Page 41 of Cruel When He Smiles

I slam another shot toward the net and miss again. My chest heaves as I stagger back, dragging my hand through my hair, digging my fingers into my scalp and pressing until it hurts, hoping the pain will anchor me. Hoping it’ll give me a reason to breathe.

It doesn’t.

The silence stretches too long, and I try to swallow, but it sticks in my throat.

I hate how alone I feel. No—scratch that. I hate how used to this I’ve become. Everyone thinks I’m fine. They see the sarcasm, the swagger, the performances I give, and think they know me. But they don’t.

I suck in another lungful of air and blink up at the sky, dizzy from how long I’ve been at this. My breath hitches once, too close to a sob. I clamp down on it so fast, I bite the inside of my cheek.

Don’t cry.

Not here.

Not again.

I press the heel of my palm to my eyes and force a breath out, swallowing around the pressure in my throat. But the second Ifeel that static prickle across the back of my neck, I know I’m not alone.

He hasn’t said a word, and I haven’t turned around, but I know it’s him.

Liam.

He’s always quiet when he wants to be. He’s mastered the art of not being heard until he’s ready to speak, and tonight’s no different. I don’t hear him approach. I feel him.

And the thing that twists my stomach and makes me hate myself a little more, is that it’s not dread that slams into me first.

It’s relief.

The kind that makes your legs weaker, because it means someone saw you. Someone stayed. Someone noticed you were drowning in plain sight.

“You planning on running yourself into the ground, or is this your idea of post-practice therapy?”

I turn slowly. My shirt’s soaked and clinging to my ribs, my hair’s dripping into my eyes, and I know I look like a wreck. But Liam Callahan stands at the edge of the pitch like he’s been watching me this whole damn time, arms crossed, jaw set.

“I don’t remember inviting you into my therapy session,” I snap, wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand. “Go home, Callahan.”

His brow lifts, subtle and unimpressed. “I could. Or I could tell Coach how you stayed on the pitch after he benched you for being reckless.”

I bristle. “I wasn’t reckless.”

“You were,” he says, voice calm and steady. “You weren’t even looking when you took that last shot. You were aiming at ghosts.”

The pressure on my chest tightens. “You don’t know what the hell I’m aiming at.”

“I know it’s not the net.”

I look away. He’s too close to the truth, and I’m too tired to shove him back. There’s a beat of silence before his voice softens again. “You know, for someone who says he hates me, you sure let me see you when it counts.”

I swallow the bitter laugh that rises. “You think this is me letting you see anything? You’re not special, you just happened to be there.”

“Sure,” he says easily. “But I’m still the one you didn’t push away when your world was cracking open.”

“Please go away. I don’t feel like being manipulated today.”

He steps close enough to be felt, and his presence slides under my skin like heat. “You can be mad at me,” he says. “You can pretend I’m the villain in your story. That’s fine. But don’t stand out here pretending you’re okay.”

“Iamokay.”

His eyes flick down my frame slowly, and he watches me with that quiet, infuriating patience that he’s suddenly learned to weaponize. “Did you want to be alone? Or do you wanna talk about it?” he asks, and it’s not a challenge. Not a dare, but an honest, simple question.