Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 69

Chapter 69

Noah

Honestly, I was on fire.

Summer bootcamp was supposed to be grueling and exhausting, but somehow, everything had clicked into place for me. My passes were sharper than ever, my reads more precise, and my movements felt fluid, like my body had finally caught up with the speed of my mind. Even Coach Aiden’s brutal conditioning drills, which used to leave me gasping for air, didn’t feel as punishing anymore. Sure, they still pushed me to my limits, but now I was pushing back—and earning respect in the process.

The guys on the team had definitely noticed the change. The casual nods during drills had evolved into fist bumps after plays. “Blake, you’re a machine today!” someone shouted. “Man, that footwork is insane!” another chimed in. “What’s your secret, dude?” I caught myself grinning more than once. It felt surreal, like I was finally shedding the label of the rookie and stepping into my role as a real contender. Even Keon—the guy who acted way too cool for anything—had stopped calling me “Rookie” and started referring to me as “QB.”

This was new territory for me.

On top of that, people actually wanted to hang out. Keon brought up a beach party again, and Miguel was throwing around pizza night plans like we were already best buds. Last week alone, at least three guys had asked for my social media, and my inbox was cluttered with messages from three different cheerleaders—all unread because I wasn’t sure how to respond.

The problem? I had no free time. Not a single night.

Coach Aiden didn’t ask for explanations. He didn’t need to. The moment practice ended, I was expected at his place—no questions asked. Training, discipline, structure—that was the unspoken agreement between us.

But how long could I keep dodging social invites before I started looking like the weird, antisocial scholarship kid who vanished every evening like he had a parole officer to report to?

I needed a solid excuse. Something believable enough to explain why I couldn’t join late-night hangouts or movie marathons without sounding like I was secretly married or working the night shift at some shady place. I thought about saying I was in a recovery program—but that would make parties awkward. Maybe a job? But eventually, that would require pay stubs. A sick relative? Too morbid and hard to maintain.

God, I craved those hours with Aiden. The control. The silence. The way my body obeyed him even when my mind screamed to rebel. I wasn’t about to give that up. Not for anything. But I also couldn’t afford to be an outsider here. If I wanted to go pro, I needed allies on this team. I needed friends.

And there was no way I could just say, “Sorry, guys, I’ve got to go get edged by my dominant coach while he makes me recite game plays and calls me ‘boy.’”

Yeah, that would go over well.

The conflict inside me only grew worse—and let’s be honest, so did my craving for Aiden—because we spent every single second together on the field.

Coach Mercer wasn’t just involved; he was hands-on. Every rep, every play, every drill—I could feel him watching me, hovering close, barking orders that sounded way too much like commands meant for somewhere dark and private, not a football field. Lately, I was pretty sure he was enjoying it—enjoying me—way too much.

Especially when I started blushing.

Like that one day during scrimmage when I nailed a perfect long throw, and he came up behind me so close I could feel his breath on my ear.

“Good boy.”

I nearly dropped to my knees right there on the turf.

What the hell was he thinking? What the hell was I thinking? My brain short-circuited, and my cock stirred like it didn’t care that we were surrounded by twenty sweaty guys and a whole field full of potential witnesses.

And the worst part? That wasn’t the end of it.

***

Sometimes he’d slip in a soft “attaboy” with a low, amused edge to his voice, like he knew exactly how it affected me. Or he’d place his hand a little too low on my back when correcting my stance, letting it linger just long enough to mess with my head.

It had been four fucking days since he’d let me come. Four whole days.

Which meant I’d been practicing under strict orgasm control, grinding through 90% of the day twitching in my jock like some desperate perv every time he said my name with that tone. And he knew. Oh, he knew.

By the end of practice, I was a walking hormone grenade—a sweaty, overstimulated, blue-balled mess desperately trying not to lose it in front of half the starting lineup.

Miguel shrugged dramatically. “Oh, yeees… With him, I need that, and badly.”

Keon ignored Miguel and turned to me, squinting like he was reading a complicated play. “And judging by your lack of a social life and the way you’ve been walking around like you’re about to snap, so do you.”

I stared at him, unsure how to respond. “Thanks?”

He smirked. “Which brings us to why we wanted to talk to you.”

Miguel’s eyes lit up. “Tomorrow’s Keon’s birthday.”

“Really? Happy birthday, man!” I said, patting his shoulder.

***

Keon flashed me a toothy grin. “You have to come to the party. Tomorrow night, Friday. We’re throwing down at the team house—beer, music, dumb party games, the usual chaos. And yes, there’ll be girls. Hot ones.”

“And boys,” Miguel added with a wink, shooting me a pointed look. “Equal opportunity chaos.”

Keon snorted. “Just come, man. You’ve been killing it on the field, and it’s summer. You deserve to blow off some steam.”

I forced a smile and grabbed my cleats from the floor. “Count me in. That sounds like fun.”

What might not be quite as fun was asking Aiden for Friday night off.

But hey, it was just one night… What could possibly go wrong?