birthday one year. Or am I not remembering that right?” He rubs the back of his neck. “One year you had a mountain of freaking candy.”

I stare at him. “You remember that?”

He lifts one shoulder. “It was a lot of candy.”

My bottom lip trembles. Yeah. My feels are extra big tonight.

Tristan frowns. “Are you going to cry again?”

I cover my eyes with my hands, press my lips together, and shake my head.

His fingers circle my wrists and, despite my best efforts to keep my hands in front of my eyes, he’s way stronger than I am. But he’s gentle as he moves them away.

“Hey, hey.” He kisses my cheek. “This was supposed to make you feel better, not make you cry again.”

“My parents didn’t buy all that candy. I did,” I whisper.

“Oh.” He’s still holding my wrists. “Flip and I almost made ourselves sick on it.”

“I know.” My feelings are on fire.

“I’m missing something important here.”

I sigh and drop down on the couch. My arms are still raised because Tristan is holding them. He lets them go and takes a seat beside me.

I pick up a package of Fuzzy Peaches. “I’d mentioned to Flip earlier in the week that I wanted to have a movie night on my birthday. Looking back on it, he probably wasn’t paying attention. I was an annoying barely-teenager, and you were seventeen and probably already getting blow jobs in the back seat of your car from the bunnies.”

“That’s about right. The part about the blow jobs, I mean.” He makes a face. “Which you probably didn’t need me to confirm. Anyway, you weren’t really annoying. I know I said that a lot, but mostly coming to your place was an escape from having to take care of my brothers. Hanging around with Flip was a reprieve, because at your house, all the responsibilities didn’t fall on my shoulders.”

I shake my head. “I drove Flip nuts. He hated it when I had to tag along.”

“But it wasn’t your fault you were a kid with parents who worked long hours, just like it wasn’t my brothers’ fault our mom bailed.”

“You had to take on a lot of responsibility, didn’t you?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t want them to think they weren’t important.”

I wonder if that’s how he felt when his mom left. Unimportant. Maybe even unloved. He had no mom to hug him, give him affection. His only female role model abandoned him. I open the package of Fuzzy Peaches and offer some to Tristan.

He shakes his head. “They’re for you.”

“I’m not going to eat all of this on my own.” I pop a pink one in my mouth.

“I can’t stand those; they make my mouth peel so they’re all yours.” He stretches his arm across the back of the couch, fingers sliding under my hair. “Tell me more about the candy birthday.”

“I asked my parents for money for my birthday that year, instead of a gift. I bought candy and all the ingredients to make cupcakes and buttercream icing.” With real butter. Not lard or margarine, which were cheaper. “I was so excited. Essie was coming over, and Flip said he’d watch a movie with me. I said you could come, too.”

The smile slides off his face. “We didn’t stay for the movie.”

“It was stupid anyway. No seventeen-year-old wants to hang out and watch action movies with his younger sister.” I’d gone to change. Essie was coming over after her dance lessons to sleep over.

“Fuck, Bea. I was such a dick to you that night.” He rubs his bottom lip.

I can’t believe he remembers this at all. “I was being a pest.”

He shakes his head. “You were being a normal girl who wanted to celebrate her birthday.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Fuck. Fuck.” His expression makes my heart clench. “I thought your parents had done all this stuff for your birthday, decorated and made it all fun and special, and I was so pissed off that my mom couldn’t even be bothered to send me a fucking card, let alone remember to call. I was so mean to you. I’m sorry.”

When I’d come back out in my pajamas—my cute ones, for obvious reasons—Flip and Tristan had polished off half the candy and were on their way out the door. I’d asked if they were staying to watch a movie, and Flip had looked at me like I had two heads. Tristan said they were going out, and no one wanted their little sister tagging along. It felt like my heart had been stomped on.

“I was a kid with a dumb crush.”

“Wait. What?” His jaw drops. “You had a crush on me? When you were a teenager?”

“No. I don’t know why I said that.” My face is on fire. I can’t look at him. That was a stupid thing to admit.

His hands wrap around my waist, and he moves me to straddle his legs. He takes my face in his palms. “Look at me, Bea.”

I side-eye him.

“I was really fucking mean when you started high school.”

“I was annoying.”

“You weren’t. You were sweet, and kind, and thoughtful. You’re still all of those things and more. But I was a fucking nightmare of a human being. I was angry, and hockey gave me a place to channel that energy. I spent a lot of time in the penalty box. If I’d known you had a crush on me back then…” His jaw clenches. This is the most open Tristan has been with me, and I see that angry boy inside him. His wounds are still raw.

He wraps his hand around my throat, thumb stroking along the edge of my jaw and down the side of my neck. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you, and the way I sometimes treat you now. I just…” He looks to the side. “You deserve so much better.” His gaze shifts back to mine. “I used to hurt you, sometimes on purpose. Maybe I wanted what you had. And now I just want…you.” His other hand sneaks under my shirt, skimming my ribs. “You were so fucking sweet, and now I’ve corrupted you.”

“You don’t get to claim the corruption card. Thanks to you, I’ve discovered that vanilla soft serve isn’t my jam. I don’t feel bad about the things we’ve done. You shouldn’t either.”

“I should, though. You’re my best friend’s little sister.” He tips my chin down and covers my mouth with his. This kiss isn’t possessive. It’s soft and sweet. Something shifts between us, elating and terrifying.

Before we can take it any further, my brother walks through the door. I’m out of Tristan’s lap and across the couch between one heartbeat and the next. What if we’d been in the kitchen instead of up here?

“Hey, party people! Who wants to hit the bar?” Flip calls.

“We’re up here watching a movie,” Tristan calls back, quickly cuing up one of my favorite old-school action movies.

My heart is in my throat and my stomach flip-flops.

A minute later, Flip’s head and shoulders appear. “Come on, man. Let’s go out.”

“We have early practice tomorrow. Maybe take a night off. Plus, we have snacks.” Tristan motions to the ridiculous mountain of sugary treats.

Flip surveys the coffee table. “I could skip the bar tonight, I guess.”

He joins us on the couch, eats an obscene amount of sugar, and crashes within half an hour. Tristan puts his arm around my shoulders and presses his lips against my temple. “I’m going to fast forward to the end, and Flip can put himself to bed,” he whispers.

“Okay. I’ll use the bathroom while you deal with him.”

I’m in the kitchen filling my travel mug with water when my bleary-eyed brother disappears into his bedroom with a mumbled good night. Tristan puts the full-sized cake in the fridge and sets the three half-eaten ones on the counter. He grabs a fork and takes a seat at the island, patting the stool beside him.

I climb up and prop my cheek on my fist. He slides the fork through the cake and touches the tines to my bottom lip. I part my lips and take the bite. It’s lemon cake with a berry buttercream in the center. Tart and sweet and delicious.

“I like this.” He eats a forkful of cake.

“They make the best cakes in the world.”

He flips open the second container and forks a chunk of carrot cake. “Not the cake. I mean, you’re right, it’s awesome. But I like this.” He motions between us with the fork before offering the bite to me.

“You like feeding me cake?”

“Yeah. I like the way you savor things. How you don’t rush to get to the end too fast.” He takes another bite. “Which one?”

I tap the first box, and he cuts me another bite. I finish chewing before I say, “I like this, too.”

He sets the fork down and tucks a finger under my chin. “I really hate it when I make you cry. I’ll try not to do it again.” He presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Come to bed with me?”

I nod.

Tristan closes the lids on the mostly eaten cake slices and laces our fingers, tugging me toward his room. If Flip came out right now it would blow this whole thing apart. My heart is racing, and my palms are damp as Tristan pulls me into his room and locks the door. He takes my face in his hands and kisses me.

Just like in the loft, it’s soft and sweet. And it continues as we undress, his fingers skimming my curves, touching all the places that make me sigh and bite my lip to contain my moans. He kisses a path down my stomach and makes me come with his mouth and fingers, then rolls a condom on and fits himself between my thighs.

“Aren’t you going to turn me into a pretzel?” I ask as the head nudges my entrance.

“Not tonight.” He pushes in on one smooth stroke, and his eyes flutter shut for a second. When they open, he caresses my cheek.

“Why are you being so nice?”

“I’m making up for all the times I’ve been needlessly mean. Don’t worry, I’ll go back to being my asshole self after the orgasms.” He smiles, but there’s an emotion lurking behind it that I can’t pin down.

He drops his head and kisses me, rolling his hips. The sex is slow, intimate. The orgasm builds, and I fight back a moan as it threatens to pull me under.

“Look at me,” he demands as his hand circles my throat. “I want your eyes on mine when you come on my cock.”

I force them open and struggle to keep the low keening sound from bubbling up.

“So fucking good, Bea. It gets better every time,” he whispers.

He crushes his mouth to mine and swallows my desperate sounds.

Everything is changing.

Reframing.

Shifting.

And I worry how my heart will manage when this ends.

Because it has to.

Just not tonight.