Crossing Lines Chapter 79

**Aiden**

I wasn’t at home.

I should’ve been. That was the plan. But I was so fucking dependent on this kid that I couldn’t stand being at my place without him in it. If Noah ever decided to leave me, I was gonna have to look for a new place… 

So, instead of waiting for him in the silence of my own house, I found myself at a corner table of a pub I’d been coming to for years, nursing a drink I wasn’t even tasting, watching the bubbles climb the glass while my thoughts circled tighter and tighter.

Things had been moving too fast, too intense, to the point of obsession and daily risks. It was madness. And yet…

I couldn’t stop—I was consumed by him.

He’d played so fucking well today. His speed had sharpened, his cuts crisp, his reads clean. His release on the quick slant was flawless, his dropbacks smooth, and the way he connected with Keon on the deep post was textbook. He was faster, sharper, more focused than I’d ever seen him. One of the best players I’d ever trained—or played with.

He had a future. A bright one.

And it was my job to make sure nothing—*no one*—dimmed that.

That was why I was here. Not because I wanted distance from him, but because I needed to clear my head long enough to plan. To strategize. I couldn’t just think as his Master. I had to think as his coach. As the man responsible for shaping the next few years of his life.

I pulled out my tablet and opened the contact lists I’d been updating for months. Sponsors, local press, alumni, donors. Names that mattered. I sent the first batch of invitations—highlighting the team, yes, but planting the seed of something more. Our first game. Our rising star. Hints dropped like bread crumbs about the quarterback with the arm, the vision, the presence.

It was all about Noah.

He didn’t even know it yet, but the world was about to.

Because if it came down to it, I’d rather sacrifice myself than let him waste his potential. If that meant stepping back, if that meant watching him shine from the sidelines of his life instead of holding him too tight in mine, I’d do it. I had to.

At least, that was what I told myself.

I was toying with the idea of messaging him, assessing the pros and cons of appearing overly controlling, when my phone buzzed across the table, pulling me out of sponsor lists and polished wording. His name lit up the screen.

*Where are you?*

A smile tugged at my mouth despite myself. I typed back, slow.

**You keeping tabs on me, boy? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?**

The reply came fast.

*Well… aren’t you?*

I let the words sit there a moment, staring at the glow of the screen. Then I answered.

**Should I? Are you doing anything you shouldn’t?**

There was a long pause. I could almost see him chewing his lip, debating, before the next messages came through rapid-fire.

*According to my friends and this girl—Cindy—clinging to me like a baby monkey, I am.*

*They think I should come up with hot games for the party (which I’ve been).*

*Drinking (which I’m pretending to do).*

*And going home with this girl, who everyone thinks I slept with—including her apparently, who was drunk enough Saturday to think she did.*

*(But I refuse to do).*

My jaw clenched. Heat shot through me, sharp and immediate. Cindy. His so-called cover, I bet. The idea of her hands on him, of her even thinking she had him—it made my blood boil.

Another ping.

*I’m bored. I wanna get out of here.*

My thumb hovered, pulse pounding. He was unraveling. Confessing. Begging me to anchor him.

I typed back one line.

**Meet me at Spencer’s.**

And hit send.

****

Spencer’s was one of the few places I trusted for myself—clean lines, high quality, never gaudy. I’d all but sprinted here, though I forced myself to slow before stepping through the doors so I wouldn’t look too eager.

The first floor gleamed with rows of fashion and accessories: polished leather shoes lined up like soldiers, silk ties draped in neat color stories, cufflinks sparkling under glass, and a small section devoted to “toys” for men who thought status came in watches and fountain pens. I stopped near the perfume counter at the entrance, pretending to study a few of the brands, while my eyes flicked to the door every time it opened.

Then he walked in.

Looking around like he’d stepped onto another planet, lips pursed in a low whistle. His T-shirt and worn jeans made him stick out like a sore thumb among marble floors and tailored mannequins, and I felt my mouth twitch at the sight. He was both lost and magnetic—every bit mine, even here.

“Sir,” he breathed when he found me, low, cautious. His eyes darted to the staff hovering nearby.

“*Coach*,” I corrected him back, though my gaze lingered longer than it should have. His blush spread across his face, and I drank it in before turning away.

“Come.” I led him up the staircase to the second floor, where Spencer’s truly shined. Racks of fine suits stood in ordered rows, colors muted and rich—charcoal, navy, black, with the occasional daring cut in midnight blue or hunter green. This was where I’d bought my own. And from the moment the donor’s dinner had been set, I’d known Noah would need one.

We reached the second floor, the world of tailored precision. Rows of fine suits stretched in perfect order—navy, charcoal, black, and the occasional bold hunter green or midnight blue. Noah slowed, eyes going wide.

“Shopping, Coach?” he said, a whistle slipping out before he could stop it. “Holy shit. You going to a ball with the king or something?”

I glanced at him, expression calm. “You are. With the kings and queens of Texas who invest in you and your team.”

His head snapped toward me, eyes wide. “Wait—me?”

“Yes, you,” I said. “The donor’s dinner. Every player represents the program, the school, and me. You’ll stand in front of alumni, sponsors, scouts. You’ll look the part. You’ll look like you belong.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, uneasy. “I just—I can’t afford any of this. I was thinking of borrowing one or maybe hitting a secondhand shop, to be honest.”

I stopped, made sure he was looking at me. “This isn’t charity, Noah. And it isn’t optional. You’re not buying a suit for yourself—you’re wearing one because the program demands it. Every man who puts on this jersey is an ambassador. You’re no different. At these events, every player represents the team—and me. It’s our responsibility to make sure you look the part. You’ll stand shoulder to shoulder with alumni, donors, and scouts, looking your best, because you deserve to be taken seriously.”

He shifted, embarrassed but listening, the fight softening in his eyes.

“Do you understand?” I asked.

After a moment, he nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

He tried on the first suit—navy, slim cut. The moment he stepped out, something caught in my chest. The boy who always looked scrappy, wild curls and raw edges, suddenly looked… elevated. Dignified. Like he belonged to a different world.

He tugged at the collar, cheeks red. “Jesus. I look like some kind of aristocrat.”

I smirked. “You look like someone who’s about to own a room.”

The sales clerk brought ties, shirts, shoes. Noah fumbled with the options, holding a tie up to his neck and making a face, then trading it for another. His awkwardness made me want to laugh, but also—God—it was beautiful. The excitement just under the embarrassment, the way his eyes flicked to me for approval every time.

When he stepped out in the full suit, polished shoes, matching tie, crisp shirt, I let my gaze drag over him, slow and unhidden.

“Let’s go home.”