Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Noali

I had convinced myself I was outsmarting him.

I believed I was coming out on top.

That morning, I woke up feeling ridiculously proud, imagining Coach tossing and turning in his hotel room, consumed by anger after the little stunt I pulled the night before. I pictured him pacing back and forth, jaw tight, replaying every moment of what he had witnessed—and the best part?

I didn’t feel an ounce of regret.

Not at first.

The way he shot me that icy glare at breakfast? Totally worth it.

The fierce fire blazing in his eyes? Absolutely worth it.

The fact that, for once, I managed to get under his skin instead of the other way around? So damn worth it.

But everything changed the moment he dragged me into that narrow hallway.

The instant his voice dropped low and he unleashed his fury?

Something inside me shifted.

Sure, I kept my cool outwardly. I fired back at him, even leaned into the bratty attitude with a teasing “go ahead, punish me,” because, hell, why stop when you’re already speeding toward disaster?

But deep down?

Between the third pastry I’d devoured and that hallway confrontation, a chilling thought struck me.

What if someone else had walked in last night?

What if hotel staff had caught us? What if that girl’s dad was staying just next door? What if some random stranger had recorded everything?

I hadn’t considered any of that. Not even a little bit.

And that terrified me.

I’d fought tooth and nail for this chance—my career, my future—and here I was, risking it all for a petty power play born from frustration and, frankly, a reckless impulse.

Coach Mercer wasn’t seeing the disciplined athlete I’d worked so hard to become. He wasn’t seeing the driven rookie hungry to prove herself. Instead, he was witnessing the stubborn, impulsive mess I thought I’d left behind in West Virginia.

Maybe I should have saved my rebellion for outside the team.

For the bedroom.

For Mr. A.

At least with him, I thought, I could let this wild side of me run free without consequences.

That was until Coach whispered that one warning phrase.

The moment I heard it, my entire body froze. I knew that sentence. I’d seen it before. Mr. A had typed it to me.

It wasn’t a coincidence.

Not unless Coach Mercer had been reading my messages.

Suddenly, the subtle signs I’d been ignoring—the tension, the way he controlled the conversation, the tone of his voice—came crashing down on me like a heavy weight pressing against my chest.

He knew.

He’d known all along.

And yet, he let me keep talking. Allowed me to pour out my heart, confess secrets I’d never dared speak aloud. Let me expose myself—emotionally and literally—to someone I thought was anonymous. All the while, he sat there quietly, lurking in the shadows behind his perfect, unbreakable Coach mask.

The betrayal stung deeper than the confusion. But the arousal? That was still there, undeniable.

It was messed up. My body couldn’t decide whether to strike out or crawl back into his lap.

So here I was—at the gym—pushing through every grueling set in my program like the weights owed me an apology. Deadlifts. Lunges. Push-ups until my arms trembled. My knuckles white as I gripped the bar. And all the while, my mind kept replaying every word, every moan, every intense look.

He’s Mr. A.

He has to be.

And if he didn’t come clean soon?

I’d drag the truth out of him.

One way or another.

Sweat drenched me completely, trickling down my back, soaking through my shirt, clinging to the waistband of my shorts. My arms burned with fatigue. My legs felt like heavy bricks. But I was too consumed by rage to care.

That wasn’t cramps.

Don’t I have any spine? Haven’t I grown enough to hold onto my pride?

Apparently not.

“Fuck you, asshole,” I snapped, dropping the weights. “I don’t need your praise.”

“Really?” he said, stepping in front of me, his gaze dropping to a dangerous place. “Because your crotch says otherwise.”

I flushed hotly. “You’re such a dick.”

“No,” he said with a cold smile. “I just think you’re a liar.”

Heat crept up my neck. My chest heaved—not from the weights anymore, but from everything else.

“And you’re a coward!” I shoved past him. “Hiding who you really are from everyone.”

He followed calmly, controlled and dangerous. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The hell you don’t,” I snapped. “You think I’m stupid?”

“Noali—”

“You think I haven’t figured it out? That I wouldn’t recognize your words in my sleep?”

He stopped.

I spun to face him, fury burning through the last shreds of restraint I had left.

“Why don’t you just confess who you are?” I spat. “What’s stopping you, Coach? Afraid it’s all a lie? That the man behind the screen isn’t dominant at all, but just a face for a man with no balls to own it in real life?”

I pressed forward, chest to chest, daring him to deny it.

“To be…”

A breath.

A heartbeat.

“…Mr. A?”