Chapter 4

Noah

The door clicked shut behind me, and for the first time all day, I was alone.

I stood there a moment, hands still clenched, heart still racing. My duffel sagged at my feet. I hadn’t even changed out of my training gear—still sticky with sweat, still smelling like nerves and jet fuel and failure.

The day had drained me. Not physically. Mentally. Like something had been ripped out of me and replaced with static.

Coach’s presence was already stressful enough, but being challenged directly by him—thrown out of my comfort zone—felt downright unnerving.

He hadn’t raised his voice once.

He didn’t need to.

The way he looked at me after that third draft—blank, unreadable, subtly disappointed—was enough to make my stomach twist.

Each word had landed like a punch, more bruising than any tackle I’d ever taken.

I wasn’t a writer. I wasn’t polished. I wasn’t some PR-trained golden boy.

I played football. That was supposed to be enough.

I can’t even say I was angry. I was… weirdly sad.

The feeling was familiar. Too familiar.

You’re pathetic, my father’s voice hissed in my head*. You get off on being scolded, don’t you? Maybe that’s all you’re good for. That pretty face and weak little pride.*

Did I?

I didn’t think so… When Coach rejected my work, it hurt.

But then... his voice had changed. Just slightly. Calmer. Measured. Not cold anymore—steady. In control.

He didn’t ridicule me. He didn’t mock.

He simply… reassured me. And that—God, that—meant more than I wanted to admit.

It felt like he actually trusted me. Believed in me.

And somehow, that steadiness worked.

I rewrote the damn thing. Slower. Focused. Controlled.

And when I handed it in, he gave the barest nod. Just once.

One small, sharp flick of approval.

And it shouldn't have mattered, but it did.

That’s what really got me going.

Something in me lit up—something awful and addictive.

I told myself it was just relief. But the feeling was deeper than that.

Darker.

Like I’d passed some impossible test… And the reward wasn’t praise.

It was pleasing him.

Why the hell did pleasing this man fill me with pride?

And why did the thought of it almost… arouse me?

Oh, fuck…

I dropped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. The air in the room felt too still, too quiet. I should’ve been proud of myself. Should’ve let it go.

But his voice kept echoing in my head. The trust… The shift in tone. Like he’d known exactly how to bring me back from the edge. And had done it on purpose.

It reminded me of someone else.

Mr. A.

The thought made something clench low in my gut. Unwelcome. Unavoidable.

I tried to ignore it. I grabbed my phone. Opened messages. Closed them again.

The quiet pressed harder. The thought of Mr. A dominating me completely, turning me into something I wasn't… Was I?

But somehow, it was Coach Aiden’s face I saw. Commanding me, punishing me…

What the fuck...?

I rolled onto my side, restless, tense. My fingers itched. My stomach tightened. And somewhere in the middle of all that frustration and fantasizing, my body responded.

I was hard. Aching.

I tried to fight it, but all I could see was Coach. Not the one from training. The one from the plane. The one who leaned close and breathed steady, cool words against my skin. The one who looked at me like he saw straight through every wall I’d built.

And I hated how that made me feel.

Exposed. Seen.

And wanting more.

I kicked off my pants and shoved the blankets down, rolling onto my back, breath already unsteady. I closed my eyes and wrapped a hand around my cock, trying to think of anyone else. Some faceless hookup. One of the hot cheerleaders that used to suck my cock. Anyone.

But he was already there. Aiden Mercer.

His voice. His scent. The terrifying calm of his command.

I stroked faster, frustration simmering just below the surface. I didn’t want to want this. Didn’t want to need his approval, his attention, his—

My head fell back against the pillows.

It should’ve been relief. But it wasn’t. It was more like a storm breaking open inside me—ugly and hot and full of shame. My hand moved faster, breath catching in my throat. The pressure spiked with every memory that flared behind my eyelids. Aiden standing over me on the field. Aiden leaning close in the office. Aiden calling me out in front of everyone, knowing exactly what he was doing.

I groaned softly, stroking my cock harder at the thought of his muscles stretching under his shirt. My thighs tensed. My back arched just a little as a stream of pre-cum dribbled from my swollen head.

I could see him. Right there in my mind. Not gentle. Not sweet. Just sure. Commanding. Dangerous. And in some part of me I didn’t want to admit existed—I needed that. Needed him.

My breath hitched. My muscles clenched.

I was seconds away. Right on the edge of giving in, of falling completely apart—

My phone lit up.

I froze.

Mr. A has messaged you.

My chest tightened. Blood roared in my ears. My hand was still wrapped around my erection, wet and twitching, one more stroke away from losing it entirely.

The screen glowed again.

Mr. A:

Did you miss me?

I let out a quiet, strangled sound—half groan, half laugh. Bitter. Desperate.

He had no idea what he’d interrupted. Or maybe… maybe he did.

I stared at the message, my cock still pulsing in my fist, the orgasm teetering just out of reach now.

I wanted to finish. Needed to.

But instead, my fingers slowly let go.

And just like that, I was back in his hands again.

I stared at the message like it might vanish if I blinked.

A hundred sarcastic replies ran through my head, but none made it to my fingertips. I was still wound tight, breath unsteady, heart hammering like I’d just run a hundred-yard sprint with someone watching every step.

I wiped my hand on the sheet, hissed softly at the sensitivity, and sat up. Then I answered.

ME:

I don’t really know you. Great timing, though.

The typing bubble blinked once. Then disappeared.

Then blinked again.

Mr. A:

You didn’t answer the question.

I swallowed, jaw tightening. My fingers hovered over the screen.

ME:

I guess I did.

Not sure why.

There was a longer pause this time. The dots danced.

Mr. A:

You crave structure.

And you resent it at the same time.

That’s exhausting, isn’t it?

I stared at those words like he’d crawled into my fucking skull.

ME:

What makes you think that?

Mr. A:

I know your type.

And I’ve been right so far.

I exhaled sharply. My room felt hotter, heavier. Like I couldn’t quite breathe right.

ME:

It’s been a shitty day.

That’s all.

Mr. A:

Tell me what made it shitty.

I hesitated.

No one ever asked me that. Not to actually listen. People asked to be polite or because they were waiting for a window to talk about themselves. But this felt different. He wasn’t trying to relate. He was pulling it out of me, slow and sharp.

I should’ve logged off. Should’ve kept my mouth shut.

Instead, I typed.

ME:

I messed something up.

Got told I was sloppy, unprepared, not good enough.

And the worst part? I agreed with all of it.

I’m not good at this shit.

Mr. A:

At what? Performing?

ME:

At everything outside of football.

Talking. Writing. Being…

Normal.

I closed my eyes after hitting send.

Seconds passed as I stared at the screen, wishing he was in the room. Wishing he wasn’t, so I didn’t have to face his disappointment too. I wasn’t the “fun-dream boy” he probably anticipated—I was nothing but a fuck up.