Crossing Lines
Chapter 158
******
Aiden
It was only Noah’s tortured little faces and priceless expressions that kept me from murdering someone at that party. Honestly–if William wanted to call me “old,” he could keep talking. Old, my ass. I was thirty–five, in the kind of shape that made “young” look like a suggestion, not an advantage. I could run laps around every one of those self–styled “young men” and still have time for a whiskey.
And when he said I should let him off his leash? I almost laughed out loud… For the record, okay, I did have a literal leash, but I knew how to use it in a way my boy loved. That was not tyranny; that was maintenance. You tune the engine so it doesn’t blow up when the
city’s watching.
William, bless him, delivered his little charity speech–equal parts praise and accusation–like a man unwrapping a very expensive toy he thought he owned. He suggested, with the softest smile imaginable, that Noah might prefer their company. He insinuated independence like it was a compliment. I listened. I smiled. I filed it
away.
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Dinner was an exercise in appearances: tiny dishes, huge
expectations. I let Noah taste whatever ridiculous hors d’oeuvre they
shoved in his direction–truffles, microgreens, the works–because
I’m not a monster who starves his boy. But I wasn’t blind either. Some of William’s special guests started to question him, throwing hints of sponsorships and representation queries. The usual choreography- everyone angling for a piece of the rising star after I’d done the hard
work.
3
Then some slick reporter asked Noah about “real” representation, and he answered, too earnestly, “I am bound by a contract.” Contract? Really? I nearly dropped my glass. I poked him—a soft reminder buzz that made him jump like a cheap stunt–and he stumbled, then recovered, finishing with, “Of course, by gratitude and loyalty as well. Coach Aiden has been opening doors for me.” The group clapped like
I’d just been handed a crumb.
William’s follow–up-“some doors are only opened by those of us who hold certain keys“-was civility dressed as a dare.
You did not just say that, conceited asshole, I thought. Just then I wished I could’ve stuck a plug, sharp and twice Noah’s size, on
William’s ass…
I know, I know… Maybe I was a bit possessive. Maybe I was sensitive. So what? My help came from my skin and my pockets and my stupid, stubborn heart–no strings to the public, no contracts to strangers.
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But I wasn’t stupid, and despite the jokes and the games, by the end
of the night, I knew my Noah was walking away with offers that were
actually serious–real representation, scouts whispering about
combines, agents promising access that would eclipse our little
contract. In plain terms: doors that could shove him straight toward
the NFL dream he’d been chasing.
Noah’s fingers were fiddling with the hem of his jacket in the passenger seat, eyes on the passing lights more than the road. He’d
been quiet for most of the drive–too many things spinning in that
head of his–but then he looked over, all soft and raw, and asked the
question straight out of the blue.
“Sir,” he said, voice small, “when they said I might be signed by a
bigger team next year–whether or not I take private sponsorship–do
you think that’s true?”
There it was: the hope and the fear tangled together. One half of him.
already mapping out stadiums and jerseys, the other half recoiling at
the thought of leaving. I could see it in the way his jaw clenched and
then relaxed, over and over.
I didn’t hesitate. “You will always have a choice, baby boy,” I told him.
Quiet, steady. “But that would be a great opportunity.”
By the time we pulled into the driveway, the plan was half–formed
and my jaw was tight with intent. I parked, looked over, and saw him
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watching me–unspoken questions in his eyes. I reached across,
squeezed his hand once, and, without pretense, let him see the truth behind my strategy: I was not going to lose him without a fight. For
the team. For the future.
For me.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
