Chapter 122
Aiden
Same old shit every year… I swear–these events were excruciating. Every goddamn season, the same circus with different colored balloons. Old money in shiny shoes, bored wives with tight faces, everyone pretending this dinner was about football when it was about their egos and their tax write–offs.
If it weren’t for my boy, I’d have downed two shots just to put up with this charade. But there he was–Christ–standing in line like some movie star who’d wandered onto the wrong set. New suit hugging him in all the right places, wild curls actually combed, skin glowing under the lights. A prince. My prince. And yeah, I could put up with this freak show for him. Hell, I could put up with worse.
We caught each other’s eyes across the line. Just a flick, quick enough for no one else to notice. He fished for me, I fished back, and yep–1 could totally do this. Put on the stage master’s pants, parade my boy for these donors; make him shine until they were falling over themselves to write checks. He’d thank me later. Literally. I couldn’t wait to feel those lips around my cock again, properly thanking me. A smirk tugged at my mouth at the thought, and I swear to God, he saw it. Because my boy blushed, hard, and looked away.
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And yeah–it stung. The looking–away shit always stung. But I was the one who told him earlier to behave. To keep a mile between us all night. I knew myself, and I knew him. And for all his flaws, Noah
wasn’t a good liar.
“Line up,” I barked, adjusting them according to the program. Shoulder checks, ties straightened, Miguel muttering something under his breath until I leveled him with a look that shut him right up. Noah right in the center, exactly where I’d told him he’d be–front and fucking center, the scholarship boy, supposedly the charity case, the one these vultures wanted to examine like livestock at auction.
I’d warned him this morning, as I bent him over the kitchen counter and fucked him, that tonight he’d be shown offf like a prize pig. That every donor would be staring at him, measuring him, deciding if he was worth their investment. And I swore to myself I’d make sure he was. If it was the last thing I did, they were going to see exactly what I saw–well, not all of it… I almost chuckled at my own joke.
The music dimmed. I gave the signal. The boys started walking in, one after another, applause building. Then I stepped in behind them, and the crowd erupted. A roar so loud it vibrated in my chest.
Of course. To them, I wasn’t Aiden Mercer, asshole coach who didn’t smile enough. I was the football celebrity come down from the heavens to save their shitty team and their disastrous history.
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I lifted my hand, Roman–gladiator style, and the room quieted. That part was always fun, here and at the club. Half of them hated me personally, but all of them worshipped me as a player.
“Evening,” I said, just enough charm to smooth it out. I gave them my name, like they didn’t already fucking know it, and then I started parading the boys. One by one, not just tossing their names out like – scraps, but laying out exactly what made each of them worth a damn. Their strengths, their grit, the value they brought to the field. My team. My work. Every player polished up in words the way I’d drilled them to polish themselves on the turf.
Until I got to my baby boy. And then my chest squeezed, because fuck if I wasn’t proud.
“Our brand new quarterback,” I announced, letting it ring across the room. “Brought all the way from West Virginia, a scholarship player with a cannon for an arm and the kind of field vision you can’t teach.” I let the crowd eat him up, standing there in that suit like he’d been born to wear it, jaw tight, trying not to combust under the lights.
“He’s young, he’s fast–better sprint stats than a few of the guys you pay good money to watch in the big leagues–and sharp enough that he doesn’t miss a damn thing on the field. With him under center, our offense isn’t just strong, it’s a nightmare for anyone trying to stop it.” A ripple of interest went through the room. Good. Let them look. Let them see exactly what I’d brought them.
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“Noah Blake,” I said clearly, letting his name hang in the air. “Remember it. You’ll be hearing it again, and soon enough, plenty of teams will be fighting for him. But for now–he’s ours. A good kid, a hard worker, the kind of player who’ll score us points this program
hasn’t seen in a long time.”
A chuckle slid out of me, just enough to cut the tension. “He even shows up to practice on time–most days.” A few laughs in the crowd, just as I intended. Noah turned crimson, every inch of him glowing with embarrassment, and it only made him more beautiful. My boy was on display, and every single pair of eyes in the room was checking
him out.
And I couldn’t have been prouder–or more possessive.
After all the introductions wrapped, I lined them up for pictures. Smiles, stiff shoulders, the usual awkwardness of boys stuffed into suits and told to stand still. Some of those shots would end up framed in our hallways for posterity, a shiny reminder of the glory days. Once that was done, I waved them off toward the tables for dinner.
From my post, I let myself watch him. Couldn’t help it. My boy sat there like he’d stumbled into a foreign country, trying to decode every ridiculous little dish that landed in front of him. Endless entries paraded out, each tinier than the last–sandwiches gone in two bites, decorated dollops of what barely counted as food. He examined each plate, popped the whole thing in his mouth in one go,
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then immediately scanned the table like he was hoping for more. Christ. I nearly laughed out loud. Almost pulled out my phone to order him a pizza just to put him out of his misery.
And then the humor died.
Because I saw her.
Lexie Hart–our star cheerleader, polished, pretty, and dangerous as poison ivy–sitting ten feet away. Daughter of William Hart, one of our biggest investors. She was watching him. Watching Noah with the same damn amusement I’d just had, but on her, it made my stomach twist. Her smile lingered on his every move, and something inside me
snapped.
She was already on my blacklist, logically. But now, with her eyes fixed on my boy and the Hart family name backing her every whim, my blood boiled. I could feel it in my jaw, in my fists, in the endless dark churn of thoughts about every possible way I could keep her away from him. Evil glares, making her life hell until she begged to quit, expulsion from the squad, hell–even murder danced through my head with surprising ease.
Then Noah stood, heading for the restrooms, and like a shadow, Lexie followed a few steps behind, doing the same thing I was hoping to do.
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Damn it.
And just like that, the thought slipped in crystal clear–maybe that third option wasn’t such a bad one after all.
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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.
