Page 105 of Cruel When He Smiles

The constant whirring in my head. The panicked itch behind my ribs. The shame. The choking spiral that kept me curled up in my bed some nights, too afraid to blink. All of it… quiets. He doesn’t fix me—he doesn’t even try. But he holds the pieces in place, and it’s easier just to let him.

I belong to Liam, and for the first time in my life, belonging doesn’t feel like a chain. It feels like… relief.

So, today is good.

My head’s clear, and my chest light, the kind of lightness that makes me want to run just because I can. The sky’s crisp and cloudless, and the air smells clean. We’re on the field running drills—sprints, passes, corner work—and my body is loose and fast, the blood in my veins humming with purpose.

Coach Bryant is happy with me, even though we lost a game last weekend, he's happy with how we’re playing together.

I lap around the track twice, lungs burning just enough to feel alive. My pulse is high but not panicked. My chest is tight, but not from anxiety.

I feel clear.

Present.

Coach whistles again, shouting for another sprint drill, and I don’t hesitate. I push off the line hard, legs kicking into motion, strides smooth and practiced. I veer slightly to the right to pass a lagging teammate. The benches are up ahead, but I know this field like the back of my hand.

My cleats carve into the grass, my eyes locked ahead, my focus razor-sharp. I barely register the other player veering into my line.

Pain blooms as something crashes into my ribs too fucking hard. Soccer isn’t a contact sport, not like this. The hit sends me flying, and the world tilts. But I don’t land on the grass or bounce on turf, I hit metal. The edge of the bench slams into the side of my skull, and everything goes out.

The light, the sound, the air in my lungs—all gone in an instant.

When the world starts to crawl back in, it does so sideways. Someone’s yelling. Footsteps. Distant voices tearing through the quiet like sirens in my ears. The back of my head is a heartbeat made of fire.

I groan—at least, I think I do—but it’s cut off when hands touch me. Someone’s gripping my arm, someone’s touching my face, and I flinch. Something warm and wet trickles down the side of my face, and there’s a roar behind my left eye like thunder curling through my skull.

“Nate!”

That voice cleaves through the noise like it was made to find me. The moment I hear it, I’m back in my body and being yanked back into consciousness before I’m even fully ready. I blink up at the sky, vision still blurry, ears ringing, but all I can focus on is him.

Because I can feel his rage before I even fucking see him.

“Nate. Eyes on me.”

Liam.

He’s kneeling beside me, jaw clenched, he’s touching my face, but his hands are shaking. His eyes are fire—hazel, burning gold, trained only on me.

He looks like he’s going to kill someone.

“Look at me,” he says again, lower this time. Steadier.

My vision swims, and his face doubles, then clears. I suck in a breath, feel the pain slam into my ribs, and hiss between my teeth. Liam’s thumb grazes my cheek. “How many fingers, Pup?”

It takes me a second, but I focus, swallowing back the nausea, the ache in my skull, and count. “Three.”

He exhales slowly through his nose and presses his hand to my cheek again. But his face isn’t calm. It’s fury just barely leashed, skin stretched tight over a temper he’s about to let off the fucking chain.

And then he looks up. I don’t know who he’s looking at, but his voice shifts from controlled to lethal in the span of a breath.

“If something happens to him, I’ll fucking end your scholarship and make sure you never step on a field again. Do you understand me?”

His rage isn’t loud, it’s lethal. The kind of fury that doesn’t need to scream to be heard. The pressure in my skull throbs harder, and everything sounds far away. Someone mutters something in the distance, and I try to sit up, but don’t get far.

“Don’t,” Liam growls, pushing me gently back down, his hand pressing to my sternum. “You’re bleeding and probably concussed.”

“’M fine.”