Crossing Lines Chapter 31

**Noah**

I woke up with my mouth tasting like chlorine and cheap beer, my head pounding like I’d slammed it against the side of the pool. I hadn’t even drunk that much at all, not really, apart from the half beer I nursed for hours, but guilt has a way of turning everything into a hangover.

My phone blinked on the nightstand. I grabbed it with a groan, blinking away the sleep.

*1 Message - Aiden (11:43 p.m.)*

That sinking, stomach-flipping guilt hit me like a brick.

I didn’t open it.

Didn’t reply.

Didn’t even breathe for a second.

I just stared at the screen and told myself it wasn’t that bad. I hadn’t broken any rules. Not *technically*. We’d said weekends, and it was Sunday night. I hadn’t done anything. I hadn’t kissed anyone. I hadn’t—

I shoved the phone face down and climbed out of bed before I could spiral further. I was going to face him. In person. Own it. Or something like that.

I got to the gym an hour early.

It was quiet, empty, the kind of dead silence that usually made me feel calm. Not today. Today, every creak of the floor, every breath I took felt too loud. I paced. Stretched. Sat on the bench near the entrance, eyes flicking to the door every few seconds.

I needed to talk to him. Alone. Maybe apologize. Maybe just explain.... But when the door finally opened, he didn’t walk in alone.

He walked in with the team.

Aiden didn’t even glance at me as they all filed in, laughing, yawning, rubbing their eyes like hungover frat boys. Which, to be fair, most of them were. My gut twisted.

Keon bumped my shoulder with a wink. “How was she last night?”

“How you think?” I whispered, turning back to our coach.

He stood in front of us, arms crossed, jaw sharp as a blade. Calm. Controlled. Unreadable.

"Good morning," he said, voice cutting through the fog like a knife. "If that’s what we want to call it."

Some guys chuckled weakly. Others just grunted.

"I’m not your babysitter," he continued. "I don’t care how many drinks you had, or who you flirted with last night. I’m not here to hold your hand and tell you it’s okay to half-ass your future."

His eyes passed over the group, but they didn’t stay on me.

"You either want this, or you don’t. You either give everything, or you give nothing. There is no middle. If you want a social club, join a frat. If you want to win, show up like it."

There were a few mumbled apologies. A yawn. Someone coughed.

I kept my mouth shut.

We got through warm-ups. He gave extra attention to almost everyone else—adjusting form, offering tips, calling out names…. But not mine.

He didn’t look at me. Not once. Not even when I pushed harder than everyone else, desperate for his attention. God, it burned, and it was actually *killing* me.

He wasn’t just mad. He was *withholding*. I could feel it in every second of silence between us. The kind that feels like punishment.

I wanted him to say something. *Anything*. Scream. Scold. Order me to kneel and beg for forgiveness.... Instead, I got a distant Coach Mercer, perfectly professional. Like I didn’t exist, and the more he ignored me, the more I hated myself for caring.

By the time we hit the field for the practice game, I was so tense I could barely see straight. My cleats bit into the turf, heart pounding, muscles tight from trying too damn hard to impress a man who wouldn’t even look at me.

He stood at the sidelines, arms crossed, watching everyone else.

I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or just… run back into his arms and beg him to tell me I was still his. Instead, I took my place on the field and tried not to fall apart.

By the time we made it to the field, the sun was already threatening to roast us alive. My head throbbed from the remnants of last night, but I powered through the warm-up like I’d gotten ten hours of sleep and hadn’t made a total ass of myself.

This was my penance.

I ran the plays with sharp precision, barking commands, analyzing formations, pushing harder than anyone else out there. Every throw I made was clean. Every move tight. I didn’t care about the sweat stinging my eyes or the burn in my calves. All I cared about was proving I belonged here.

Aiden barely glanced at me.

He spent most of the session working with the defense. He paused drills to correct formations, walked players through their positioning, and when one of the linebackers intercepted a play, he clapped and shouted, “That’s how it’s done!”

Not once did he call out my name.

Not once did he meet my eyes.

But I didn’t quit. I pushed harder. Ran faster. Yelled louder. Anything to be noticed. Anything to be seen.

Miguel jogged over during a break, chugging water. “Dude, where do you get the energy? Whatever you’re taking, I want some.”

A few of the guys chuckled. I tried to laugh with them, but my chest was too tight.

“I’m not taking anything,” I muttered. “I just take this seriously. I have to.”

Michael raised a brow. “It’s a game, bro. Not brain surgery.”

“It’s not a game to me.”

Someone else snorted. “Jesus, take it down a notch. You’re gonna give yourself a stroke.”

I clenched my jaw, biting back the urge to snap. They didn’t get it. They didn’t know what it meant to be under a microscope every second. To be told you’re lucky to even be here.

When we returned to the scrimmage, Aiden praised the defense. “That’s the hustle I want to see. Great read, Keon.”

Keon.

Of course.

By the end of practice, I was running on fumes, but I still sprinted the final lap like my life depended on it. As I headed back toward the showers, I was about two seconds from combusting.

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered as I threw my helmet down, tugging my jersey over my head. “If I have to carry this team one more time, I swear to God—”

“Chill, man,” someone said behind me. “It’s not that deep.”

That was it.

“Not that deep?” I spun around. “You think this is easy for me? You think I got daddy’s money or a fallback plan? I am the fucking underdog. I didn’t get here on charm and connections. I had to claw my way in. I can’t afford to mess up.”

The locker room fell silent. A couple guys awkwardly looked away. Miguel stepped up, hands raised slightly.

“Okay, okay,” he said, “No one’s saying you don’t work hard. We know you do. But you don’t have to bite our heads off for it.”

I scrubbed a hand over my face, breathing hard. The words had just spilled out. They weren’t about them. Not really. They were about *him*.

Keon came up beside Miguel. “Hey. What’s going on with you, man?”

“Nothing,” I said too fast.

They exchanged a glance.

Miguel spoke more gently. “You sure? 'Cause you seem like you’re carrying something way heavier than just football.”

I didn’t answer.

We were still standing there, tension thick but cooling, when the door creaked open and Aiden stepped in. Dressed in dark slacks and a black shirt, hair still damp, he looked around once and the atmosphere shifted instantly.

The others began grabbing their gear. Within thirty seconds, it was just me and him.

And the silence between us felt like it could drown me.