Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 41

Chapter 41

OD

Noah

I woke up feeling like I’d swallowed a mouthful of chlorine mixed with stale beer. My head throbbed painfully, as if I’d slammed it against the pool’s edge the night before. The strange part was, I hadn’t really drunk much—just a half beer I’d nursed for hours—but guilt has this cruel way of turning even the smallest indulgence into a full-blown hangover.

My phone was blinking insistently on the nightstand. I reached over with a groan, blinking to clear the fog from my eyes.

1 Message from Aiden (11:43 p.m.)

That familiar sinking feeling of dread hit me hard, twisting my stomach into knots.

I didn’t open the message.

I didn’t reply.

I didn’t even exhale.

Instead, I just stared at the glowing screen, telling myself it wasn’t as bad as it felt. I hadn’t technically crossed any lines. We had agreed on weekends, and it was Sunday night. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t kissed anyone. I hadn’t—

I slammed the phone face down on the bed and forced myself out of the sheets before my thoughts could spiral deeper into regret. I needed to face Aiden. In person. Own whatever I’d done. Or at least try.

I arrived at the gym an hour earlier than usual.

The place was eerily quiet, empty except for the faint creaks of the floorboards beneath my feet. Normally, this kind of silence would calm me, but today it only made my nerves louder. Every breath I took felt exaggerated, every movement too conspicuous. I paced back and forth, stretched my arms, then finally settled on the bench by the entrance, my eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds.

I needed to talk to him. Just the two of us. Maybe apologize. Maybe explain myself. But when the door finally swung open, Aiden didn’t come in alone.

He walked in with the whole team.

Aiden didn’t even glance my way as they filed inside, laughing, yawning, rubbing their eyes like a bunch of hungover frat boys—which, to be honest, most of them were. My stomach clenched painfully.

Keon nudged my shoulder with a sly wink. “How was she last night?”

We moved through warm-ups. The coach offered corrections and encouragement to nearly everyone else—fixing form, calling out names, offering tips. But not once did he look my way.

Not once.

Even when I pushed myself harder than anyone else, desperate for him to notice, he remained distant. The ache inside me burned hotter with every ignored effort.

He wasn’t just angry—he was withholding something. I could feel it in the heavy silence that stretched between us, a silence that felt like punishment.

I wanted him to say something. Anything. To yell. To scold. To order me to kneel and beg for forgiveness. But instead, I was met with the cold professionalism of Coach Mercer, as if I were invisible. And the more he ignored me, the more I hated myself for still caring.

By the time we hit the field for the practice game, my tension had wrapped around me so tightly I could barely focus. My cleats dug into the turf, my heart hammered in my chest, and my muscles were tight from pushing myself too hard—trying desperately to impress a man who wouldn’t even meet my eyes.

Aiden stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, watching everyone else.

I wanted to scream. To cry. To run back into his arms and beg him to tell me I was still his. But instead, I took my place on the field and fought not to fall apart.