Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 237

Aiden

Once more, I had surrendered to him.

But this time, it wasn’t a reckless act or a passing whim.

I wanted it. I craved it.

That made me the biggest jerk alive, because I was painfully aware of what last night meant to Noah.

From my perspective, he could feel the pain now or endure it later. Usually, I’d choose to rip off the bandage quickly, let the wound bleed openly.

But not this time.

There was still one game left.

One final chance to send him onto that field as the best version of himself—one last opportunity for glory.

So I convinced myself that this was my responsibility: to send him off with a kiss instead of a scar. To give him every ounce of strength I had left before I was empty.

Yes, I was toying with his emotions.

Yes, I was confusing him with mixed signals.

And yes, I was about to break his heart.

But not yet.

He deserved to reach that final without pain clouding his mind. He deserved freedom, success, a future untouched by fear or control. And when he finally had all that—when he looked back on the life he built and realized what I’d done—maybe he’d forgive me.

Maybe he’d understand that breaking his heart was the greatest gift I could have given him.

***

The days that followed blurred together, stretched thin between two separate worlds.

On campus, the air thrummed with anticipation. The locker rooms reeked of sweat, adrenaline, and nervous energy. The halls buzzed with whispers of scouts and dreams of victory. The boys ran on empty, and I was no better. I pushed them harder than ever—longer drills, tighter formations, endless play reviews until their exhaustion sharpened into flawless execution. This was it: one final masterpiece before the curtain dropped.

I hung up, staring at the dark screen of my phone. If I was going back to that world, I might as well start setting the stage right.

Which meant Micah.

That night, after another exhausting session reviewing plays, I sat alone in the dark, phone in hand, and finally made the call.

He answered immediately, breathless, as if he’d been waiting for me.

“Sir?”

“Micah.” My voice came out lower than intended. “I want to see you this weekend.”

There was a pause, then a sharp intake of breath. “Wait—seriously? It’s over already? Season done?” His voice brightened, eager and alive. “Oh my God, are we on again?”

“Not quite,” I said. “The season isn’t over yet, and we’re not officially on anything, so don’t get ahead of yourself.”

I could hear the grin in his voice even through the line. “Too late.”