Crossing Lines Chapter 52

**Aiden**

I didn’t give a damn about frat parties.

Never had. Never would.

But somewhere between watching Noah nearly kill himself in practice today and remembering the way he’d begged to go, an idea hit me. If he wanted this so badly, fine. I’d let him have it.

And I’d give him a spoonful of his own medicine while I was at it. Two could play that game.

Noah Blake was an impossibly gorgeous boy—flawless body, that all-American face caught somewhere between innocence and pure mischief. He could drive a man mad with every inappropriate thought in the book. But I was no stranger to turning heads either.

At thirty-five, I still had the body of an athlete, every muscle honed and kept in fighting form. Broad shoulders, a chest that filled out any shirt, and eyes that women had been losing their breath over for years. I’d been highly desired by both men and women for as long as I could remember.

But tonight, I wasn’t here to flirt. For better or worse, my mind was wrapped around that stubborn, maddeningly addictive boy of mine.

It was time he understood—he wasn’t the only one with a choice.

****

I wanted to look tonight like one of them—not the coach, not the authority figure, but just another guy there to relax and have a drink. No whistle, no stopwatch, no clipboard.

Of course, the second I stepped through the door, casual or not, heads turned. The music thumped low in my chest, laughter rolled through the room, and more than a few pairs of eyes found me immediately.

I let my gaze drift over the crowd, forcing a polite smile instead of focusing on what all this beer, cheap liquor, and fried food was going to do to the bodies I’d been working so hard to perfect over the summer. That was my coach brain talking—tonight wasn’t about being a teacher or a disciplinarian. I shoved the thought away.

Then I saw him.

Noah. As breathtaking as ever.

It was instant—his gaze locking on mine, and I could swear that gorgeous, smart-ass mouth of his dropped just a little. It was the first time he’d seen me anywhere that wasn’t a field, a weight room, or my house. Just a young man, dressed to turn heads, looking like he was ready to have a good time.

I only let my eyes linger a second before I looked away on purpose. No need to feed his ego right out of the gate.

Miguel was the first to reach me, beer in hand, wearing a smile that could’ve passed for innocent if it wasn’t so blatantly flirtatious. He was a good-looking kid—tall, lean, with eyes that said he knew exactly how to get what he wanted. But I wasn’t interested.

I accepted the beer anyway, giving him a smile that made him flush from the collar up.

“Thanks.”

“Wanna look around?” he asked, too quickly.

I was more than familiar with the campus and the people in this room, but I decided to humor him. “Lead the way.”

The tour was little more than weaving through clusters of sweaty football players, giggling girls, and way too much perfume until we got to Keon—and by default, Noah.

“You guys having a good time?” I asked, nodding to both of them.

Before either could answer, a voice called my name from behind. I turned to see Marcus Kane, a former player of mine and one of Keon’s close friends, making his way over.

“Coach Mercer! Damn, it’s good to see you,” he said, clapping my shoulder. “Man, I never thanked you enough for that NFL recommendation. I’ve been killing it since I left college last year.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said, meaning it.

“Come on, I gotta introduce you to a couple of the new guys I’ve been working with.”

I let him pull me away, exchanging a quick nod toward a very jealous-looking Noah before the crowd swallowed me. 

We hadn’t walked ten feet when a familiar voice, dripping with venom, cut through the noise.

“Well, if it isn’t almighty Coach Mercer…”

I turned, schooling my features into something calm. “How are you doing, Devon?”

Devon Reilly. My former quarterback—and one of the most arrogant, resentful, petty, and manipulative players I’d ever had the misfortune to coach. He’d been great on the field, no denying that, but he was a natural-born troublemaker. A dirty player with a pathological need to bend the truth until it broke.

I’d had to cut him loose after he showed up to our final game high on something strong enough to make his pupils swallow his irises. He’d nearly broken another player’s nose during the first quarter.

Devon’s mouth twisted into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Guess you traded up. Heard you’ve got yourself a new golden boy now. Hope he knows how long that spot lasts with you.”

Before I could answer, Marcus’s voice came from behind me, sharp enough to slice the tension. “Drop it, Reilly.”

Devon’s gaze lingered on me a second longer before he scoffed and shouldered past.

Marcus clapped me on the back, his tone lighter. “C’mon, ignore him.”

I let Marcus steer me toward a circle of guys who were way too eager to shove another beer into my hand. Before I knew it, someone pressed a red Solo cup into my palm and declared me their ringer for beer pong.

Apparently, the rumor was that I’d been an expert back in my college days.

They weren’t wrong.

The first throw hit dead center, earning a round of cheers. I smirked, lined up the second, and sank that one too. The game carried on with guys jostling my shoulder for luck and shoving drinks at me like we were old frat brothers instead of coach and former players.

But even in the noise, I felt him.

Across the room, Noah leaned back against the wall, beer in hand, watching me like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to glare me into ash or drag me upstairs. His hand ran through his hair—slow, deliberate—the way he always did when his nerves were chewing at him.

And all I could think about was taking him out of there and getting those hands and that mouth around my cock instead.

I downed another cup, pretending not to notice him, but every nerve in my body was tuned to his gaze. The heat in it. The edge.

Then I saw her.

Lexie Hart.

Beautiful, sharp-eyed, and currently looking at Noah like he was the last glass of water in the desert.

I tossed the next ball, sank it without looking, and tried not to let the irritation curl too obviously through my smile.

For all the attention I’d gotten since walking in, not once had I stepped close enough to anyone to threaten what Noah and I had.

A couple of girls had gotten bold, pressing up against me and purring invitations to “show them the view upstairs.” And one of the players—despite trying to keep face—had leaned in to murmur that he’d love some “private coaching” from me anytime.

Any other time in my life, I might’ve taken one of them up on it. I wasn’t a saint. I’d had my fill of quick flings and casual indulgences. But since Noah, the idea of anyone else touching me felt… wrong. Unappealing. Like drinking flat beer after you’ve tasted something rare and intoxicating.

Noah had ruined me for anyone else, and I’d let him. Happily.

That’s why, when my next glance across the room caught him leaning in toward Lexie—smiling, laughing, looking every inch the golden boy she’d probably dreamed of since cheer camp—something sharp and dangerous crossed my mind.

If he wanted to play with fire tonight, I’d be more than happy to show him how quickly it could burn.