Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Aiden

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not some kind of sadist. Nor am I a complete asshole. Well… not entirely.

Everything I pushed Noah through that morning—the grueling exercises, the relentless pace, the exacting precision—was all part of a carefully crafted plan. A personalized training regimen designed to sculpt him into the best damn quarterback he could possibly be.

With just a little extra pressure thrown in. For a bit of fun.

And because, frankly, I could.

Potato, potahtoh.

He asked for discipline? He was about to get it.

He wanted to lead a team? Then he had to learn how to follow first.

Besides, this was how I was shaped—how I became the star player everyone admired before my career was cut short, before the spotlight dimmed on me too soon. Someone once pushed me beyond my limits, forced me to face my weaknesses head-on and sharpen every edge. Now, it was my turn to do that for someone else.

But with Noah, it wasn’t just about legacy.

It wasn’t simply coaching.

The more time I spent with him, the more he reminded me of myself—young, cocky, brilliant, burning with an ambition he hadn’t yet learned to control.

And the more he let me shape him, mold him, test him… the less he was just a player. He was becoming my project. My responsibility.

My newest, most chaotic addiction.

I watched him through the mirror as he strained against the resistance bands. His shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat, his spine taut, arms trembling under the effort. His body fought to resist. His ego rebelled.

But he obeyed.

And damn, if that didn’t ignite something primal deep in my gut.

By the time the physical training wrapped up, Noah was ready to take on the role of my secretary.

He arrived promptly after the healthy breakfast I’d arranged for him, not a single complaint slipping past his lips.

Well, until I handed him his next set of instructions, at which point he predictably threw his usual fit.

I snapped the folder shut in front of me and glanced at the clock. “You’ve got thirty-five minutes.”

Noah shot me a look. “You’re kidding…”

“Printing. Highlighting. Memorizing. You know the drill.” I slid the notes across the desk, a pen clipped to the folder’s edge. “Need me to spell it out again?”

His jaw clenched, but without another word, he grabbed the folder and stomped off.

I smirked.

Exactly thirty-three minutes later, he returned—papers meticulously highlighted, notes scribbled in the margins in surprisingly neat handwriting. Okay, maybe not neat. But legible enough. Mostly. He set the stack on the desk like it was some kind of offering and stood there.

Waiting.

I didn’t bother looking up.

Instead, I flicked to the next item on the day’s schedule. “Rehab consult in twenty minutes. I expect you to have Dr. Patel’s report memorized by then.”

He didn’t move.

“You’re dismissed.”

Still, he lingered. I could feel the tension radiating off him—expectant, twitchy, hopeful. Like a dog waiting for a treat that never came.

But I didn’t say good boy.

Didn’t even say thank you.

He spun on his heel and left with a frustrated huff.

Yet, when we met for the rehab consult, he had the report down cold.

Word for word.

I tested him. Pushed him. Asked questions out of order, cut him off mid-answer. And damn if he didn’t keep pace.

“Inflammation markers?” I asked suddenly.

“Down by 17%, which the doctor credits to the revised icing protocol.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And the new range-of-motion goal?”

“Seventy-five degrees by next week.”

I nodded. “You could’ve just said ‘yes,’ Blake.”

He stared at me. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” I muttered, jotting notes on the clipboard. “You’re just trying way too hard.”

He bristled. “I’m doing exactly what you asked.”

“You’re doing what I expect. That’s not the same thing.”

“Fuck,” I muttered, wiping sweat from my face.

This was the cost of almost greatness.

Of coming so close—only to lose it all.

But I kept going.

By the end, my shirt was drenched. My body pulsed with pain and adrenaline. I grabbed a towel, wiped the sweat from my neck, and headed toward the shower.

The water hit my skin like a slap. I braced myself against the cold tiles, letting the stream cascade down my back, shoulders, and chest.

And there he was again.

Noah.

Not in the gym, not in the drills—but in my mind.

His flushed skin under the harsh lights. His shirt riding up just enough to reveal the ripple of his abs. The way his lips parted when he gasped for breath—trying so hard to impress me.

I imagined his fingers on me. Rough. Curious. Learning.

His body pressed against mine, trembling not from exertion…

But from the edge of surrender.

His mouth trailing down my stomach. His voice whispering “Sir,” not with defiance, but with reverence.

My hand slid down.

And for one agonizing, glorious moment—I let myself imagine what it would feel like to own him.

Not just to train him.

But to fully submit him.

My mind was lost in the fantasy—my hand slowly wrapping around myself—when the gym door opened and closed.

I froze.

Water still running, heart pounding, hand clenched at my side.

Then I heard footsteps.

Light. Hesitant.

Familiar.