Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 164

Chapter 164

Noah

A tight knot formed in my stomach as I waited for Aiden to break the silence. I wasn’t sure how he planned to explain himself to my father—or if any explanation could possibly justify why he was here with me in this moment. The tension in the room was suffocating.

“I’m Aiden Mercer. I’m Noah’s coach,” Aiden said, his voice calm and professional, steady as if delivering a business report. “I manage the team. Noah’s one of our key players. The moment I heard, I booked a flight and got him here as fast as I could.” There was a firmness in his tone that brooked no argument, like a man laying down facts that couldn’t be questioned.

My dad blinked slowly, thoughtful for a moment, then let out a short, almost dismissive laugh. “Really? I see.” The weight behind those words felt like a final curtain closing on the conversation. His eyes narrowed just a fraction, a subtle but unmistakable shift. “Quite dedicated, Mr. Mercer. Do you do that for all your players?”

Before anyone could answer, the hospital door swung open. A nurse entered, clipboard in hand, followed closely by the doctor, who moved with brisk efficiency. He spoke softly to my mom, reviewing Emily’s chart with a practiced eye. Then he offered the words every quiet hospital corridor longs to hear: “stable,” “we’ve stopped the bleeding,” “monitoring.” His tone was professional, cautious—promises without guarantees. He performed a quick check, jotted down notes, and mentioned they’d want to keep Emily under observation a little longer, possibly run another CT scan. Typical doctor-speak, blurring the edges of hope and uncertainty.

I cleared my throat, trying to keep my voice polite, almost innocent. “What about these bruises and contusions, Doctor?” I asked, nodding toward Emily’s battered arms. “They look pretty bad…”

The question hung in the air, heavy and loaded. The doctor glanced at me, then shifted his gaze to my mom before making a vague note in the chart. “Bruising is consistent with a fall,” he said carefully. “They look serious, but she should recover over time.” His response was clinical, neutral—but I caught the way his eyes flicked toward my father before moving on.

And I couldn’t miss the flicker of something raw and ugly in Dad’s face—the carefully maintained mask slipping, heat rising sharply beneath his skin.

We drifted into the small waiting room just off the hall—empty except for a row of worn chairs and a vending machine humming quietly like a tired heart. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glow. My father’s jaw clenched and unclenched, as if he were chewing over a thought he wasn’t ready to spit out.

I didn’t want to be the kid who ran away. I wanted a man to stand up and acknowledge the truth of what he’d seen. So I did the only thing I could think of that might shatter the silence.

“I know what happened,” I said, my voice raw and trembling with emotion. “You don’t have to keep pretending. Emily didn’t fall. You pushed her. You hit her. You did this.”

The room seemed to freeze around my words. For a long moment, my father’s face was a blank mask—carefully controlled, like someone who’d lost the script and was desperately scrambling to find it again.