If You Hate Me (The Toronto Terror Series)

The first thing I notice the following morning is that the bathroom is clean. Totally spotless. No toothpaste dots on the mirror on Flip’s side. No towels on the floor. But then I see all the bottles and jars on the counter that weren’t there yesterday. And the pink fucking toothbrush. The third is the smell. It’s sweet, like vanilla and citrus—lemon maybe. It pisses me off, because it smells good, and it reminds me of Beat.

Fucking Beatrix.

Everything about having her here irritates me.

Living with Flip has been a reprieve from my normal life. I don’t answer to anyone. I don’t have to take care of anyone other than myself. Growing up in a house without a mom, a dad who had to work long hours to support us, and two younger brothers means I’ve always shouldered a lot of responsibility. I made sure they got to and from school when my dad had early or late meetings, which was often. I attended practices, drove them to lessons, helped with their homework. And playing for Toronto has kept me close enough to home to take some of the pressure off my dad when I’m not on the road.

But with Flip, I’ve been able to indulge, let go of some of the responsibilities, and lose myself in feeling good instead of always worrying. Now Beat has moved in. I don’t need someone else to take care of. I don’t want to be responsible for her, to worry about her, to hold her fucking hand and get her out of bad situations. And when we were younger, Beat always needed taking care of. I mean, she was a kid. But it seems like maybe that hasn’t changed, even though she’s definitely not a little girl anymore.

I can’t tell Flip she’s not welcome, though. He’ll feel compelled to set her up in her own apartment, and then it’ll be even more drama since those two are super paranoid about money. At least Flip is, and based on where Beat was living, she’s the same. Doesn’t matter that Flip’s been playing for the league for the past five years, or that he makes five million a season. He’s always worried it will disappear. Like one day he’ll wake up and instead of being a multimillionaire, he’ll be broke as fuck. That’s how he grew up.

Whatever. It’s temporary. And we start season training next week. I can deal with Beat in my space for a week or two.

I flip up the toilet seat and awkwardly angle my half-hard cock toward the bowl, but as my thumb grazes the sensitive spot under the crown, I harden further. There’s no way I can pee like this. I turn on the shower instead. Might as well take care of all my needs at once.

The water warms quickly, and I step under the hot spray. I grab the closest bottle and squirt some body wash or shampoo into my palm and fist my erection. But instead of sandalwood and sage, I’m hit with vanilla and citrus. I stroke aggressively, frustrated that I can’t escape Beat even when I’m in the goddamn shower. My nostrils flare, and I splay a hand against the tile wall as I find a steady rhythm.

I slam my eyes shut and try to conjure up an image of some generic previous one-night stand. But all I can smell is Beat, so of course her face pops into my head. Along with it comes the memory of yesterday’s car ride and the feel of her tongue running along the edge of my jaw, her satiny chestnut hair between my fingers, and the salty-sweet taste of her skin when I bit her ear. Like a fucking savage. My imagination takes over. Instead of her trying to rip out my nipple hair while I’m threatening to bite off her earlobe like an unhinged MMA fighter, she’s on her knees in front of me. I’m gripping her hair as her tongue drags across that plush, pouty bottom lip.

My lids fly open before I can take that disturbing fantasy any further, but it’s too late. My erection kicks in my fist, and I explode all over the tile wall. I didn’t even get my cock into her imaginary fucking mouth.

I wash away the aggravation with my own goddamn body wash.

When I leave the bathroom, Beat is in the kitchen. She’s not the gangly fourteen-year-old I remember. She’s definitely all woman now.

“Disappointed because I locked the door this time?”

“What’d that take you? All of five minutes?” she fires back. “If anyone’s disappointed, it’s your previous one-night stands. But I guess that explains why you never have a girlfriend.”

“Girlfriends are a pain in the ass.” Caring about someone only leads to disappointment. I learned that the hard way and never fucking forgot.

“Especially when you can’t keep them satisfied.”

I flip her the bird and disappear into my bedroom, closing the door harder than I mean to and jolting at the noise like an idiot. I can’t stand fighting, and yet that’s all Beat and I seem to do. I jab my legs into a pair of boxer briefs but don’t bother dressing the rest of the way. Flip doesn’t like to run the air conditioning the same way I do, which means if I put a shirt on post shower, I’ll start sweating, and then I’ll have to change again before we leave for this morning’s team meeting. Which I’m stressed about.

I throw open my bedroom door. Beat is still standing at the island, chopping fruit. She’s not wearing a bra. I know this because there’s no strap on her bare shoulder. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, showing off the graceful slope of her neck and curve of her ear. Which I bit yesterday. My gaze drops lower, to where her nipple peaks against the pale pink fabric. I can’t decide if it’s an optical illusion, but I swear I can see its outline through her shirt.

I stomp across the room, angry that she’s in my space, using my kitchen, and yank open the fridge. I blink a few times as I process the contents. Someone went grocery shopping. No, not someone. Beat. When Flip shops, he buys ramen, Kraft Dinner, and whatever sugary cereal is on sale. The crisper is full of fresh fruits and vegetables. There are two cartons of orange juice—the generic kind from concentrate, not the organic, fresh-pressed stuff I usually get, but still. I grab the extra pulpy one and pour myself an enormous glass. I down it and pour a second.

Beat is still chopping fruit. There’s a huge fruit tray already prepared, with one empty spot left. I’m always in charge of breakfast. And most meals in general. It’s been years since someone has done this for me.

I don’t want to get fucking nostalgic. Or think about how much I hated going home where I had two younger brothers to help raise because my mom sucked as a human being. Flip and Beat had everything I didn’t.

“I satisfy my partners every single fucking time,” I blurt.

Beat continues slicing pineapple into chunks as if I don’t exist.

I move into her personal space until I’m close enough to smell her shampoo, which I used to beat off. The irony is not lost on me. “Every. Time.”

She stops cutting and spins around, all curves and full lips and huge brown eyes. Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. It was on my skin yesterday. I can’t stop thinking about that, and it makes my blood boil.

“How can you be sure?” She fingers the end of her ponytail, which hangs over her shoulder and rests on the swell of her breast. “What if they fake it for you?”

“They don’t.”

“So cocky and sure of yourself, aren’t you, Tris?” Her hand goes to her chest, and she exhales a tremulous breath. “Oh.” Her pink-painted fingernails skate up the side of her neck, then drift along the collar of her shirt. “Oh, God,” she whimpers.

The sound goes straight to my asshole cock. “The fuck?”

She grips the edge of the counter with her free hand and meets my confused glare with a challenging one of her own. And then she moans. It’s a seductive, unnerving sound coming from my best friend’s little sister. “Right there. Oh, God, Tristan, you’re so big.” She throws her head back and rolls her hips.

“Seriously? What the hell are you doing?” It’s like she knows what happened in the shower and she’s taunting me in a pair of shorts that don’t cover much.

Her bottom lip slides through her teeth and she sighs, then moans again, eyes falling closed. “Oh, oh yes! Oh, God, yeesssss! So thick. It hurts so goooood.”

Maybe I wasn’t off base when I accused her of doing more than listening to me jerk off the other night. I’m about to call her out, but one of her hands glides down her soft, curvy body, and her thumb hooks into the waistband of her tiny cotton sleep shorts. She pushes them so low it’s nearly obscene, but then they snap back into place as her hand travels lower, running along the inside of her thigh. “Fuck. Right there. That’s it. Don’t stop!”

Yeah, my best friend’s little sister might be inconvenient to have around, but she’s also hot as fuck. It’s a terrible combination, apparently. Despite having taken care of myself fifteen minutes ago, my body is already reacting to this…whatever this is.

Her eyes snap open, and her hand curves around my nape, nails biting into the skin. Just like her tongue on my skin yesterday, the contact is unexpected and jarring. Her other hand moves to cup and squeeze her breast. I break eye contact long enough to confirm that I can see her nipple through the fabric. It’s not an optical illusion. She tugs on the back of my neck, and I lean in, confused and transfixed. Her lips brush my ear, her voice softer, raspy, and a little desperate. “Please, Tristan. Oh, God. Oh, fuuuuuuck.” She drags the word out, and this time I find my earlobe caught between her teeth.

My hand moves without permission, settling on her hip, and my knee finds its way between her thighs. This is wrong. Bad. Not what I want. She’s my best friend’s sister, but fuck if I don’t want a taste of that forbidden fruit.

She sucks in a breath, bites the edge of my jaw, and stutters, “I’m-I’m-I’m c-c-coming!”

Her fingernails retract from my neck, and she shoves my chest. I release her hip and stumble back.

“We can all fake it when we need to. Especially with an egomaniac like you.” She brushes by me and disappears into the bathroom, firing the bird at me as she slams the door.

I jolt. I hate the slamming of anything.

Flip’s bedroom door opens, and he stands there, shirtless, hair a mess, boxer briefs tented with morning wood. “The hell is going on out here?”

“Nothing. We have a team meeting in an hour. We should get a move on. There’s a breakfast buffet.” How would I have explained what was going on if he’d opened the door a minute earlier?

“Shit, that’s right. They always have the best waffles. I’ll be ready in fifteen.”

“Sounds good.”

I head for my room and close the door, then glare at my semi-erect cock. “Fuck you for getting excited.”

“You’re sure you’re okay with this arrangement?” Flip asks for what’s probably the seventh time in forty-eight hours.

“You should have asked me first.”

“I know, man. I’m sorry. She cried on the phone, and she never does that. It’ll just be for a week or two.”

“I don’t want another person to take care of.”

“You won’t have to. I can set her up with her own place if you want her out sooner.” He anxiously raps on the armrest.

“It’s fine.” I’m not sure it’s fine at all, considering what happened this morning. But I don’t need him stressing about paying Beat’s rent. I’ll just hope she finds a job and moves out so things can go back to normal and she doesn’t become my problem. In more ways than one. Besides, I have bigger things to worry about. “Is Hollis coming to the team meeting?” I tap on my knee.

“As far as I know, yeah.” Flip glances at me before focusing on the road again.

“You think they’ll start him off slow? Maybe second line until he gets his bearings again? He was out for almost the entire season last year.” It’s not that I don’t value Hollis as a player. He’s been with the team for the past seven years. He’s seen Toronto through the playoffs twice and to a Cup win once, but his return doesn’t necessarily mean good things for me.

“I guess it depends on how he performs during training camp and exhibition games. They’ll want to get a feel for how quickly he fatigues. You worried about being shifted back to the second line?” Flip asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Last season was great. I want this year to be even better, but if I end up with less ice time, it’ll be hard to maintain my stats.” This is my last year on contract with Toronto, so the stakes are high. “I’d like us to play together for more than two seasons, you know?”

“They’ll renew. Last season was your best.” Flip smiles. “And we play well on the same line. They’ll take that into account.”

“Yeah. I guess we’ll see how it all rolls out.” I had my best season by far last year, and it was the first time Flip and I had played together since high school. After Hollis was out with an injury, the team floundered. He’d been a lead scorer. But Coach Vander Zee gave me a chance on the first line, and it proved to be a good move. Last year, we made it to the second round of the playoffs. We lost in the seventh game.

I’ve yet to experience the high of winning the Cup, and I’m always afraid my next season could be my last and that victory will never be mine. It’s one thing to be a professional hockey player; it’s another to be on a team that’s won the finals. I want that so badly I can taste it. I want to establish my value so they renew my contract. The team is like an extended family. We take care of each other on the ice. It’s the give and take, and I need it.

We arrive at the arena and head to the meeting room.

Ashish Palaniappa, one of our defensemen, is standing near the door. His wife, Shilpa, is the team lawyer and a total badass. “Stiles, Madden.” He pops a Timbit in his mouth and offers his fist for a bump.

“Hey, Ash.”

Coach Vander Zee is already at the front of the room with a young woman. “Coach get a new assistant or something?” Flip asks after his own fist bump. “She looks kinda young.”

Hemi, aka Wilhelmina Reddi-Grinst, our PR person, and Shilpa appear out of nowhere. “That’s his daughter, Tallulah. She’s seventeen, so put your dirtbag away, Phillip.”

Flip jumps. “Shit. Where the hell did you come from?”

“I’m everywhere.” Hemi cackles ominously, then grows serious. “We have a meeting tomorrow morning to discuss some promotional opportunities that would be beneficial for your image.” She turns to me. “And yours.”

“I’m a good boy,” I say defensively. At least I try to be, but Flip is out of control when we’re at the bar. I always drink too much and end up doing things I shouldn’t. I don’t want to be a problem for the team, and that includes Hemi. “Hi, Shilpa. You look lovely as usual.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sucking up with compliments doesn’t make you less of a liability, Tristan.”

Hemi throws her head back and laughs. Then her expression flattens. “Did you know that your best friend posted a video of you covered in glitter, doing body shots off a woman who may or may not have been a stripper? Or possibly a go-go dancer. Either way, it’s not very family-friendly behavior.”

Shit. Until now I didn’t even remember that happened. Flip ended up going home with her, and her friend. They were, in fact, go-go dancers at a local nightclub.

Flip frowns. “I’m his best friend. I wouldn’t post that.”

“Oh, but you did. So tomorrow morning, we’ll meet and devise a plan so all your endorsement campaigns don’t get pulled.”

Flip’s eyes go wide. “They won’t do that, will they?”

She pats him on the shoulder and walks away, shaking her head.

Shilpa wags a finger at us. “Don’t make my job harder than it needs to be.” She kisses Ashish on the cheek and walks away.

“Fuck.” Flip pulls out his phone and scrolls through his social media. And there it is, a video that starts with a close-up of his nostrils and ends with me sucking vodka out of a woman’s navel. “I’m so sorry, man.”

Clearly not my finest moment, but at least it’s above the waist.

“Catching heat already and the season hasn’t even started.” Dallas Bright, left wing, first-line player, and one of our good friends gives us an understanding smile. “I guarantee it won’t be nearly as bad as the torture she put me through this summer.”

I feel myself grinning. “This I need to hear.” Hemi loathes Dallas and does her best to make sure he knows it.

“She made me dress up as a clown in July. It was balls hot. I thought I was going to die. Full clown makeup, big shoes, red wig—like something straight out of a horror movie. I hate clowns. Like, hate them. I almost had a panic attack from looking in the mirror. It was for a charity cancer event. I guess she found out that I make balloon animals and ran with it. But I can only make dogs, flowers, and lightsabers. I can’t tell you how many kids I made cry because I couldn’t make them what they wanted. It was a train wreck.”

“I don’t understand how you can hate clowns,” Ashish muses.

“Why does she hate you so much?” Flip asks.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Probably because one of my friends cut off her braid when she was in third grade.”

“That’s a long time to hold a grudge about some hair.”

“Yeah. It’s one piece of the puzzle.” Dallas doesn’t elaborate because Coach Vander Zee gives us the five-minute warning.

“They better still have waffles and bacon.” Flip breaks rank and heads for the buffet.

Dallas already has a plate, so I follow Flip. He loads up like it’s his last meal. Just as we take our seats, Hollis comes in. Everyone cheers and claps. I join in, but heaviness settles in the pit of my stomach. As happy as I am that the surgery went well and he’s all healed up, I’m still worried about what that means for my career.

After the meeting, Flip goes out with a few of the guys, but my younger brother has a game north of the city. I try to attend his hockey games if I’m not traveling and they don’t interfere with practice times. His birthday is in the fall, and half the time I’m out of town, which sucks. I hate not being able to celebrate with him. Thankfully, this year it falls at Thanksgiving, on one of our days off.

I get a ride home with Dallas. He has a penthouse in an exclusive building a few blocks away. I’d been looking to upgrade my place until Flip was traded to Toronto last year and suggested we be roommates.

Dallas drops me off, and I head upstairs to our place. “Hello!” I call out when I open the door, but no one answers.

The condo is empty; no Beat to deal with. It smells like cleaning supplies and fresh lemon. The kitchen counter is free of all the random crap Flip often forgets to put away. A bowl of fresh fruit sits in the middle of the island, and there are freaking throw pillows on the couch. Two walls are all floor-to-ceiling windows, with a sweet view of the lakeshore. But it means having a TV down here is pointless because the glare makes it impossible to see the screen. Our only TV is in Beat’s makeshift bedroom, the loft.

I change out of my dress clothes into jeans and a T-shirt. I grab a jacket, since the arena is always cool, and head for the door. My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s my brother, asking if I’m coming to his game, and if I am, can I please bring back his video game that he forgot here the last time he stayed overnight. I keep forgetting it.

It’s in the loft, along with our gaming consoles. I toss my jacket on the counter and pull the ladder down to climb up. It smells like vanilla and citrus up here. And like the rest of the place, it’s clean. Beat’s bins are stacked neatly in the corner. She’s folded the bedding and set it on the arm of the futon. Her off-the-shoulder shirt and shorts from this morning are folded on top of her comforter. I spot something on the floor and bend to retrieve it.

It’s a pair of pale pink lace cheekies. I fight with my mind not to picture her wearing them and lose the battle. It’s inconvenient that Beat has gone from annoying teen to annoyingly hot. She’s got the whole girl-next-door, soft-around-the-edges angle cornered. It makes having her here even more frustrating.

I rub my bottom lip as I survey the loft. Her privacy is at zero. That situation with the roommates was pretty messed up, and as much as I don’t want her here, I don’t want her there, either. Whoever lived here before us hung plants from the ceiling, maybe to create a barrier?

I climb down the ladder and check the linen closet for something to hang on the hooks they left behind. I find an old duvet cover that buttons at the top end. It’ll do. I climb back up to the loft and hang the duvet. It’s janky and only goes halfway across, but at least it provides some separation.

I grab the game and descend again to the main floor where it smells less like Beat and more like cleaning supplies. Shoving my feet into sneakers, I leave the condo and take the elevator to the parking garage. I settle in my sports car and drive the hour and twenty minutes to my brother’s game.

On the way, I call my other brother, Nate, to check in. My middle brother is away at college, in his final year of his undergraduate degree in engineering. Dude is brilliant. Played hockey through most of high school, but his brain is massive and needs to be used for other things. He and I talk several times a week. When he answers this time, he’s with his girlfriend, Lisa, who he’s been dating for the past year, so we cut the call short with a promise to talk in a couple of days.

Our dad is in the stands when I arrive.

“How’s Brody playing?” I ask as I take my seat beside him.

“Tight. He’s already managed an assist.”

“Good. Good.” I scan the seats for scouts, since they can show up any time, but it’s just parents and a few groups of teenage girls. “We’re still good to go out for dinner on Thursday?”

“Yup, his practice ends at six thirty.”

“I’ll try to make it to the arena. Oh, and I think I’ve picked out his birthday present. I just want to ensure it’s the right color.”

“It’s pretty ostentatious,” Dad comments wryly.

“Yeah, I know. But he’s been trying to save up, and with his hockey schedule, fitting in a part-time job is next to impossible. I have connections, so I’ll get a good deal on it. Besides, I did something similar for Nathan, so it’s all about equity. I’m hoping it takes the sting away if Susan forgets to send him a fucking birthday card.”

“She’s proven herself highly unreliable in that regard,” Dad says quietly.

Is buying my brother a car for his eighteenth birthday over the top? Maybe. But Susan, our mother who doesn’t deserve that title, hasn’t sent a card since he was ten. The only acknowledgement we get from her that we exist is a single Christmas card sent to my dad’s house every year. There’s never a phone call, a note, an email, or even a damn text message. I’m pretty sure she has her assistant write the card for her. She left when Brody was only four years old, so at least his memories of her are vague, and his expectations are low.

It doesn’t seem to matter that it’s been fourteen years since she walked out on us without looking back. Or that I stopped getting a call from her on my birthday only two years after she left. There’s still this idiotic piece of me that wonders if one year she’ll remember she has three sons and do more than nothing. But I’m not holding my breath.

So yeah, a car is definitely extra, but we make a big deal out of birthdays, so the hole of disappointment she’s created doesn’t swallow us up.