Page 10 of Cruel When He Smiles (Sinners of Blackthorne U #3)

Nate

It’s Monday, and I feel 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, hate that 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 spot him at 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.

He’s the sociopathic captain who plays mind games and weaponizes whispers. He’s the bastard who made me feel like I mattered and then shoved me off a cliff when I got too close to touching the truth.

So I give him nothing.

The ball comes at me, and I intercept it cleanly, pivot, then pass it straight down the line to Cramer, who trips over his cleats like an idiot.

“Nice, Nate!” Adrian calls from the goal, and I flash him a thumbs-up.

I hear Liam’s voice cut in sharply after. “Cramer, if you lose another pass like that, I’ll make you run until you cry.”

“Jesus,” someone mutters behind me. “What crawled up Callahan’s ass?”

I don’t answer, but my mouth twitches.

Another drill, another pass, another rotation.

Liam doesn’t look at me once. He corrects Adrian’s stance, adjusts Ruiz’s angle, even tosses an extra pinny at a sophomore who forgot his.

But me? Radio silence. No note on my spacing.

No commentary on my dribbling. No insult disguised as critique. Just blank, professional indifference.

It shouldn’t hurt.

It fucking does.

By the time we break for water, my shirt’s clinging to my back, and I’m pissed off enough that I nearly snap at Sage when he offers me his water bottle. I take it anyway, tilting it back and letting the water spill over my chin on purpose.

“Callahan,” Coach Bryant yells from the sideline. “You’ve got Carter for finishing drills.”

My stomach drops, but I school my face before Liam even turns. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react—just grabs two cones and jogs over like this is nothing.

Like we are nothing.

“Set the markers,” he says to me quietly.

“I know how to set fucking cones.”

He ignores the bite in my tone. “Then do it.”

We move in silence. I can feel Sage watching from the benches. I can feel everyone watching. This is the part where Liam usually makes a show of dominance—calling plays, barking orders, making some snide comment about effort, attitude or potential. Instead, he simply points.

“You start there. Sprint. One-touch finish.”

I nod. I’m already on the line when the whistle blows. I run. I shoot. I score.

Again.

Again.

Again.

My chest heaves by the fifth round, sweat sliding down my back in rivulets. Liam doesn’t say a word. Instead of speaking to me, he sets the next ball, watches, adjusts slightly, then sets another.

“Am I doing something wrong, Captain?” I ask finally, my tone edged.

“No.”

“That why you’re so fucking quiet?”

He looks at me for half a second, and that’s all it takes. Because his eyes say everything his mouth won’t. Regret. Anger. Want.

And guilt. The fuck is up with that?

“I’m not here to talk,” he says finally. “I’m here to coach.”

“Right,” I say, stepping into the next sprint. “Because we’re professionals.”

The next ball sails clean into the net. I jog back slowly, deliberately dragging my sleeve across my mouth. Liam tracks the motion, and his jaw flexes. But he still doesn’t say a word, and we finish drills in silence.

When Coach Bryant calls us in, I don’t look back. I don’t wait for Liam to fall into step beside me like he usually does. I head straight for my bag, peel off my practice shirt, and toss it over my shoulder as if I don’t feel the way he’s still watching me.

As if his gaze doesn’t feel like a brand.

“The fuck is up with him?” Sage asks, offering me a protein bar. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

“Nope.”

“You want to break his nose?”

I smirk. “Kinda.”

“You want me to break his nose?”

“Not yet.”

“Cool. Just let me know.”

I hum and lean back on the bench, letting the sun dry the sweat on my skin and letting the ache in my chest settle into something dull and manageable. Sage doesn’t push, and I don’t let anything show.

I need a fucking second to breathe.

Liam’s presence has always been a storm cloud, but now it’s thunder in my chest. I almost go to the library after practice. Almost retreat into the quiet and pretend I’m not haunted. But instead, I veer left.

Because I won’t let him take this from me. I won’t let a kiss—a perfect, horrifying, real kiss—make me flinch.

So, I walk across campus like my ribs aren’t bruised from his grip and my mouth isn’t still tingling with the ghost of his. I laugh. I pose for a dumb group selfie with my frat brothers. I text three people back, if only to remind myself I’m wanted.

I survive.

And that’s the thing, right? He thought he’d ruin me with one night, but I’ve been broken before.

Liam Callahan doesn’t get to be the one to do it again.