Page 26 of Cruel When He Smiles

Or so I think.

“Nobody said you could run away.”

The voice hits me before the footsteps do. I close the trunk slowly, fingers curling around the edge as I pivot on my heel. Nate’s standing a few feet from me, still in his kit, hair tied up in a loose bun with strands sticking to his forehead, black compression shorts hugging his thighs under his uniform. His mouth is twisted in that familiar bratty smirk that’s become a shield.

“I wasn’t aware I needed permission,” I say flatly.

He shrugs. “You’re the captain. Shouldn’t you be in there, soaking up the glory? Or does your ego not need the applause anymore?”

“I’m not in the mood for your mouth tonight, Carter,” I say.

He laughs, and the sound feels akin to the drag of teeth over skin. “You know, it’s funny. You didn’t even glance at me out there. Like I wasn’t on the fucking field.”

“You were exactly where you needed to be.”

He steps closer. I hear the crunch of gravel under his cleats, but I don’t move. I should get in the car. I should close the door, drive off, and forget he exists. But then he has to fucking open his mouth.

“Or maybe you were just too busy trying not to look like you care.”

The words don’t sting. Not how he wants them to. But the tone is barbed, cocky, and simmering with all the shit he won’t say out loud. The way he looks at me now isn’t challenging, it’s fucking begging. I hate that he wants my attention, and how badly I want to give it to him. But Nate doesn’t beg like anyone else. He taunts and tempts, then he sets the trap and smiles while he steps into it, luring me in.

I step forward before I can stop myself, and he doesn’t back up. Of course he doesn’t. He tips his head, seemingly amused, like he thinks this is just another round of our twisted game.

“Hit a nerve?” he asks, voice mocking. “Or did you finally grow the balls to admit that kiss actually meant something?”

I step into his space, crowding him, chest to chest. My fingers slide up to wrap around his throat firm enough to make his breath catch. His pulse jumps under my palm, and my thumb brushes his jaw as I lean in close, nose to nose. Then I pivot and slam him against the car door with enough force that the breath leaves him in a sharp exhale.

And he still doesn’t look away.

“You’re so fucking needy,” I grind out. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? Had to follow me out here. Had to pick a fight. What—couldn’t handle me not looking at you for ninety minutes straight?”

His pulse flutters under my palm, and he smirks through it. “Admit it. You missed me.”

I press in closer, my body caging his, my breath warm against his cheek. “What I missed,” I murmur, “was the peace I had before you opened your fucking mouth.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You sure about that? Because your hands are on me again.”

I tighten my grip just enough to make his smile twitch. “Careful.”

“Or what? You’ll kiss me again and then pretend it didn’t happen?” He tilts his head, the defiance in his eyes sharpening. “Go ahead. Shove me. Snap at me. Walk away like you always do. But don’t pretend you’re not coming apart every time I breathe near you.”

I drag my hand from his throat to his jaw, my thumb brushing along the edge of his mouth with mock affection. “You think I’m coming apart?”

“I know you are.”

“Cute.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Let me explain something, Nate. You’re not the first person I’ve used, and you won’t be the last. Me touching your dick was just to show I could and that kiss was a moment of weakness. One I won’t be repeating.”

His smile falters for half a second. Then it comes back stronger. “Right. Just a mistake. One you still think about every fucking night.”

I lean in until our foreheads almost touch, my mouth hovering just over his. “If I wanted you, you’d already be mine.”

“And if I let you have me, you’d never get your sanity back.”

He has no fucking idea how right he is.

There’s heat between us—static and violent and impossible to ignore. I can feel it building, pressure pushing against my ribs. My fingers curl into the fabric of his jersey at his hip, my control fraying with every beat of silence.

He shifts beneath me, barely a movement, just a brush of his thigh against mine—but it’s enough to make me breathe out hard, and he feels it. That brush of his thigh wasn’t an accident, it was calculated and timed. The kind of move that says,I know what you want. And I know you hate that you want it from me.