Page 23 of Cruel When He Smiles

It’sMonday,andIfeel dead inside, but I’m not letting it show.

The party? Buried. The kiss? Forgotten. The fact that Liam Callahan had me pressed against a railing and kissed me, then shoved the knife in with his mouth still wet from mine?

Irrelevant.

I’m still Nate Carter. Midfielder, Sigma Rho Alpha legacy, and the best-dressed bitch on campus with a mouth that’s got more people pissed off than impressed. And no one—not even Liam with his perfect jawline and his sociopathic poker face—is going to make me falter.

Especially not on a Monday.

I walk across campus as though nothing happened. Sage falls into step beside me halfway between the business and media buildings, iced coffee in one hand, banana in his mouth, and his glasses slipping down his nose.

“Someone’s doing the most,” he says, eyeing the way my jeans fit. “Again.”

I flash a grin, all teeth. “When you’re a ten, it’s not most, it’s maintenance.”

He snorts. “Jesus. What happened to subtlety?”

“Died in the fire with my fucks to give.” I grab his iced coffee and take a long sip, gesturing at his half-eaten banana. “Are you on a health kick or just trying to avoid eye contact with your own depression?”

“Both,” he says flatly, then grins. “I’m hitting leg day later.”

“Cute, I’ll join you.”

Sage groans and hides his face in his hoodie. “You’re such a menace.”

“That’s what they write on my report card,” I say breezily. “Menace with excellent bone structure. A-plus.”

He snorts into his straw. “You good?”

“Peachy.”

He raises a brow, but I know he won’t push. Sage knows me too well—knows when I’m gritting my teeth behind a smile and when I’m actually high on my own bullshit. He doesn’t say anything more and passes me his coffee again like we’ve done for years.

It helps having him beside me. His presence doesn’t demand I explain why I keep flinching when someone brushes too close or why I slept in sweatpants and a t-shirt last night even though my room was hot as hell. I won’t tell him about the kiss. Or the lace. Or how Liam looked at me as if I cracked open something inside him, and he hated me for it.

Because I’m not giving Liam the satisfaction of taking anything else. I hate that he got to see me soft, even if it was only for a second. I hate that I let him past the defenses I swore I’d never lower again. And I hate, hate,hatethat I fucking liked it.

But today, I bury that. Today, I show up.

Practice is the real test, but Sage is in the stands for some reason, and I’m so fucking thankful for that. I lace my cleats tight, and ignore the way my stomach knots as soon as I spothimat the far end of the pitch.

The asshole is in captain mode—barking orders, running formations, making the freshmen look like scared puppies with nothing but a glance. It used to piss me off how easily he held the room. Now it does something worse.

It reminds me of his hands.

Of his mouth.

Of the breath that hitched in his throat when I said I wore the lace for him.

Then he remembered who he was, and the cruelty snapped back into place like a mask I’d been stupid enough to think was slipping. That part I’m not forgetting, but I’m not letting it own me either.

“Carter,” he barks, and it snaps me out of my thoughts.

I look up, expression blank. “What?”

“You’re on defense this drill. Watch your spacing.”

I nod as if I haven’t been playing this position since middle school, then jog to the line and tune him out. If he wants to pretend nothing happened, I can pretend harder. I’ve had years of practice. Pretending is survival. Pretending is what I do best.