Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 259

Chapter 259

Aiden

Game day was supposed to feel different.

The locker room buzzed with loud music, bursts of laughter, and the familiar energy of teammates pumping each other up. Yet, for me, it all seemed distant, muffled as if I were submerged underwater. I mechanically went through the routine: calling out roll, inspecting gear, distributing travel bands, and delivering last-minute instructions. To everyone watching, I appeared calm, steady—the dependable coach they counted on.

But inside, I was utterly drained. Sleep had eluded me—not just last night, but the nights before that as well. And this exhaustion wasn’t merely physical; it was a deep, aching weariness that settled beneath my ribs and refused to leave.

I kept waiting for today to break me completely.

Noah’s behavior throughout the week had been so unlike himself—quiet, hollow, as if someone had carved out a piece of him from the inside. It terrified me to think he might not make it through the game. And the thought that I could be the cause of his collapse was unbearable.

One by one, the players began streaming out toward the buses, their voices loud and their excitement palpable in loose, animated groups.

Noah was the last to leave.

He moved deliberately, not hesitating or uncertain—just bracing himself. His duffel bag hung heavily from one shoulder, and his hair was still damp from the shower. He looked utterly exhausted—pale, drained—but there was something new in his eyes.

A faint glimmer of himself.

I followed a few steps behind as we crossed the parking lot. Up ahead, William stood near the athletic department staff, chatting with one of the coordinators, his gaze locked on Noah’s every move.

Noah quickly averted his eyes.

A flicker of something—pain, perhaps, or determination—passed over his face.

Then, just as he stepped onto the bus, he turned his head slightly—just enough for me to hear his voice.

“We need to talk,” he said.

His voice was thin and strained, but steady.

My heart stopped for a moment.

He added, barely above a whisper, “After the game.”

I swallowed hard. “Of course.”

My reply came out rougher than I intended.

He gave me the faintest grin—not quite a smile, but something resembling one. A cautious, fragile curve at the corner of his mouth, like hope was remembering what it used to feel like, even if it wasn’t sure it belonged just yet.

My heart softened.

Then he made his way down the aisle, settling among his teammates with his head bowed, earbuds in, shoulders hunched inwards.

I lingered for a moment longer before boarding the bus behind him.

The engine rumbled to life.

Outside, the entire town lined the street, waving signs, cheering, chanting our team’s name.

The atmosphere was electric.

But none of that was what made my chest ache.

It was the tiny flicker in Noah’s eyes each time our gazes met.

And in that moment, I felt like I could finally breathe—really breathe—without it hurting.

For the first time since I lost him,

I let hope in.

By the time we arrived at the hotel, everything felt like a well-rehearsed routine carried out on muscle memory. Check-in. Key envelopes distributed. Trainers unloading gear. Coordinators reviewing schedules. The lobby buzzed with noise—reporters waiting outside, families gathering, fans trying to catch a glimpse through the glass doors.

The team gathered for dinner in a private conference room. People chatted, laughed, and tried to shake off their nerves.

Noah remained silent.

But he wasn’t shut down anymore.

He was… focused.

After the meal, just before the team was dismissed for quiet time, Noah approached me. Not too close, not in an obvious way—just close enough for his voice to reach me.

“Coach,” he said evenly, “I want to run a couple routes with you. Before we go.”

It was the first time all week he had spoken to me in front of others.

I kept my tone steady.

“Yeah. Lobby lounge. Five minutes.”

Almost nothing.

But it felt like being given air after drowning.

I wanted to take his hand so badly my muscles ached with the effort of holding back. But William was watching from across the lobby—I could feel it even without looking—so I stayed still.

I just breathed.

“Together,” Noah said, his voice raw, quiet, breaking just a little.

I met his eyes, and this time, I didn’t hide anything.

“Together,” I answered.

When Noah stood and walked away, I remained seated, hands resting on the table, breathing as if I’d just sprinted a mile. It took every ounce of willpower not to get up, chase after him, and pull him into my arms—to kiss him right there in front of God, William, and the entire state of Texas.

But there would be time.

He wasn’t walking away from me.

Not anymore.

Not from us.

I didn’t know how we were going to make this work, or what we’d have to give up to keep it. I didn’t have a plan. No safety net. No guarantees.

But I didn’t care.

Not about my reputation.

Not about my career.

Not about my future.

The only thing that mattered was him—and the life he still had ahead of him. If I had to stay hidden in the shadows forever to protect that, then so be it. If I had to disappear when no one was watching, fine. If I had to give up everything I’d ever built just to stand by his side, I would.

I had already lost him once, and I would be damned if I ever lost him again.

But first—

We had a championship to win.