Page 24 of Cruel When He Smiles
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.
Likeweare 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.”
