Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Noah

The sound of the door clicking shut behind me echoed through the empty hallway, and suddenly, I was completely alone for the first time all day.

I stood still for a moment, my hands clenched tightly at my sides, my heart pounding relentlessly in my chest. My duffel bag lay heavy on the floor beside me, its weight a reminder of the day’s struggles. I hadn’t even bothered to change out of my training clothes—still damp with sweat, still carrying the sharp scent of nerves, jet fuel, and the bitter taste of failure.

The exhaustion I felt wasn’t physical—it was something deeper, a mental drain that left me feeling hollow, like a vital piece of me had been ripped away and replaced with static noise.

Coach Aiden’s presence had been stressful enough on its own, but being directly challenged by him—pushed beyond my comfort zone—was downright unsettling.

He hadn’t once raised his voice.

That wasn’t necessary.

The way he looked at me after reading my third draft—his gaze blank, unreadable, tinged with subtle disappointment—was enough to make my stomach twist into knots.

Every word I wrote had hit me like a punch, bruising more than any tackle I’d ever endured on the field.

I wasn’t a writer. I wasn’t polished or refined. I wasn’t some golden boy trained in PR spin.

I was a football player. That was supposed to be enough.

But I couldn’t even say I was angry. Instead, I felt something else—a strange, aching sadness.

That feeling was all too familiar. Too painfully familiar.

You’re pathetic, my father’s voice whispered cruelly inside my head. You get off on being scolded, don’t you? Maybe that’s all you’re good for. That pretty face and fragile pride.

Did I?

I wasn’t sure.

When Coach rejected my work, it stung. But then his tone shifted—just barely—softer, calmer, more measured. No longer cold, but steady. In control.

He didn’t mock me. He didn’t ridicule me.

He simply… reassured me. And that—God, that—meant more than I wanted to admit.

It felt like he actually believed in me. Trusted me.

And somehow, that quiet steadiness was enough.

I rewrote the damn thing. Slower this time. More focused. More deliberate.

When I handed it back, he gave me the smallest nod—just once.

A tiny, sharp flick of approval.

It shouldn’t have mattered, but it did.

That small gesture sparked something inside me—something dark and addictive.

I told myself it was just relief. But the feeling ran deeper.

Darker.

Like I’d passed some impossible test, and the reward wasn’t praise.

It was pleasing him.

Why the hell did the idea of pleasing this man make me feel proud?

And why did it almost… excite me?

God, no…

I collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The room felt oppressively still, too quiet. I should have been proud of myself. Should have let it go.

But his voice kept echoing in my mind. The trust. The subtle shift in tone. Like he knew exactly how to pull me back from the edge—and did it deliberately.

It reminded me of someone else.

Mr. A.

The thought twisted something deep in my gut. Unwelcome, unavoidable.

I tried to push it away. I grabbed my phone, opened my messages, then closed them again.

The silence pressed in harder. The idea of Mr. A completely dominating me, turning me into something I wasn’t… Was I?

But somehow, it was Coach Aiden’s face I saw—commanding me, punishing me.

What the hell…?

I turned onto my side, restless and tense. My fingers twitched. My stomach clenched. And amid all that frustration and tangled thoughts, my body responded.

I was hard. Aching.

I tried to fight it, but all I could see was Coach. Not the one from practice. The one from the plane. The one who leaned close, breathing calm, steady words against my skin. The one who looked at me like he could see through every wall I’d built.

And I hated how that made me feel.

Exposed. Vulnerable.

Wanting more.

I kicked off my pants and shoved the blankets aside, rolling onto my back. My breath was already uneven. I closed my eyes and wrapped a hand around my cock, trying to think of anyone else—some faceless hookup, one of the hot cheerleaders who used to blow me. Anyone but him.

But he was already there.

Aiden Mercer.

His voice. His scent. The terrifying calm of his command.

I stroked faster, frustration simmering beneath the surface. I didn’t want to want this. Didn’t want to need his approval, his attention, his—

My head fell back against the pillows.

It should have been relief. But it wasn’t. It was more like a storm breaking loose inside me—ugly, hot, and full of shame. My hand moved faster, breath catching in my throat. The pressure intensified with every memory flashing behind my eyelids. Aiden towering over me on the field. Aiden leaning close in the office. Aiden calling me out in front of everyone, knowing exactly what he was doing.

I groaned softly, stroking harder at the thought of his muscles flexing beneath his shirt. My thighs tensed. My back arched slightly as a thin stream of pre-cum dribbled from my swollen head.

I could see him—right there in my mind. Not gentle. Not sweet. Just sure. Commanding. Dangerous. And in some hidden part of me I refused to admit existed—I needed that. Needed him.

My breath hitched. My muscles clenched tight.

That’s exhausting, isn’t it?

I stared at those words like he’d crawled inside my skull.

ME:

What makes you say that?

Mr. A:

I know your type.

And so far, I’ve been right.

I exhaled sharply. The air in my room felt heavier, thicker. Like I couldn’t breathe right.

ME:

It’s been a shitty day.

That’s all.

Mr. A:

Tell me what made it shitty.

I hesitated.

No one had ever asked me that before. Not really. People asked out of politeness or because they were waiting for their turn to talk about themselves. But this felt different. He wasn’t trying to relate. He was digging it out of me, slow and sharp.

I should have logged off. Should have kept my mouth shut.

But instead, I typed.

ME:

I messed something up.

Got told I was sloppy, unprepared, not good enough.

And the worst part? I agreed with all of it.

I’m not good at this shit.

Mr. A:

At what? Performing?

ME:

At everything outside of football.

Talking. Writing. Being…

Normal.

I closed my eyes after hitting send, the weight of the day pressing down on me like a storm about to break.