Hate to Love You

by Isabelle Richards

  Charlie organizes the bags so we can stuff them. “Fine. But we’re not talking about my sex life. If I have to talk about that anymore, I’m going to scream.”

  “Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to ask.”

  Her face falls.

  “Charlie, would you like to talk about your sex life?” I ask.

  She stuffs a condom “starter kit” in a bag. “That depends. Do you still hate me?”

  “I’m over it. And I never hated you. I just needed to cool down.”

  She screeches and jumps around like a little girl at a boy band concert. She knocks down a box of condoms as she barrels me over. “I missed you! That was the longest we’ve ever gone without talking. Never again, okay?”

  I squeeze her back. “Calm down there, crazy cakes. We’ve got bags to stuff, and you have baby making to vent about.”

  “Still don’t want to hear it,” Katie shouts from across the room.

  Eight comes faster than we were expecting. We barely have time to finish the swag bags before guests start arriving, and I still need to change out of my travel clothes. A young sportswear designer gave me a cute white golf dress to try out, and I have just enough time to throw it on and get to the range. It’s a typical San Francisco day—foggy with a chance of rain. I go through my bag to make sure I have everything, something I should have done before I left on my trip. Somehow, I’m out of sunblock, tees, and balls, and my rain gear is missing. Fabulous. Charlie makes a run to the pro shop for me so I can warm up.

  “Up next: Aldrich and Brennan to the tee. This is the five-minute call for Aldrich and Brennan.”

  I walk from the putting green and throw my sand wedge back in my bag. “Looks like you’re up,” Charlie says. “I put the stuff from the pro shop in your bag. They were out of rain gear. Sorry. The tournament should be long over before the rain starts, though.”

  I take my glove off and tuck it into my bag. “You’re not coming with us? It won’t be the same without you getting tanked on Bloody Marys. I count on you being sloshed by the ninth hole and getting gropey with Spence. Gives me an edge.”

  She pouts. “Not this year, sweets. Spence is playing with his firm, and I’m not going to get frisky with his boss in the next cart. Well… maybe I will. But I’ve been told I’m not allowed to drink.”

  Bending over, I retie my golf shoe. “So who’s playing with Pat?” She looks at her clipboard, ignoring my question, while I pick up my bag and say, “Charlie?”

  She wraps her arm around me as we walk toward the first tee. “Remember you love me.”

  I throw my hands up and spin out of her grasp, clipping the back of her leg with my golf bag. “No. Put me in a different foursome.”

  She holds up her hand and shrugs. “Sorry. No can do.”

  “Don’t you remember why we stopped getting paired together?” I whisper-shout, trying not to make a scene. “I slugged him with him my nine iron, and he retaliated by nailing me with his three wood. We both ended up in the hospital.”

  “If you would just let him nail you with his wood again, all the wrongs in the world would be righted.”

  I point my finger at her. “Don’t start. Seriously, why is he here? He has a game to prepare for.”

  She kisses my cheek. “I’ve got to get back to the range and take a few more pictures before Spencer tees off.”

  My father pulls up next to us in the cart. “We’re up, Snickerdoodle. I hope you’re ready to walk away with this thing, because I sure am.”

  I glare at Charlie. “You’re going to pay for this, Brennan.” I strap my bag onto the back of the cart, then walk around to kiss my father on the cheek. “Let’s go win a trophy.”

  He pulls me into a hug. “Did you hear that it’s us against Pat and Chase? Just like old times. We’re going to smoke them.”

  “Oh, I intend to pulverize them.” My agitation about this last-minute switch probably comes across as arrogance. “But I miss Spencer.”

  He gives me that “Daddy knows best” look. “It’s too easy to take Spencer’s money. Chase will at least be a challenge."

  I sit in the cart and fill out our score card. “Always with the silver lining, Daddy.”

  Chase and Pat pull up. Chase doesn’t even look in my direction when he jumps out of the cart and grabs his driver.

  Pat pulls me out of the cart. “Ready to show me up, little girl?” Pat’s competitive, but I think deep down he’s okay losing to me.

  “You know it, Pops! Better bring your A-game and your wallet.”

  Katie pulls up beside us and asks me to sign off on items I donated for the silent auction. Daddy and Pat tee off while I finish up. I grab my driver from my bag and walk up to the tee.

  “We’d better pull up to the little girl tees, Pop,” Chase calls.

  “No need, Pat. I think I can manage. Hope you all stopped at the ATM because I don’t accept checks. A hundred a hole still work for you boys?” I tee up my ball and slam it down the freeway, out-driving them all. As I walk by Chase’s cart, I say, “Nailed it,” just loud enough for him to hear.

  When I begin my swing for my next shot, Chase coughs. So in the middle of his swing, I slam on the brakes of my cart while going full speed, burning rubber on the cart path. Then he walks right in front of my ball on the green, leaving spike marks in my path. I try not to get sucked into his tit-for-tat game, but he is so damn infuriating. I’ll try to be the bigger person, then he’ll do something childish like cough “shank it” in the middle of my backswing.

  I have no choice but to fight dirty with dirty. I sink as low as bending over in his sightline, flashing some cleavage. A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do, and it works every time. It’s tricky doing it without my father or Pat noticing, but I’ve got stealthy skills. He tries to counter by flexing in my line of sight, but I’m not as gullible as he is. He’s decked out in a red, snug-fitting golf shirt that looks amazing on him. It highlights every ab, delt, and pec, but I’m careful to feast my eyes when he’s not looking.

  We duke it out for eighteen holes. He goes up one, I go up one. Each time the lead swaps hands, anger flares. At the end of the round, we’re both pissed off beyond reason and tied. We pull up to the cart stand, and the caddies pull off our clubs. Daddy tallies up our scorecards and hands them around for us to sign. Chase picks up the card and scowls at it. He scribbles his name, then grabs his golf bag.

  He stands in front of me, toe to toe. “There’s no such thing as a tie, Aldrich.”

  I grab my bag and throw it back on my cart. “Bring it, Brennan.”

  We play into the afternoon, maintaining the tie hole after hole. Eighteen turns into twenty-seven, turns into thirty-six. Still tied. No words are spoken, and the little games have stopped. It’s just pure competition and refusal to relent—what we do best. We completely miss the luncheon and awards ceremony. Our parents’ll be pissed. None of that matters as much as what’s happening between us.

  I haven’t been this turned on since he and I were together and it drives me crazy. My whole body feels as though it’s on fire, every nerve ending blazing. I feel awake, alive. For the first time in years, it’s as if my heart is pumping.

  I loathe that he can still do this to me, but as we make the turn by the cart stand again, I can’t seem to will myself to leave. I detest it, but I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. Contempt blended with sexual tension is deliciously addictive. In different times, this would have led to amazing sex. But this is now, and that part of us is over, so I’ll leave here furious and frustrated. If I’m going to torture myself, I better damn win.

  We push on after thirty-six. Around the fortieth hole, clouds roll in and the sky turns ominous. Rain comes down in buckets while we’re on the green. This wasn’t the best day to wear white. I rummage through my bag for the rain gear Charlie was supposed to pick up for me, until I recall that she claimed they were sold out. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she planned this.

  “Need to quit, Aldrich? With
all this rain, your mascara’s running.”

  Ha! I didn’t have time to put mascara on today. I put my hands on my hips. “I have no one here to impress, but if you can’t handle a little rain, feel free to forfeit.”

  He smirks with a smugness that makes me want to strangle him. “Carry on.”

  We play for three more holes until lightning flashes.

  He stops his cart. “Time’s up, buttercup. We need to hang out in the tunnel until the storm passes.”

  I wipe the rain out of my eyes. “Of course. Because you’re up, we need to stop.”

  He scoffs. “I don’t need to use lightning to beat you. I could have taken you down anytime.”

  “Bullshit. Lose the cop out and let’s play.” As I reach for my driver, lightning streaks across the sky.

  Chase pushes my driver back into my bag. “Arianna, curb your ego for ten seconds and get your ass in the tunnel.”

  Reluctantly, I drive my cart into the tunnel and slam on the brakes. Chase parks next to me. The air is thick with tension. We’ve barely spoken all day, but now that we’re trapped together, the silence is deafening. I’ve never been so happy to have a cell phone to distract myself with. He digs around in his bag while we wait but comes up empty. I know he doesn’t have rain gear in there because I wasn’t around to pack it for him. Well, that’s how it used to be anyway.

  The Stanford fight song interrupts the awkward quiet. Chase glances at me before answering his phone. I diligently focus on my game of Angry Birds, hopefully giving the impression that I’m not paying attention to him.

  “What’s up Scott?”

  Ah, his agent.

  “More to my calendar? Okay, give me the run down... Fuck, man. Did anyone factor eating or sleeping into that schedule? How am I supposed to do all of that and still, I don’t know, play football?… Don’t use today against me. I took one day for myself. One fucking day. You know this charity is important to my family… I know I have obligations to my sponsors. You don’t need to remind me of that. I’ll do it.… I said I’ll do it.… Yeah, later, man.” He throws the phone onto the cart seat and releases a frustrated sigh.

  I do my best to contain my smirk while I play on my phone. Well, maybe not my best.

  “Go ahead. Laugh it up. I deserve it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just trying to get these pigs.” I hold up my phone showing him my game of Angry Birds.

  “Bullshit. You heard every word, and there’s no way you didn’t enjoy every second of it.”

  I chuckle. “I admit nothing.”

  He leans back in the cart and stretches his legs. “We both know you want to scream ‘I told you so.’”

  “We would have to be speaking for me to scream something to you,” I reply, keeping my eyes fixed on my game. “We’re not, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

  He traces the seam of the cart with his finger. “All this time, I’ve been searching for a reason why this is better. Guess I just found one.”

  I can’t tell if he intended for me to hear that or if the echo amplified it. Either way, I’m not responding.

  I get out of my cart and walk to the edge of the tunnel, wringing out my hair as I walk. I look around, pretending to check on the storm, but really I’m just trying to ease the awkward strain between us. We haven’t had an actual conversation in so long, and being stuck here is pushing my comfort zone. Running together was tough enough, but at least we were moving and we both had earbuds in. I could have run in the opposite direction if it got too hard. But now, we’re trapped. It’s too much.

  “If we were talking, I’d tell you that you were right,” he calls.

  Words I never thought I’d hear him say. Ever.

  “You were so right there isn’t a word for how right you were. If we were talking, I’d owe you an apology.”

  I can’t have this conversation with him. Not now. “Chase, that body is dead and buried. Let’s not dig it back up, okay?” Typically I’d be tearing him a new asshole, but I don’t want to hear what he has to say. I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it. What’s the point of clearing the air? All it will do is make me hurt more.

  “No, just let me say this. All those years I gave you shit, I had no fucking clue what you were going through. The pressure, the demands. Being torn in a million different directions at once. All the fucking expectations. You tried to tell me so many times, and I couldn’t see it. Or wouldn’t see it. ”

  I lean against the cold concrete tunnel. I’m freezing from being soaked to the bone, but I need something to ground me. “You can’t know until you live it.”

  “That’s an understatement. I was so wrong, and I was a serious dick.”

  I smirk. “Now that’s an understatement.” I should just let it drop, but I’m feeling arrogant from his unexpected display of remorse. I can’t help rubbing a bit more salt in this wound. “Congrats on being the face for Armani Code.”

  “Um, thanks,” he mumbles.

  I trace the mortar between the bricks on the floor of the tunnel with the toe of my shoe. “That was quite an ad they released a few months back.”

  “Speaking of buried bodies.”

  I’m pushing the boundaries, but I earned it after the years of shit he gave me. “I heard it was banned in a few countries for pornographic content.”

  He tenses, and his voice becomes harsh. “Arianna, you do not want to go there with me.”

  It seems the time to be repentant is over. “How typical. You can dish it, but you can’t take it.”

  He sits up straighter in the cart. “Oh, I can take it. I’m just trying to remain civil while we wait out the storm. The last time we discussed this subject, I got two black eyes. I’ve got a photo shoot tomorrow, and showing up with a shiner would be unprofessional. So let’s drop it.”

  “You’re a fucking hypocrite,” I shout. “It’s perfectly fine for you to flash your ass over the shiny sheets of a magazine, but it’s still a sin for me? You are really incredible!”

  He jumps out of the cart and walks toward me but stays on the opposite side of the tunnel. “It’s a double standard. I know, and I don’t care. I’ve spent the last two years on the other side of things and I now understand how demanding and rigid sponsors can be. I understand the position you were in, but it doesn’t change how I feel. I would rather us have been dirt poor than have you exposed for the whole world to see. You’re too good for that.”

  Irritated, I throw my hands in the air. “So easy for you to say. As an NFL player, your earning potential is so much higher than mine ever was. You can walk away from an ad if you don’t like the content. You’re the quarterback for the damn Niners. There will be another sponsor. I didn’t have that luxury. I had to be savvy and smart. You should know this by now. You aren’t an athlete—you’re a business. If you don’t capitalize when you can, the business fails, and you end up with nothing.”

  He steps toward me, his cheeks flushing as fury flashes in his eyes. “Now I call bullshit. You were set for life. You never had to do anything.”

  I step closer until we’re toe to toe. I look him square in the eyes and smell the peanut butter on his breath from the crackers he just ate. “Says every arrogant athlete before they blow out their knee and end their career.”

  He starts to speak, then stops. He steps away, breaking our stare, and walks to the other end of the tunnel. Playing the knee injury card may have been low, but it doesn’t make it any less true. We’re quiet again as the rain comes down harder. The sound of the rain echoing in the tunnel fills the silence, but it doesn’t alleviate the tension.

  “You’re so full of shit,” he says.

  I turn around to face him. “Excuse me?”

  “You blame the money, but it had nothing to do with the money. It was all about your brand. You wanted the notoriety to make yourself more marketable. You never needed a penny. It was all about your ego.”

  “My ego? You think this is about my ego?” I’m flabbe
rgasted. “This argument was never about me. It was always about you and your jealousy. You wanted to keep me all to yourself while you got to go fuck everything in a skirt. I never did anything half as scandalous as your Armani ad, but you acted like I was a whore for being shot in a bathing suit.”

  “I never cheated on you, and I never called you a whore,” he shouts. His deep baritone voice rivals the thunder.

  My jaw drops. “Clearly you’ve been hit in the head a few too many times. Your long-term memory is shot.”

  “I remember everything crystal clear.” He’s seething.

  I throw up my hands. “Why are we even talking about this? It’s all ancient history.”

  “Yeah, and whose fault is that?”

  “If you still have to ask yourself that question, clearly I made the right decision.” I glare at him, but he gives me nothing. “Fuck the lightning.”

  I can’t stay in this tunnel for another second, so I take off running. He calls after me, but I just keep going. I’m sure he’s going to chase after me, so I bolt across the fairway and run through the woods. The rain is coming down in sheets, and I’m drenched to the bone by the time I get back to the clubhouse.

  Sometimes spontaneity is good for the soul. Other times, spontaneity is just stupid. I’m wearing all white and drenched after running close to three miles in golf spikes. I abandoned my keys, phone, clubs, and wallet in the tunnel. One of the cart staff gets me a towel and lets me use his phone to call a cab. Fortunately for me, he’s a fan. Paying him to play dumb when he sees Chase only costs me an autograph.

  It’s a long, shameful cab ride home. Daddy pays the fare and is kind enough not to ask any questions. I wouldn’t even know how to answer. This isn’t the first time Chase and I have gone head to head, but today sliced open wounds that I’ve been desperately trying to heal.

  Chapter Thirty

  May 17, 2013

  New York, NY

  NFL Draft