Chapter 1
Noah
This was everything I’d worked for.
So why the hell did I feel like running?
The air smelled like new money and clean turf. The campus was gorgeous in a magazine-cover kind of way. The kind of place that didn’t make space for guys like me unless someone died or got disqualified.
And yet here I was. Rookie quarterback for the Texas Wolves. First pick from the summer tryouts. A one-in-a-million shot.
I’d been flown in that morning, handed a branded duffle, a dorm key, a printed schedule, and a congratulations I couldn’t hear over the pounding in my chest. Everything was happening fast. Too fast.
They told me I’d earned it. Said I was a natural. Said I had potential… And I fucking did, yet panic still clung to the back of my throat like smoke.
This wasn’t like college ball. This was serious.
This was everything.
And I wasn’t about to show up looking like the charity case who somehow tricked the system. I knew how this shit worked. If I wanted respect, I had to earn it from the first snap. No excuses. No second chances. No fuckups.
I wasn’t here to make friends.
I was here to take over.
But still…
A good first impression never hurt anyone.
Especially when you came from the shithole I’d just left behind. Now I was standing by a frat-style mansion where the team’s summer welcome party was already raging inside.
I was dressed casual—tight jeans, sleeveless tee, Wolves cap pulled low. Looked like I gave a shit without trying too hard. That was the trick. Walk in, smirk, crack a few cocky one-liners, act like I’d been here forever. Fake it ‘til you dominate.
I wasn’t gonna let anyone here treat me like a fluke.
Like I had been treated all of my life.
Still, my fingers were sweating as I pushed open the door.
Inside, it was chaos. Loud music, red solo cups, beer pong on one side, pool table on the other. Testosterone in the air like smoke. Guys everywhere—laughing, shouting, flexing.
A couple heads turned when I walked in.
I smirked.
Did the nod.
The cocky “yeah, I’m that guy” look.
Someone clapped me on the back, called out “Yo, QB1!” like we were old friends.
I chuckled, sharp and shallow. Inside, I was scanning the exits.
I grabbed a drink. Nursed it slowly. Let them talk. Let them size me up. I stayed just cocky enough to earn a spot in the circle but not too much to come off as a dick.
That’s when the conversation shifted.
“—Nah, I’m telling you, bro, some of those subs on ObeyNet are famous. Like, I swear I recognized one last year. Looked like he played for the Panthers.”
“Bullshit. No way they’d risk that.”
“You’d be surprised, man. Place is anonymous. Full of freaks. Even betas like you could get some action.”
Laughter broke out. Someone made a choking sound with their beer. Another guy joked, “I signed up once—some dude tried to get me to call him Daddy and bark. I was out.”
My heart slammed in my chest.
ObeyNet.
I’d heard the name before. Online whispers. Nothing I’d ever clicked on. But something about it stuck. A shiver crawled up my spine like a spider.
I forced a laugh. “Sounds like fun. Might sign up, teach them how a real man handles a leash.”
More laughter. One guy elbowed me. “Damn, rookie’s freaky. Respect.”
I played it off. Smiled. Sipped.
Inside, my brain wouldn’t shut up.
By midnight, I was back in my dorm. Alone. Restless. The taste of cheap beer and fake confidence still on my tongue.
The silence felt louder than the party. I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the browser.
Just curiosity, I told myself. Just checking it out. Nothing weird.
ObeyNet.
I typed it in and created a simple account.
Inside, it was all shadows and neon.
Forum threads. Profiles. Recordings.
Everything from commands to confessions to… audio. That’s where my eyes landed.
Mr. A.
Top-rated. Anonymous. A black-and-white profile picture: a polished suit and a gloved hand curled around a belt.
I clicked.
And everything stopped.
His voice hit me like gravity.
Low. Calm. Controlled.
Not loud, not aggressive—just steady. Authoritative. Every word was measured. Precise. Like he was already inside your head and didn’t need to raise his voice to make you kneel.
My skin flushed. My mouth went dry.
I didn’t even understand half the things he said—but fuck if I wasn’t hard anyway.
Shame burned hot across my chest.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I shouldn’t like this. I wasn’t into guys. I wasn’t into this. Not like that. Not for real.
Still…
My fingers hovered over the message button.
I stared. Debated. Heard my father’s voice in my head—my greatest demon—shaming me, calling me weak. I squeezed my eyes shut.
Just once, I told myself. Just messing around.
Right.
Before I could think twice, I typed:
“I bet you can’t handle me.”
I hit send before I could back out. Smirked. Waited.
The reply came almost immediately.
Mr. A:
“You’re wrong.
The real question is—can you handle obedience?”
A slow burn curled in my gut.
ME:
“Why would I?
Maybe I’m the one in charge here.”
Mr. A:
“You’re not.
You don’t want to be; you’d rather be told what to do.
Most boys like you do.”
Boys like me?
ME:
“You think I’m some pussy who likes to be bossed around?”
Mr. A:
“I think you’re a scared little sheep in a lion’s costume.
All bark. No leash.
And behind all that noise, what you really crave is to be owned, guided, and punished.”
I swallowed hard. The words hit somewhere deep…. I told myself it was just a game. Some stranger on the internet with a Dom kink and a sharp tongue.
But I couldn’t stop.
ME:
“And I guess you could do just that, right?”
Mr. A:
“I could, and I will. We both know that.
And I think you hate how much that turns you on.”
It did.
And not only did I hate that it did, but it terrified me to the point of rage.
ME:
“You’re fucking insane, and you don’t know me…!”
“Why would I wanna be punished?”
“And how would I be turned on by a dude? I’m straight—”
My fingers were still typing the fourth message in a row when his single response came through.
Mr. A:
“You need to breathe, baby boy.”
My chest stopped moving.
I read it again.
Baby boy.
God...
Fuck.
I dropped the phone like it burned me.
The screen lit up again.
Mr. A:
“Sleep tight. You’ll be mine before you’re ready to admit it.”
The chat ended. He was gone.
But that line—breathe, baby boy—stuck in my head like it had been whispered, not typed.
The next morning was worse.
I barely slept. My head was pounding. I looked like hell, felt worse, but we had our first meeting of the season with our new star coach. I threw on my gear, splashed water on my face, and jogged across campus to the team facility.
The Wolves training hall was all steel, glass, and sweat. Players poured in, loud and confident. Some still in party mode. I tried to keep my head down as I sat in the back, but everyone knew who I was.
New QB. New hope.
I hated it already.
Someone yelled, “Heads up! Coach’s coming!”
The room shifted. Postures straightened. Volume dropped.
I turned—and the world narrowed.
He walked in like he owned us all.
Tall, broad, perfectly put together. Solid. Like a wall you couldn’t move even if you tried. Dressed in black slacks and a team polo that clung to his arms like armor.
But the moment he opened his mouth, my blood froze.
“Morning, boys. I’m Coach Mercer. You already know what’s expected this season. I’m not here to babysit you—I’m here to push you, break you, and rebuild you into the best version of yourself. The one that will bring us a win.”
The room was silent.
I forgot how to breathe.
It can’t be…
I looked away, each of his words matching the voice from last night still engraved in my brain.
The rest of the meeting blurred. My heart wouldn’t settle. My thoughts scrambled, trying to convince myself I was imagining it. Just coincidence. Right?
Then—his eyes found me.
Blue steel. Unreadable.
“Blake. You’re distracted. Your attitude needs work.”
My stomach dropped. Every warning in my head screamed I know that voice.
And there was no denying it.
Keeping my head in the game was going to be a bitch.
He paused—just long enough to make it sting.
“See me in my office after training. Alone.”
