Chapter 3
Noah
I walked out of Coach Mercer’s office with my head spinning.
Angry? Maybe.
Confused? Definitely.
What the hell had I just done?
That little jab—"I thought you could handle me"—was supposed to test my stupid theory that he might just be the dungeon master I spoke to before. An embarrassing and very risky way that could’ve ended badly….
But nothing came out of it. He seemed as surprised as I was, and I ended up practically trembling under his glare like some rookie schoolboy who couldn’t hold his own. I mean, it was bad enough that I could not focus at all during training, but this? This was a new level of stupidity, even for me.
And then the way he barked back at me—loomed, towered, circled me like a fucking predator...
Sir.
He told me to call him Sir.
Not us. Not the team. Just me.
What the fuck was that?
I tried to shake it off, telling myself I was just rattled. Tired. Off my game.
But it wasn’t just the words—it was how he said them. The same calm authority. The same slow, terrifying control.
Ridiculous. I was reading into nothing. Making a fool of myself.
Again.
Still... the heat in my chest wouldn’t fade, no matter who the hell he really was.
Was it adrenaline?
Or something sicker?
Because deep down, a part of me wanted him to be like that man—wanted him to control me and make me feel small like that. Shaken. Unraveled.
Turned on.
Wait—what the fuck?
Turned on?
I wasn’t gay. That had never been a question.
Unless…
Unless I was just some broken masochist, and this was how my dysfunction wired itself. Wanting control. Obedience. Punishment.
Because that would make sense. Sort of. If I squinted and gave myself enough psychological loopholes to crawl through.
This entire situation had thrown me into a loop. A loop I was still caught in when my phone buzzed.
I snatched it up.
Holy shit, it was from my ObeyNet app. My chest clenched.
Mr. A: “Tomorrow, you will find a way to demonstrate obedience in real life. No negotiation. No delay.”
The world stopped.
I read the message again.
In real life.
My mouth went dry.
No. No, no, no.
I sat down on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, heart in my throat.
Was he serious?
Was this just a coincidence? Some guy on the internet flexing control like he always did?
Or...
Did he know something?
I thought of Coach Mercer’s voice—low, deep, cutting. The way he’d said Sir. The way he’d stared at me like he already owned me.
My fingers twitched.
I dropped the phone like it was poison.
It vibrated again.
Coach Mercer:
“You’ll be flying to Geneva with me tomorrow. Pack for a few days. You’ll be listed as a training assistant. Outside by 6 a.m.”
I froze.
Geneva?
Training assistant?
I stared at the message so long the screen dimmed. My pulse slammed against my ribs.
Two messages. Two voices. Same tone.
God help me...
Was he Mr. A?
My hands trembled as I typed my response.
ME:
“Geneva, as in… Switzerland??”
Coach Mercer:
“I’m glad you know your geography.”
ME:
“Why me?”
Coach Mercer:
“One of our veteran players was injured during training at the international facility. I’m flying out to assess the situation. I’ll need assistance, and you need monitoring. Don’t be late.”
My heart was still racing at 200 miles an hour when I finally laid my head on the pillow. I closed my eyes, only to be lulled to sleep by images of Coach—but in my dreams, he wore gloves and a suit, a leather belt coiled around his hand….
The alarm dragged me out of sleep at 5:30 a.m., and for a second, I didn’t know where I was. Just that I was exhausted, hot, and already late.
I stumbled to the shower and stood under the water longer than I should’ve, hoping it would clear the fog in my head—and the heat in my chest.
By the time I was dressed and ready, my pulse was still racing.
Something was happening. I just didn’t know what.
When I stepped outside, the sun was barely up, the air sharp enough to cut. A black car idled at the curb.
"Get in," the driver said. "Coach is waiting at the airfield."
I didn’t ask questions. I just climbed in, my stomach tying itself into knots. The words you will demonstrate obedience in real life echoed in my head.
By the time we boarded the private jet, I was sweating through my undershirt. He sat by the window, legs crossed, sleeves rolled up, glasses on, like a CEO on a cover magazine. When he looked up at me, I felt a cold front hitting my chest.
"Sit."
I sat.
"We need to release a statement about the incident. You're going to write it. Draft one before takeoff."
He slid a laptop toward me—then a printed email. “All the details are there. Keep it concise.”
No pressure.
I glanced at the summary. Torn ligament. Veteran player. Out for the season. The words blurred as I read them, not because they were unclear—but because he was sitting across from me like this was some kind of test. Like I was the one under review.
I opened the doc and stared at the screen like it owed me answers.
Okay. Press release. Keep it clean. Keep it tight.
I wrote. Short, clipped lines. Facts only. Leadership tone. I read it twice, then passed it back.
He read in silence, one brow rising.
"Vague," he said, voice dry. "Rewrite."
I blinked. "Yes, Sir."
Wait. Sir?
I didn’t look at him. Just took the laptop and started again, pushing through the weight of my own disappointment.
For some unnatural reason, I wanted—needed—to impress this man. And when his intense blue eyes locked on mine for a second too long, I felt it—that craving for his approval.
I took a breath. Tried to focus. Still aware of his stare, I got to work...
Version two: More professional. A little edge. Reassuring to the fans.
The air between us shifted as he read—calm, composed, completely unaffected—while I sat there trying not to bite my nails to my knuckles.
"Disorganized."
My jaw clenched. I reached for the laptop again, silent. Something between pride and panic—maybe trauma-fueled instinct—shook in my hands.
Version three: I poured my goddamn heart into it. A quote from the head coach. A message of unity. It was solid. It had to be.
He didn’t even blink.
"Unprofessional."
My palms were slick. My throat dry. The cabin was freezing with the AC, but my body burned.
His eyes stayed on me—quiet, focused. Like he was studying me, not the draft.
Why did his disapproval feel like punishment?
I’d spent my whole life under my father’s thumb—his temper, his insults—but nothing had ever crawled under my skin like this.
Why the hell did this man’s rejection make me feel like I was breaking?
Was I really that useless?
The frustration spiraled into something deeper—tight, breathless, panicked.
"I—I'm trying," I muttered, almost holding my breath.
He leaned in. Slowly. Deliberately. A warm hand settled on my shoulder.
And his voice—low, firm, devastating….
"Breathe, baby boy."
The words hit me like a punch.
I froze.
That voice. That phrase. That name.
My head went blank. Heat flushed down my spine.
I couldn’t look at him.
I wouldn’t look at him.
He pulled back without another word. Then, he nodded in reassurance.
"You'll rewrite it one last time. And this time, you'll get it right."
I nodded too, silent, trying to remember how to use my fingers.
Somewhere over France, I started typing.
My hands were still shaking.
Not from the pressure.
Not from the cold.
But from the sound of his voice—
And the way that, for just a second, I was ready to obey.
