Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 110

Chapter 110

Noah

The remainder of the week slipped past in a dizzying rush. The tranquil pace of summer—the calm, the stolen quiet moments, the sense of privacy—had vanished completely. In its place, the campus buzzed with life, corridors thronged by students, lines forming to enroll, and boxes being hauled into dorm rooms. It was as if the entire university was awakening from a long slumber, stretching its limbs, and swallowing me whole in its sudden, chaotic energy.

And practice? Practice was nothing short of brutal.

“On the line!” Coach’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and unforgiving. “Thirty seconds to reset—move, move, move!”

We scrambled back into position, sweat streaming down our backs, the heat radiating from the turf like an unrelenting blaze. My lungs burned fiercely with each breath, my legs screamed in protest, but slowing down was not an option—not with Coach watching, his gaze cutting through us like a blade.

“Again!” he snapped. “Slant route. Crisp. No hesitation. Quarterback—eyes up, read faster. Receiver—don’t even think about cutting early. Reset!”

Keon let out a low groan under his breath but lined up obediently. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my glove, muttering a curse I barely caught myself saying.

“Ready!” Aiden’s voice was sharp and commanding.

“Ready!” we echoed, our voices ragged and strained.

“Go!”

By the time we hit the third set, several guys were doubled over, gasping for air, hands braced on their knees.

“Up! Nobody dies on my field!” Aiden barked. “You think scouts care if you’re tired? They want perfection. They want sharp. One slip, and the whole team runs again. Reset!”

Grumbles echoed along the line, but no one dared to argue. We pushed ourselves harder, running until our muscles burned and our minds screamed for respite.

Halfway through practice, I realized we weren’t alone anymore.

The cheerleaders had arrived—a burst of brightness and energy along the sidelines. Their pom-poms shimmered under the sun, and their voices rang out as they rehearsed the opening routines for the season’s first game. Suddenly, the guys straightened up, shoulders squared, steps sharper. Moments ago we were drenched in sweat and gasping for breath; now, fueled by their presence, it felt like we were all trying to prove something more than endurance—we wanted to shine.

“Look alive, boys,” Keon muttered with a smirk, tugging at his practice jersey. “Looks like we’ve got an audience.”

I rolled my eyes, but my body betrayed me—my back straightened, my throws became harder, sharper. It wasn’t just the girls; it was the way their eyes pinned me down. Always the eyes.

And then there was Lexi.

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

“Hey, quarterback,” she called out, loud enough for a few of the guys to snicker.

I gave a hesitant wave. “Hey.”

The guys went wild.

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

Keon grinned broadly. “Better make that spiral perfect, QB. Girls love a tight spiral.”

His words stabbed me like a knife. Impossible. Wait. Weekends only.

I nodded, pretending to understand, pretending it was okay. But inside, I was unraveling. The thought of less time with him, of growing distance, of silent nights—it made my skin crawl. It ached deep inside.

And all around me, life pressed in harder. Classrooms filled with students. Girls everywhere, laughing, flirting. When Lexi came by to register, she found me sitting on a bench, overwhelmed. She stopped to chat—casual, easy, like we’d been friends forever. But every time she leaned in or laughed at something I said, I felt eyes watching us. Teammates, coaches, the whole world.

I smiled back. I played the part of the confident quarterback everyone expected. But inside, I hated it. Inside, I wanted to scream.

By Friday night, both Aiden and I were drained. Completely exhausted. The week had worn us down to the bone. When we finally saw each other, words were unnecessary. We simply collapsed into each other’s arms, as if gravity itself had pulled us together.

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

That 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 sharp edge in his voice as he answered. A pause, a quiet murmur I couldn’t quite make out. Then, as I moved closer, I caught the words that shattered our 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 even began.