Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 93

Chapter 93

Aiden

My mouth parted, but no words came out. For once, I was utterly speechless—no clever retort, no defense ready to fire back. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as a few girls nearby stole glances, their eyes lingering just a moment too long. I felt the ground shift beneath me, unsteady and treacherous. Their gaze trailed down his chest—those damn tantalizing nipple rings glinting under the light—then followed the sharp contours of his abs. My blood surged so fiercely it spun my head.

As if I had any right to feel this way. As if I could claim even a shred of ownership over him.

One of the girls, with a brazen confidence, sauntered over. She leaned in close, her breath warm as she giggled and whispered something into his ear. Before I even realized what I was doing, my hands clenched into fists, my jaw tightening until it ached. Who was she? Did Noah summon her? Was he already lining up replacements—girls poised to erase me from his world?

That thought sliced through me, sharp and bitter. For a moment, I wanted nothing more than to punch a hole in the wall right behind her.

But Noah remained calm, unflustered. With a gentle nudge, he pushed her away, his voice low and steady. “Sorry, babe. I think I’ve got a stomach bug. Probably not the best idea to get too close.”

She pouted, biting her bottom lip in frustration. He barely spared her a glance before tipping his chin toward me. “Coach came to check on me.”

The casual weight of his words hit me square in the chest, shattering every excuse I’d silently rehearsed.

“I brought back your bike,” I finally said, my voice rougher than I intended. “It’s fixed now.”

“Great.” He nodded as if this were just another ordinary Saturday, no storm brewing beneath the surface, no contract torn to shreds between us. “Let me get dressed. I’ll be right out.”

A few empty instant noodle cups sagged in the trash—a sorry testament to the kind of fuel he relied on when I wasn’t around to look after him. No proper meals, no discipline off the field. I should have been furious, scolding him for neglecting himself. But then I reminded myself: this was my fault. He had counted on me, and I had let him down.

My eyes drifted back to him.

Still barefoot. Still wrapped only in a towel that clung desperately to his waist, fighting gravity’s pull. His chest rose and fell too quickly, the pierced nipples gleaming faintly in the dim light. Droplets of water traced slow paths down his tanned skin, following the carved lines of muscle I wasn’t supposed to be admiring. His damp blond hair stuck to his forehead, strands sliding along the curve of his neck. He looked impossibly young, stunningly beautiful, and dangerously magnetic.

Then his eyes met mine.

Not boyish. Not soft. They burned with accusation, hunger, and pain. The weight of those emotions shattered something inside me. I had to look down, struggling to draw breath into lungs that suddenly felt too tight to fill.