Crossing Lines Chapter 80

**Noah**

The rest of the week went by in a blur. The quiet rhythm of summer—the peace, the stolen moments, the privacy—was gone, replaced by a flood of students filling every hallway, lining up to enroll, hauling boxes into dorms. It felt like the campus itself was waking up, stretching, and swallowing me whole.

And practice? Practice was hell.

“On the line!” Coach’s voice cut across the field, sharp and merciless. “You’ve got thirty seconds to reset—move, move, move!”

We stumbled into position, sweat pouring down our backs, the heat pounding off the turf like fire. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but there was no slowing. Not under him. Not with his eyes cutting into every movement like knives.

“Again!” he barked. “Slant route, crisp, no hesitation. Quarterback—eyes up, read faster. Receiver—don’t you dare cut early. Reset!”

Keon groaned under his breath, but he lined up again. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my glove, muttering a curse.

“Ready!” Aiden barked.

“Ready!” we echoed, voices ragged.

“Go!”

By the third set, guys were bent over, gasping, hands on their knees.

“Up! Nobody dies on my field!” Aiden snapped. “You think scouts give a damn if you’re tired? They want flawless. They want sharp. If one of you slips, the whole team runs again. Reset!”

Groans rose from the line, but nobody argued. We ran. And ran. And ran.

Halfway through, I noticed we weren’t alone anymore.

The cheerleaders had shown up—bright, loud, a wave of energy crashing across the sidelines. Their pom-poms glittered under the sun, and their voices carried over the field as they rehearsed opening routines for the season’s first game. The guys straightened instantly, shoulders squaring, steps sharper. Sweat-soaked, half-dead moments ago, suddenly everyone was out to prove they weren’t just surviving—they were stars.

“Look alive, boys,” Keon muttered, smirking as he tugged at his practice jersey. “We’ve got company.”

I rolled my eyes, but my body betrayed me—my back straighter, my throws harder, sharper. It wasn’t just the girls; it was the eyes. Always the eyes.

And then—Lexi.

She stood at the edge of the track, water bottle in hand, her long ponytail swinging as she turned to laugh at something one of the other cheerleaders said. When her gaze slid over and locked on me, she smiled.

“Hey, quarterback,” she called, loud enough that a couple of the guys snickered.

I lifted a hand in an awkward wave. “Hey.”

The guys went nuts.

“Ooooh, Noah’s got a fan!” Miguel hooted, clapping me on the back. “Don’t choke now, Blake. She’s watching.”

Keon grinned wide. “Better make that spiral shine, QB. Girls love a perfect spiral.”

Laughter rippled through the line, the exhaustion easing under the teasing. Guys pushed harder, ran faster, muscles screaming but fueled by the attention. Show-offs, every single one of us.

Aiden didn’t so much as blink at the cheerleaders, but I saw his jaw tighten when Lexi waved again before jogging back toward her squad. His eyes cut to me, unreadable, then he turned away, calling the next drill.

“On the line! No mistakes!”

I swallowed hard, trying to focus, but my heart was hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with the heat or the run.

But it wasn’t just the field. We were swamped with errands, meetings, endless checklists. Medical exams for the team—that Aiden sent to the Dominium as well, along with his—two birds with one shot, he said. Paperwork stacked on paperwork—forms for classes, tutors, even the damn club. Every day there was something new. One morning it was equipment checks, making sure pads, helmets, and training gear were accounted for. The next it was facility walk-throughs: gym, field, lighting, speakers, screens. The smallest detail had to be perfect before the season started.

And it wasn’t just us. Aiden was everywhere—meeting directors, talking to faculty about class schedules, coordinating with staff. He and Coach Daniels, the assistant coach, were constantly on the move, securing buses for the team and cheerleaders, reviewing the field, rehearsing the donor dinner, finalizing logistics for the homecoming parade. Coach Daniels was sharp, older, ambitious—always watching, always taking notes.

And then there were the people. Donors, sponsors, alumni—all circling. Aiden was preparing for every handshake, every introduction. He was *busy*. Too busy.

Some afternoons, practices had an audience—directors, students, alumni—watching from the sidelines. The pressure doubled. Aiden demanded focus, no slip-ups, no distractions. I could feel his eyes on me more than anyone else’s. Every pass, every read, every sprint—I had to be flawless. I couldn’t let him down.

At night, we sat down together, surrounded by papers, laptops, planners. We mapped out my year as well. Classes. Tutors. Activities. Practices. Travel. Games. Weekends. It was brutal. There weren’t enough hours in the day.

I felt my chest tightening just looking at it. How the hell was I supposed to keep up? Practices, games, classes, interviews, events—when was I supposed to breathe? When was I supposed to sleep?

When was I supposed to see him?

The thought dug into me, sharp and unrelenting. My scholarship depended on my grades. If I didn’t keep them up, I lost it all. One night, Aiden looked me in the eye, steady and uncompromising, and told me the truth.

“Noah, it’s going to be impossible to meet every evening. If you want to keep your grades high enough and your body fit enough for the field, we’ll have to accept our limitations and wait for weekends.”

The words lodged in my chest like a knife. Impossible. Wait. Weekends only.

I nodded like it was fine. Like I understood. But inside, I was unraveling. The thought of less time with him, of distance, of silence in the nights—it made my skin crawl. It made me ache.

And all around me, life kept pressing in. Students filling classrooms. Girls everywhere, laughing, flirting. The afternoon Lexi showed up to register, she found me sitting on the bench, overwhelmed. She stopped to talk to me, casual and easy, like we’d known each other forever. But every time she leaned in, every time she laughed at something I said, I felt eyes on us. Teammates, coaches, the whole damn world watching.

I smiled back. I pretended. I played the part of the normal quarterback everyone expected me to be. Inside, I hated it. Inside, I wanted to scream.

By Friday night, Aiden and I were both drained. Exhausted. The week had chewed us up and spit us out. When we finally saw each other, we didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. We just fell into each other’s arms like gravity had won.

For the first time all week, I felt whole. Safe. His.

This weekend was supposed to be ours. Just ours. No practice, no donors until Sunday night, no students, no noise. Just me and him.

But then his phone rang.

I felt him stiffen against me, heard the edge in his voice as he answered. A pause, a quiet murmur I couldn’t quite catch. And then as I got closer, I heard the words that shattered the fragile calm:

“All medical reports checked. Backgrounds clear. We’re ready to welcome you both formally to The Dominium.”

I froze.

Our weekend—our peace—was gone before it had even started.