Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Noah

I stepped out of Coach Mercer’s office feeling like my brain was caught in a relentless storm. My thoughts swirled uncontrollably.

Was I angry? Maybe, though it felt more tangled than simple rage.

Confused? Absolutely. That was undeniable.

What on earth had I just done?

That little jab—“I thought you could handle me”—was meant as a test, a reckless challenge to my own wild suspicion that he might be the mysterious dungeon master I’d encountered before. It was a stupid, risky move that could have blown up in my face.

But nothing happened. No reaction. He looked just as stunned as I was. Instead, I ended up trembling under his sharp gaze like a clueless rookie who’d just been caught off guard. I could barely focus during training as it was, but this? This was a whole new level of foolishness, even by my standards.

Then there was the way he snapped back at me—his voice sharp, his presence looming. He circled me like some kind of predator, towering over me with an intensity that made my skin crawl.

“Sir,” he said.

He insisted I call him Sir.

Not the team. Not the others. Just me.

What the hell kind of dynamic was that?

I tried to shrug it off, telling myself I was just rattled, tired, off my game.

But it wasn’t only the words—it was the way he said them. That same calm authority. That slow, chilling control.

Ridiculous. I was reading too much into nothing. Making a fool of myself again.

Still… the heat burning in my chest refused to fade, no matter who he really was.

Was it just adrenaline?

Or something darker?

Because deep inside, a part of me wanted him to be that man—the one who could control me, make me feel small and shaken, unravelled.

Turned on.

Wait—what?

Turned on?

I wasn’t gay. That had never been a question.

Unless…

Unless I was some kind of broken masochist, wired to crave control, obedience, punishment.

That would explain a lot. Sort of. If I squinted hard enough and let my mind wander through enough psychological loopholes.

This whole situation had thrown me into a dizzying loop. One I was still trapped in when my phone buzzed.

I grabbed it quickly.

Holy shit. It was from my ObeyNet app. My chest tightened.

Mr. A: “Tomorrow, you will find a way to demonstrate obedience in real life. No negotiation. No delay.”

Time seemed to freeze.

I read the message again.

In real life.

My mouth dried up instantly.

No. No, no, no.

I sank down onto the edge of my bed, phone in hand, heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst.

Was he serious?

Was this just some random internet flex of control, like always?

Or…

Did he actually know something?

I thought of Coach Mercer’s deep, cutting voice. The way he’d said Sir. The way he’d stared at me like I was already his possession.

My fingers twitched involuntarily.

I dropped the phone as if it burned my skin.

It buzzed again.

Coach Mercer:

“You’ll be flying to Geneva with me tomorrow. Pack for a few days. You’ll be listed as a training assistant. Be outside by 6 a.m.”

I froze completely.

Geneva?

Training assistant?

I stared at the message until the screen dimmed. My pulse hammered wildly in my chest.

Two messages. Two voices. The same cold, commanding tone.

God help me…

Was he Mr. A?

My hands trembled as I typed my reply.

ME:

“Geneva, as in… Switzerland??”

Coach Mercer:

“I’m glad you know your geography.”

ME:

My jaw tightened. I reached for the laptop again, silently. Something between pride and panic—maybe trauma-fueled instinct—made my hands shake.

Version three: I poured everything I had into it. A quote from the head coach. A heartfelt message of unity. It was solid. It had to be.

He didn’t even blink.

“Unprofessional.”

My palms were slick with sweat. My throat felt like sandpaper. The cabin’s air conditioning chilled the room, but my body burned from the inside out.

His eyes stayed fixed on me—quiet, focused. Like he was studying me, not the draft.

Why did his disapproval feel like punishment?

I’d spent my entire life under my father’s harsh control—his temper, his insults—but nothing had ever burrowed under my skin like this.

Why did this man’s rejection make me feel like I was breaking apart?

Was I really that useless?

The frustration spiraled into something deeper—tight, breathless, panicked.

“I—I’m trying,” I whispered, almost holding my breath.

He leaned in slowly, deliberately. A warm hand settled on my shoulder.

And then his voice—low, firm, devastating—

“Breathe, baby boy.”

The words hit me like a blow.

I froze.

That voice. That phrase. That name.

My mind went completely blank. A flush of heat raced down my spine.

I couldn’t look at him.

I wouldn’t.

He pulled back without another word, then gave a reassuring nod.

“You’ll rewrite it one last time. And this time, you’ll get it right.”

I nodded silently, struggling to remember how to move my fingers.

Somewhere over France, I began typing again.

My hands still trembled.

Not from pressure.

Not from the cold.

But from the sound of his voice—

And from the moment, however brief, when I was ready to obey.