Page 39 of Cruel When He Smiles

I leave it there and toss the phone onto the nightstand, letting the screen go dark.

He’ll answer when he’s ready. Or he won’t. I already saw what I needed to see. I already know which parts of him flinch, and I know the words that get through when he’s locked up. I know the way his breathing slows when I use a certain tone, how his shoulders sink when I say his name softer than usual. I know what he needs.

And now he’s going to learn what it feels like to be given what he needs by the one person who shouldn’t give it to him.

Not for free.

Not without consequence.

The seed’s been planted, and I’m a very patient gardener.

The field smells like grass and frustration. Freshly cut, damp from the morning dew, but heavy with the weight of whatever the hell Nate Carter is dragging through it today.

Practice started ten minutes ago, and he’s already taken out two teammates and nearly cracked the shin of a third. Even Coach Bryant is pacing the sidelines with that agitated squint, muttering under his breath about recklessness and control, the latter which Nate doesn’t seem to possess right now.

The rest of the team has started giving him a wide berth, letting him tear through drills with a fury that has nothing to do with soccer and everything to do with the storm still lodged behind his ribs.

I watch him from midfield, leaning into the stretch of my hamstrings as I twist my body into movement, eyes trailing him without bothering to hide it. He’s a mess today. A beautiful, unraveling, feral mess.

“Carter,” Coach Bryant finally barks, loud enough to cut through the wind. “Off the field.”

Nate skids to a stop near the sideline, his expression locked in tight fury. His jaw flexes, then clenches harder when Coach points toward the bench. “Now.”

For a second, I think he’s going to argue. His body tenses, chest rising and falling too fast, and there’s murder in the glare he throws toward Coach before he snaps his head away and storms off, yanking off his jersey mid-stride and tossing it down.

Coach Bryant shakes his head, muttering, “Somebody needs to knock sense into that kid.”

I straighten, wipe the sweat off my brow with the inside of my wristband, and make my way toward the edge of the pitch, not bothering to ask for permission.

Nate is halfway down the bench, elbows on knees, hands steepled together. His hoodie’s back on—he must’ve had it on the bench—and the hood’s up again, his hair hiding the hard lines of his face, but not enough to hide how his mouth tightens when he hears my footsteps. He doesn’t look up, but his entire body goes still in a way I recognize immediately.

Alert. Defensive. Braced for impact.

He thinks I’m coming to provoke him. To needle. To poke and push and twist the knife because he let me see too much.

I don’t stop walking until I’m close enough for him to feel my presence. Then I sit a few feet away, enough to give him breathing room, but not so far that it feels safe.

He doesn’t speak.

So, I do.

“You’re not doing yourself any favors playing like that.”

His shoulders tighten further, but he still doesn’t lift his head. “Don’t need the lecture, Callahan.”

“That’s good,” I say, my tone soft in the way I know hits harder than volume ever could. “Because I’m not offering one.”

He finally turns his head, one eye visible beneath the shadow of the hood. That green flint of his stare is cold. “Then what are you doing here?”

I shrug, resting my forearms on my thighs. “Checking in.”

“You already did that last night.” The words come out rough and clipped.

“And you didn’t answer,” I say. “So, I figured I’d ask again in person.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes and leaning back, arms crossing tightly over his chest. “I’m fucking peachy. Happy?”

I shake my head. “No. But I didn’t expect honesty, I just wanted to hear your voice.”