Aiden
I woke wrapped around him, morning wood pressed against his ass,
and Jesus Christ, was it tempting. His body was right there, warm and
willing, and all I wanted was to shove my cock into his mouth or slide
into that tight heat until he was crying my name. But no. Not yet. We
had shit to do. Tonight would be another story.
So I kissed him awake instead, slow and greedy, nibbling his ear until
he stirred and mumbled something incoherent against the pillow.
“Up, baby boy,” I murmured. “We’ve got a day ahead.”
The morning slipped into routine–coffee, breakfast, packing. I sent
him upstairs to tidy the room while I cleared the table and loaded the
dishwasher. We needed to be on the road by one, and I wanted
everything squared away before we left.
I was sliding a plate onto the rack when my phone rang. Unknown
number. I wiped my hands on a towel and answered.
“Coach Aiden Mercer?”
The voice was smooth. Too smooth. My jaw tightened. “Speaking.”
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“This is William Hart.”
Every suspicion I’d ever had about that man roared to life at once.
“I had the chance to meet one of your players, Noah Blake, at donors
night and again on Thursday, after the game,” he went on, smooth as
silk. “Impressive boy. Quite the potential. I was so taken with him, I
extended an invitation to a dinner party at my home. An incredible
opportunity, really–the kind that could turn his future around.”
My grip on the phone tightened.
“He was excited about it, looking forward to it, until he canceled last
night. Said he had obligations under his contract. That he didn’t want
to rush back and leave you behind after your event. Admirable, truly.
Very loyal of him.”
My chest ached at that, a slow burn that cracked right through the
fury. He had told him. He had put me first.
William’s voice purred on. “I wanted to extend the invitation to you
both instead. You could always come after your event. I’d love to have
you over. We both have Noah’s best interests at heart, don’t we?”
I wanted to snarl that his best interests were already handled, that I
didn’t need some rich prick dangling carrots in front of him. Instead,
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I forced my voice flat, professional.
“We’ll be there.”
“Excellent. I’ll text you the address. Black tie affair. So glad you can
join us. Nine o’clock.”
The call ended, and I stood there with the phone in my hand, every
muscle wired with rage. He was trying to claim my boy from right
under my eyes–and smiling while he did it. But worst of all, Noah
had lied to me. He’d planned on going to this party, hidden it from
me, and then messaged them behind my back, blaming it on not
wanting to ditch his coach at the end of the day for a shinier
benefactor and his tempting daughter.
By the time Noah padded back into the kitchen, hair mussed and
smiling, I’d shoved it all down deep enough to keep my mouth shut.
For now.
I did want the best for him–and I would make sure he had it, with or
without me. But if I was going to stand there and watch it happen,
then it was damn well going to be on my terms.
I told him to wear something nice, and when he opened his garment
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bag, he found the two formal outfits he’d stashed last night. My eyes
flicked over both, and I pointed to the grey suit we’d picked up
recently–perfect for semi–formal events, clean lines without trying
too hard. Classic sports jacket, slick tailored pants, crisp white shirt.
Not his sharpest look, but the kind that made him look polished while
still very much himself.
And God, did he look sexy in it. Too damn hot. Watching him button
that shirt, sliding the jacket over his shoulders, made me want to
cancel every plan and bend him over the dresser instead. But I kept it
together, adjusting my own cufflinks. I’d gone with my charcoal suit,
light blue shirt, no tie. Professional enough to stand out, but
comfortable.
We loaded the car by noon. Noah slung his bag over his shoulder
without a clue, chattering about the game, the crowd, his teammates,
his head still buzzing from Thursday night. I listened, driving us
toward Houston, every mile getting us closer to the banquet.
The luncheon itself was polished to perfection. Big hotel ballroom, banners of the sponsors hanging from the walls, tables set with silver and linen. The room buzzed with chatter–press, boosters, scouts, all shaking hands, all looking for the next name to brag they’d discovered first.
Lunch was excellent, even by my standards. I’d been half ready to chew through rubber chicken, but instead they rolled out a steak
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buffet. Juicy, perfectly cooked, cut right in front of you. Noah’s eyes went wide, and I had to smirk at him piling his plate like a college kid
at an all–you–can–eat.
The interviews came next. He sat stiff in the chair, shoulders back
like I’d coached him, eyes a little too bright with nerves.
“Are they not gonna put makeup on me?” he whispered before the
first question.
I barked a quiet laugh. “You’re not auditioning for a beauty pageant,
Blake. You’re a football player.”
“I dunno, I’ve seen them do that on TV,” he muttered, lips twitching,
as I fought not to grin back.
He held his own. Talked about the game, his role as QB, his
dedication to practice. When the reporters tried to pry personal
questions–girlfriends, family, nightlife–I cut in every time,
redirecting smoothly. “He’s here to talk football. That’s where his
focus is.” They didn’t argue. My glare usually took care of that.
By the end of it, Noah had loosened up, even joked once or twice. His laugh carried across the room, easy and charming, and I could see the way the scouts leaned in closer, taking note. He was magnetic, and I
was proud enough to choke on it.
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Noah will get stolen from our team in no time. There was no doubt of
that. I just hoped I could, somehow, be a part of it.
When the last handshake was done and the last photo snapped, we
slipped out into the night. The ballroom lights faded behind us, and
Noah was practically vibrating–head full of questions, dreams, and
that cocky grin that made him look half–boy, half–star already.
He thought we were headed to the hotel. I let him keep thinking it.
The moment we got on the highway, the city lights shrinking in the
rearview, he finally turned to me, confusion flickering across his face.
“Wait… I thought we were spending the night. You and me. In a
hotel.”
I kept my eyes on the road, steady, unreadable.
“Change of plans, baby boy.”
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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.
