Page 25 of Cruel When He Smiles
“Right,” I say, stepping into the next sprint. “Because we’re professionals.”
The next ball sails clean into the net. I jog back slowly, deliberately dragging my sleeve across my mouth. Liam tracks the motion, and his jaw flexes. But he still doesn’t say a word, and we finish drills in silence.
When Coach Bryant calls us in, I don’t look back. I don’t wait for Liam to fall into step beside me like he usually does. I head straight for my bag, peel off my practice shirt, and toss it over my shoulder as if I don’t feel the way he’s still watching me.
As if his gaze doesn’t feel like a brand.
“The fuck is up with him?” Sage asks, offering me a protein bar. “You gonna tell me what happened?”
“Nope.”
“You want to break his nose?”
I smirk. “Kinda.”
“You wantmeto break his nose?”
“Not yet.”
“Cool. Just let me know.”
I hum and lean back on the bench, letting the sun dry the sweat on my skin and letting the ache in my chest settle into something dull and manageable. Sage doesn’t push, and I don’t let anything show.
I need a fucking second to breathe.
Liam’s presence has always been a storm cloud, but now it’s thunder in my chest. I almost go to the library after practice. Almost retreat into the quiet and pretend I’m not haunted. But instead, I veer left.
Because I won’t let him take this from me. I won’t let a kiss—a perfect, horrifying, real kiss—make me flinch.
So, I walk across campus like my ribs aren’t bruised from his grip and my mouth isn’t still tingling with the ghost of his. I laugh. I pose for a dumb group selfie with my frat brothers. I text three people back, if only to remind myself I’m wanted.
I survive.
And that’s the thing, right? He thought he’d ruin me with one night, but I’ve been broken before.
Liam Callahan doesn’t get to be the one to do it again.
Liam
Theskyisabruised stretch of fading daylight, the kind of blue that clings too long after the sun’s dipped out of sight. Stadium lights flood the field in a harsh glare that paints everything in silver and shadow.
This is my arena. My kingdom. And tonight, we’re not fucking losing.
I cut through defenders, feeding clean passes, calling out plays without hesitation. My voice carries across the pitch like a whip crack. There’s no room for softness here. No space to unravel. The second I let myself slip, even an inch, it’s over. And I won’t lose, not on the first night of the season. Not with every eye on me.
But there’s one set of eyes that burns hotter than the rest.
Nate runs as if he’s got something to prove—fast, vicious, unpredictable. He plays midfield like it’s a war zone, and every possession is a kill. He’s not just good, he’s lethal when he’s not thinking too hard. And tonight, he’s everywhere.
I feel his presence behind me every time I call for a different switch, feel the sting of his glare every time I don’t look his way. He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to. His resentment pulses across the grass right toward me.
I don’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. I keep my back straight and my mouth shut, commanding the field with brutal calm, because if I turn around, I’ll do something I shouldn’t. And if I say anything at all, I won’t be able to stop.
The game ends with us winning four to one. The boys are hyped. Coach Bryant is thrilled. Adrian slaps me on the back hard enough to bruise, and I grunt, barely acknowledging the congratulations.
I don’t go to the locker room; I never do. I don’t want to hear the noise or the post-game hollering, or the stupid music someone’s already playing too loud. I don’t want to have to deal with the tension that’s been trailing me like a shadow for the last ninety minutes.
I make a sharp left off the field, heading for the parking lot while everyone else heads inside. My car’s parked near the edge of the lot under one of the dim lights that’s flickering every few seconds. I dig my keys out of my duffel and pop the trunk. The silence out here is better. Not clean, not really, but it’s better than being watched.
