Page 17 of Cruel When He Smiles

“Because the president’s dad plays tennis with both our dads, and I got volun-told.”

I laugh out loud, and he glares at me. “And because I’m pathetic, and I like the guy, I’ve now also volunteered to help Roman with his film gear whenever he needs me to.”

“Wait, what?” I frown. “Roman Bishop from the hockey team again?”

“Yeah,” he says with a sigh. “He texted this morning telling me he needs help setting up for some shoot. I’m guessing something got damaged in transport, and he needs an extra pair of hands to check the equipment before he books replacements.”

Man, I hate the athletes in that fucking house.

“Isn’t he two years older than us?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“So why the fuck does he always need your help?”

He sighs once more and looks at the ceiling for help before meeting my eyes again. “Because he doesn’t treat me like royalty even after finding out who my dad is. He legit just wants help and advice on his shit.”

I narrow my eyes. “So you’re telling me you got drafted into frat accounting and now you’re a camera gremlin for a guy who makes indie films about sad men in forests?”

Sage smirks. “Pretty much.”

I love him, and he’s my best friend but he lets people use him and it pisses me off, I swear to god. “You need to get better at saying no.”

“Oh, I can say no. I just pick the wrong moments to use it.” He stretches, glancing down at his phone. “Anyway, I’m really fucking hoping I won’t see Luca.”

I breathe out a sigh. Luca Devereaux. The bane of my existence since Sage came home one night looking like someone ripped up his dignity and told him to swallow. “That asshole still fucking with you?

Sage goes quiet, his eyes flicking up to mine before shaking his head. His fingers drum against the table, light and rhythmic. I can tell he’s debating saying more, but decides against it and mutters, “He’s been radio silent since I brushed him off instead of reacting to his bullshit. I just find it fucking strange, is all.”

My jaw tightens, and Sage must see the look on my face because he tries to placate me. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, this time with a finality that shuts the door on the topic. “He’s just a dick, and I don’t have time to care. I’m not giving him rent-free space in my brain anymore.”

I know that tone and deflection. The way Sage pretends to brush it off as if it’s nothing when it’s clearly not nothing. I want to push, but I’ll drop it for now. Especially since Sage looks like he’s already at his limit for the day.

“Alright,” I say, sipping my drink. “Let me know if he tries anything.”

Sage gives me a dry look. “Why, so you can punch another star athlete and get sent to therapy again?”

I shake my head, hiding behind my cup. “Eat shit.”

He grins wider, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The thing about Sage is, he’s similar to me in ways we don’t talk about. We both know what it’s like to keep secrets, to smilewhen you want to scream. There’s an understanding there; an unspoken rule that saysI’ll carry your silence if you carry mine.

And right now, we’re both carrying a lot.

I stir the ice in my coffee, eyes drifting toward the windows where a group of freshmen are crossing the quad, laughing too loudly, tossing a football between them as if it wouldn’t nail some poor, unsuspecting girl in the face any second.

“Hey,” Sage says, his tone quieter now. “Are you good? Like…good, good?”

I glance at him. His brows are drawn, just a little. He’s not trying to push. Just asking. Checking in how he always does when things feel too quiet.

I could tell him about Liam. About how he gets in my head, the way his voice crawls under my skin like heat and rot all at once. About how he said I hadn’t told Sage, and how he was right.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t know how.

Because if I say it out loud, it becomes something real, and I don’t know what that means. Don’t know how to explain that my body reacts to a guy I hate. That it wants things I don’t understand. That Liam’s name feels akin to a bruise I can’t stop pressing.