Page 35 of Cruel When He Smiles
Ryan doesn’t answer right away. He taps his finger on the rim of his glass, lips twitching. “Noah and Damien havehistory,” he says finally. “More than the usual sibling shit. It’s complicated. Damien has issues. Noah’s too pretty. That’s the entire story.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Pretty?”
Ryan smirks. “He blushes when you comment on his eyes, has long blond hair he dyes blue, and smells like strawberries and anxiety.”
Killian plates the food without comment and starts setting dishes down on the island before we can ask more questions. “Everyone, shut up and eat. Damien’ll cool off and cope.”
“Or blow up again,” Ryan adds helpfully.
“That too.”
The smell of food distracts everyone eventually. Plates get passed, silverware clatters against the island’s surface, and someone pulls out a bottle of wine that probably shouldn’t be opened on a Monday night, but no one stops it. I eat quietly, filing every reaction away for later, my mind already dissecting the new variable.
At least this is keeping my mind off what, and who, I really want to think about.
Nate
“CarterwithCallahan.”
I freeze.
The syllables land like a clean gut punch, and my fingers curl tighter around the strap of my bag. My head snaps toward Coach Bryant as he reads out the room assignments, waiting for him to correct it, but he doesn’t. He just checks the next names off the list and keeps moving down.
Because there’s no fucking way I just got put in a hotel room with Liam Callahan on this away game.
I glance over my shoulder and see him standing a few feet away, bag slung over one shoulder, hands buried in his pockets, expression unreadable. His eyes flick up to meet mine for a second, and he doesn’t blink or react. He nods once and turns toward the lobby.
He’s gone back to the act. That smooth, cold, above-it-all mask that fits him too damn well. Polished edges, perfect posture, and the kind of smile that should be sold as poison. I hate him morefor it—hate how easy it is for him to slip back into pretending he doesn’t want to peel me apart and wear my bones.
We walk side by side through the lobby in silence. The hotel’s nothing fancy, but the carpet muffles our footsteps, and I’m hyper-aware of how close he’s walking. We’re not touching, or talking, but he’s a presence I can’t ignore.
The girl at the front desk hands us two room keys without a second glance, and Liam thanks her with that polite voice that makes people smile too fast and trust too easily.
I follow him down the hall, past the elevators, toward the stairwell that smells like lemon cleaner and old metal. The door to our room clicks open under Liam’s swipe, and the second we step inside, my stomach drops.
Two beds, opposite ends of the room. No divider, no privacy, and no couch I can pretend to fall asleep on to avoid sharing space. Just four white walls, an ugly taupe carpet, and a small desk between the beds, stacked with bottled water and protein bars that the hotel probably thinks pass for a welcome basket.
I walk in slowly, dropping my duffel at the foot of the bed closest to the window. The AC unit kicks on with a groan, rattling in the corner. I can hear Liam unzip his bag behind me, hear the familiar rustle of his jacket as he pulls it off and drapes it over the back of the desk chair.
“Don’t worry,” he says, his voice calm, almost amused. “I won’t touch you.”
I don’t respond. I toe off my shoes and yank my hoodie over my head, tossing it across the mattress before heading to the bathroom. I lock the door behind me and sit on the closed toilet for a minute, hands gripping my knees hard enough to leave marks.
He doesn’t get to sound amused. He doesn’t get to act like that night didn’t do something to both of us.
We get dressed for the game without talking and leave to catch up with the others. Coach gives his final rundown in the team meeting, and by the time we hit the pitch under those buzzing stadium lights, I’m locked in and focused. Because that’s the only place I still have power—between the lines, on the grass, when it’s my feet, my voice, my decisions that carry weight.
I score once, assist twice, and shut down their midfield like my life depends on it. Liam plays flawlessly; of course he does. The crowd loves him. Our guys love him. He barks orders with that razor-sharp precision that somehow always lands as leadership instead of arrogance. The whole field moves to his tempo.
We win.
Three to one.
When we leave the pitch, sweaty and amped and a little bruised, everyone’s high off it, except me. Because I know what comes next: being alone in a room with a man I can’t control myself around.
I trail behind him on the walk back to the room, silent, shoulders still tight from the match. We step into the elevator, and Liam doesn’t say a word as he scrolls through his phone with an expression so calm it’s infuriating.
By the time we reach our floor and unlock the door, my head’s pounding.
