Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 253

Chapter 253

Aiden

The days kept moving forward relentlessly, as if time itself refused to pause just because a life was unraveling. I showed up to practice, ran drills, corrected stances, barked out plays, analyzed game footage—and all the while, I pretended I was holding it together. The team was gearing up for the championship game on Friday, the pinnacle of the season, and I was supposed to be their unwavering anchor, the steady force keeping everything intact.

But I had never attempted to do that while my own world was crumbling beneath me.

Every morning, I promised myself I would finally explain everything to Noah. I rehearsed in my mind what I would say: the truth about what happened, what never happened, the intentions I had, the mistakes I almost made, and the painful realizations I’d come to. I practiced those words so often they dissolved inside my mouth before I could get them out.

Yet Noah never met my gaze.

Not once.

He was physically present at practice. He ran the drills, lifted weights, blocked opponents, pushed through plays—he played the game. But it was mechanical, devoid of the spark that had always been there. His body moved, but his mind was drifting somewhere far away. The fire that used to burn fiercely in his eyes—reckless, hungry, bright—was extinguished. In its place was a hollow emptiness. He wasn’t playing badly, but it wasn’t the Noah I knew. He wasn’t leading the team, wasn’t speaking up, wasn’t really there.

It was obvious enough that even the others noticed. Still, no one dared to say a word.

And I couldn’t blame him.

Not for shutting down.

Not for running away.

Not for believing the painful truth he saw.

I blamed myself. For Micah. For the plan. For thinking I could control which ghosts haunted Noah’s life and which ones I could keep at bay. I told myself I’d done it to protect him, to shield him, to give him a future. But now the truth tasted bitter and raw: I had acted out of fear—fear that Noah would choose me, and in doing so, destroy himself.

I had been wrong.

And now, both of us were paying the price.

On Tuesday, after practice ended, I reached my breaking point. The locker room buzzed with the usual post-win energy—laughter, jokes, the clatter of lockers slamming shut. Noah stood by his locker, quietly lacing up his shoes.

I approached him, waiting until he barely turned his head, acknowledging I was there without ever meeting my eyes.

“Noah,” I said carefully, keeping my voice steady. “Can I have a word?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His gaze flicked briefly to his teammates, then back straight ahead. “I’m listening, Coach.”

No private corner. No step aside. No crack in the wall between us.

Just that single word.

I heard Noah’s voice inside the room—too soft to make out words. My heart skipped. For a moment, I thought about asking to speak to him anyway.

Just one minute. One breath. One chance.

But he never came to the door.

I turned and walked away, the hallway stretching longer than any field I had ever crossed. The walls felt like they were closing in, the fluorescent lights glaring too brightly, and the whole world seemed wrong in a way I couldn’t name.

By Thursday morning, my worries had shifted. It wasn’t just about the championship anymore.

I was worried about Noah.

He was beginning to act as if nothing mattered to him anymore—on and off the field. I knew I had to do something.

Something drastic.

The locker room emptied slowly after the last drills. The harsh, cold light buzzed overhead, reflecting off the tile floor and steel lockers.

2:00 pm PDDD

Crossing Lines