Chapter 160

Aiden

I’d given in to him again.

But this time it wasn’t impulse, and it wasn’t a mistake.

I wanted it. I needed it.

And that made me the biggest asshole in history, because I knew exactly what was coming. I knew what last night meant to Noah.

The way I saw it, he could hurt now, or he could hurt later. Normally I’d pick now—rip the bandage, let the bleeding start.

But not this time.

There was one game left.

One more shot at glory, one last chance to send him out there as the best version of himself.

So I told myself that this was my job—to send him to that field with a kiss instead of a wound. To give him every ounce of strength I had left before I couldn’t give him anything anymore.

Yes, I was playing with his feelings.

Yes, I was sending mixed signals.

And yes, I was going to break his heart.

But not yet.

He deserved to reach that final without pain shadowing him. He deserved freedom, success, a future untouched by control or fear. And when he finally had all of that—when he looked back from the life he’d built and realized what I’d done—maybe he’d forgive me.

Maybe he’d understand that breaking his heart had been the best gift I could ever give him.

The days that followed felt like a blur stretched thin between two lives.

On campus, everything pulsed with anticipation. The locker rooms smelled like adrenaline and nerves, the halls echoed with talk of scouts and victory. The boys were running on fumes, and I wasn’t any better. I pushed them harder than ever—longer drills, tighter formations, endless reviews of plays until their exhaustion turned into precision. This was it: one last masterpiece before the curtain fell.

Every muscle in me was wired for it, but my heart wasn’t where it should’ve been.

Because when I wasn’t shaping a team, I was quietly trying to rebuild the future I’d already shattered.

If I was done coaching—really done—then I needed a plan. A life to step into when this one finally collapsed. Not that I wanted to live without him, but I would have to try. He deserved a future, and I needed a ghost of one.

That was when I thought about the club.

The offer had come months ago—half a joke at first, a passing conversation with Master Hale about joining the training staff once the season ended. I’d never taken it seriously. But now, the idea lingered. Maybe that was where I’d end up when everything else burned down.

So I reached out.

The call was brief. Hale didn’t ask for details, and I didn’t offer any.

“After the season,” I told him. “When my contract’s up.”

He paused, then said simply, “I look forward to it, Mr. A. Come by this weekend. Let’s sit and talk.”

That settled it. The next step of the plan was in motion.

I hung up, staring at the silent phone. If I was going to return to that world, I might as well start setting the stage properly.

Which meant Micah.

That night, after another endless round of reviewing plays, I sat in the dark with my phone in hand and finally made the call.

He picked up right away, breathless as if he’d been waiting for it.

“Sir?”

“Micah.” My voice came out lower than I meant. “I want to see you this weekend.”

A pause, then a sharp inhale. “Wait—seriously? It’s over already? Season done?” His voice lit up, bright and eager. “Oh my God, are we on again?”

“Not quite,” I said. “The season isn’t over yet, and we’re not officially on anything, so don’t start getting ideas.”

I could hear the grin in his voice even through the line. “Too late.”

“Be at my place early on Saturday.”

“Yes, Sir,” he said quickly, excitement breaking through the practiced composure he always tried to keep. “Any specific outfit or no outfit at all?”

“I want you ready, for the club. I will provide the outfit.” I continued.

“Or the lack of—” He interrupted me with a chuckle.

“So you know, from now on, you’re in full submission. No familiarities, no jokes, no games. You understand me? Another comment out of place and we start counting.”

His tone shifted instantly, the teasing gone. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. See you Saturday then for a formal session at the club. Don’t make me regret taking you.”

Another small pause—then softer, reverent. “I won’t, Sir.”

I ended the call before I could second-guess it.

The screen went dark, leaving me alone with my reflection and the faint buzz of adrenaline still in my chest. Everything was falling into place.

The plan. The club. The end of the season.

And all I could do was hope I’d still recognize myself when it was over.

As the weekend crept closer, I started to notice something was off with Noah.

He was still performing—still brilliant on the field—but something in him had shifted. The focus was there, the precision, but the spark wasn’t. There were moments when he’d glance at me from across the field, a flicker of something heavy in his eyes, like he wanted to share something but couldn’t.

I told myself not to look back. Not to care. But every time he looked at me that way, I felt it—the pull, the quiet ache to go to him, to ask what was wrong, to fix it.

But this wasn’t the time for softness. All eyes were on us. The media, the staff, the players—everyone watching, waiting for one misstep.

He needed to stay composed, and so did I, but I loved him and I would always be just as okay as he was.

During one of the last practices before the weekend, I caught him sitting in the locker room after drills, laces half-tied, head low. I kept my voice casual, as if it were any other check-in.

“Everything good with you, Blake? You seem distracted out there.”

He looked up, eager at first, but as he noticed the other players in the room, he forced a small smile. “Yeah, I’ve just got a few things going on. Home stuff. That’s all.”

I nodded slowly, keeping my tone even, though my eyes said something completely different—that I was there for him, that he could talk to me. “Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.”

He nodded back, quick and polite, and that was it. Nothing more.

But the way his eyes lingered back said that he understood.

I waited for him to call, to approach me, wondering if it was really “family stuff” or code for “William stuff,” but he never did.

The Harts had him running on fumes—public events, media dinners, photo ops for the campaign that would follow the championship. He was either with them or buried in coursework, and the few times I caught sight of him outside the field, there was always someone nearby.

Whatever was weighing on him, it would have to wait.

And I hated that I was starting to accept it.

So as Saturday approached, I did what I always did—shut it all down.

Noah had his world.

I had mine.

And mine, for now, was preparing for the night ahead—the show at the Dominion.

Micah would be waiting. The club, the mask, the ritual—all of it would demand the kind of control I’d been losing lately. Maybe it was exactly what I needed.

If only I would’ve known then how that night would end….