Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Aiden

Ever since the shower incident, the atmosphere between us had been thick with tension—an unspoken weight pressing down on every interaction. It wasn’t exactly shocking. Catching your coach in such a vulnerable, private moment tends to rattle the usual team chemistry. Who would have guessed?

Noah, to his credit, hadn’t uttered a single word about it. No snide remarks, no awkward questions, not even a hint of his typical sarcastic humor. Instead, he responded with a rigid, silent compliance that screamed, “Let’s pretend this never happened,” louder than any conversation could have.

He arrived early for every training session, tackling every drill with fierce determination. He pushed himself harder than I requested—maybe trying to prove something, or perhaps attempting to bury the image of what he’d seen. Or maybe, just maybe, he was trying to distract himself from the uncomfortable truth that he had enjoyed it.

And me?

Well…

I might have enjoyed it a little too much.

The silence between us was deafening. The way he avoided meeting my gaze, his eyes darting anywhere but toward me. The way he clenched his jaw when I handed him one more grueling task. How he waited—every single time—for the praise I stubbornly refused to give.

So I pushed him.

Just a little.

I loaded him with extra drills, threw a couple of unreasonable demands his way—testing how far he’d go.

And every time?

He met the challenge.

Without hesitation.

Without complaint.

Yet still, I withheld the one thing he was beginning to crave.

“Noah,” I said, crossing my arms as he approached, clipboard in hand. “Is this your idea of neat?”

He straightened immediately. “It’s highlighted, annotated, and color-coded by topic, sir.”

I flipped through the pages, raising an eyebrow. “Neon orange?”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard. “It was all the hotel had.”

I gave him a slow, unimpressed look. “And that’s supposed to be my problem?”

He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. I caught a flash of irritation in his eyes—the same frustration he was working so hard to mask these days.

I handed the clipboard back. “Redo it with a readable color. Ten minutes.”

“To redo twenty pages?” His jaw clenched, but he answered, “Yes, sir.”

Good boy.

Still, I didn’t say it aloud.

By the time he returned, chest rising and falling from jogging to the printer and back, I barely glanced at the revised pages.

“Better,” I muttered, louder this time, “Come on. Rehab consult starts in three.”

He followed me silently, as always now.

Part of me wanted to break through the wall between us. To say something. To ease the tension. To acknowledge the elephant in the room.

But the darker part of me?

That part wanted to tighten the noose. To see how far the tension could stretch before it snapped.

Because, God help me—

I missed the fire. The smart-ass remarks. The defiance.

Call me a masochist, but I craved it.

And for both our sakes, I hoped he’d be the one to break first.

By the end of the fourth day, he did.

Unfortunately, not in the way I’d hoped.

It began at dinner.

Another perfectly balanced, protein-heavy meal set before him: grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, quinoa—a punishment disguised as nutrition. Planned by me, approved by the team nutritionist, followed down to the last vitamin.

He picked at it silently, no pretense this time.

Then he stood up.

No words. No explanation. Just left the plate half-eaten and walked out of the dining hall.

I watched him go.

Said nothing.

But inside, something twisted tight.

Twenty minutes later, I found him.

The hotel bar was dimly lit, the soft glow of moody lights reflecting off rows of glass bottles and polished wooden surfaces. A handful of tourists sat scattered at tables, sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending Switzerland’s chill wasn’t biting.

And there he was.

Noah.

Perched on a barstool like he owned the place, leaning toward a blonde in a short black dress. She laughed, tilting her head and tucking her hair behind her ear—the way girls do when they want to be kissed.

But the deep, maddening desire to own him.

Completely unaware of our subtle exchange, the girl turned back to him, drink in hand, and he didn’t miss a beat.

Noah took the glass, clinked it lightly against hers, and lifted it to his lips with a smile that screamed, “Fuck you.”

Then—like he could feel the fire blazing behind my eyes—he leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was a performance.

Deliberate. Sloppy. Fast. Like he was trying to prove something—to himself, maybe.

But I saw everything.

The tension in his shoulders.

The stiffness in his jaw.

The way his hand barely rested on her waist, like he was holding a mannequin.

And then—he glanced at me.

Just for a second.

Just long enough.

And fuck, I knew.

He felt nothing.

Not like he did with me. Not like when I told him to hold a plank until his body shook. Not like when I raised an eyebrow and his whole face flushed red. Not like the way his breath caught when I stepped too close and said good.

I’d seen more arousal from him when I corrected his footwork.

This wasn’t rebellion.

It was desperation.

He broke the kiss, said something to her I couldn’t hear, and she laughed again—wide-eyed, clueless, ready to follow.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and headed for the elevators, swagger in every step as if this was some kind of victory.

But I saw the truth.

I always saw him.

And he was running straight into the dark.

And two steps behind—of course—I followed.