Chapter 170

Aiden

The week moved forward because time doesn’t stop just because a life falls apart. I went to practices, ran drills, corrected form, shouted plays, reviewed tape, and pretended I was fine. The team was preparing for the championship game on Friday, the most important game of the season, and I was supposed to be the solid foundation holding it all together.

But I had never tried to do it while I was breaking.

Every morning I told myself I would explain everything to Noah. I would tell him exactly what happened, what didn’t happen, what I had meant to do, what I had almost ruined, and what I had realized. I rehearsed the words so many times that they dissolved inside my mouth before I could speak them.

But Noah didn’t look at me.

Not once.

He was present at practice. He ran the drills. He lifted. He blocked. He pushed. He played. But he did it like a machine, not a person. His body moved and his mind was somewhere else. The fire that had always lived behind his eyes—reckless, hungry, bright—was gone. In its place was something hollow. He wasn’t performing badly, but he wasn’t performing like Noah. He wasn’t leading. He wasn’t speaking. He wasn’t there.

It was visible enough that even the others noticed, though no one dared say anything.

And I couldn’t blame him.

Not for shutting down.

Not for running.

Not for believing what he saw.

I blamed myself. For Micah. For the plan. For thinking I could control which ghost I brought into his life and which ones I could keep out. I told myself I had done it to protect Noah, to spare him, to give him a future. But the truth tasted bitter now: I had done it out of fear—fear that he would choose me and ruin himself.

I had been wrong.

And now we were both paying for it.

On Tuesday after practice, I couldn’t stand it anymore. The team was loud in the locker room, joking and laughing the way they always did after a win. Noah stood at his locker, lacing his shoes.

I walked up to him, waiting until he turned his head slightly, acknowledging my presence without meeting my eyes.

“Noah,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I’d like a word.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. He only looked—briefly—at his teammates, then straight ahead again. “I’m listening, Coach.”

No private corner. No step away. No break in the walls.

Just that word.

Coach.

I nodded once, trying not to flinch at the distance of it.

“It can wait,” I said quietly. “I can see you’re busy.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The silence between us was thick enough to choke on.

I walked away before I made it worse.

But that night, I couldn’t stay away. I grabbed some papers that needed signing as an excuse, but I just needed to see him outside the field—alone.

His dorm door opened before I knocked twice.

Lexie stood there.

She looked surprised, though she tried to hide it quickly—her posture polite, her smile steady. “Hi, Coach. Noah’s just changing. Let me grab him.”

I couldn’t look past her into the room. I couldn’t stomach seeing him inside, looking the way he had all week—tired, gray, muted, alive only because life refused to release him.

“No, it’s okay,” I said, forcing the lie to stay smooth. “I brought some forms to sign.”

She nodded, with a smile. “Oh, okay! I’ll give them to him.”

I heard him say something inside the room—something too quiet to make out. My pulse stuttered. For a second, I considered asking to speak to him anyway. Just one minute. One breath. One chance.

But he didn’t come to the door.

I turned and left, the hallway feeling longer than any field I had ever crossed. The walls felt too close, the lights too bright, the entire world wrong in a way I didn’t have a name for.

By Thursday morning, I wasn’t just worried about the championship anymore.

I was worried about Noah. He was starting to act as if nothing mattered to him anymore. In and out of the field. I had to do something.

Something drastic.

The locker room emptied slowly after final drills. The lights hummed overhead, harsh and cold, reflecting off tile and steel.

I waited.

I knew he showered last.

He always had.

When I stepped into the steamy corridor, I found him in the far stall, head bowed under the spray, his hands braced against the wall like he was holding up the entire world.

“Noah.”

His shoulders tensed instantly. He didn’t turn. “You shouldn’t be in here.”

“We need to talk.”

He inhaled sharply, controlled, composed in the way someone gets when they’re one touch from breaking. He looked over his shoulder—not at me, but past me, checking the room.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Coach.” The title was a blade.

I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “Noah. Please.”

His breath hitched as he turned his face away so I wouldn’t see it.

“You gotta leave,” he whispered. “Someone could walk in—”

I stepped all the way inside the stall. “Now they won’t,” I said. And then, quieter, “I can’t let this go. Not like this.”

He flinched when I reached for him—not a recoil, just a tremor. My hand settled lightly on his shoulder, barely there, water running over both of us.

“Baby, please—”

“Don’t call me that.” His voice cracked. It nearly undid me.

“I’m sorry,” I said—finally, uselessly, truthfully. “I’ve done a lot of stupid shit, but I didn’t betray you. I didn’t choose him. I swear to you, Noah. I swear.”

He laughed once—broken. Humiliated. Angry. Crushed. “You were with him. In bed!”

I took half a step closer, my chest nearly touching his. “What you saw the other night—it wasn’t what you think. I was asleep. I didn’t know. I thought—”

He shoved me. Hard. The wet tile made my footing slip.

“Are you delusional?” he hissed. “What the fuck kind of excuse is that? You didn’t know? You were wide awake, at least your cock was, coach. And if you didn’t know someone was sucking it, then you need help. Seriously.”

The hurt in his eyes was so deep it looked like it was eating him from the inside out.

I opened my mouth. “Noah—”

A voice echoed from around the lockers:

“Blake? You in here?”

Noah’s jaw clenched, as he swallowed his tears.

“Yeah,” he called back, steady. Controlled. A perfect mask. “I’ll be right there.”

He didn’t look at me again.

He stepped past me, wrapping a towel around his waist, steam curling around him like smoke, and walked toward the exit.

I didn’t follow.

The door swung open, the noise of the hallway spilling in, and then it closed again.

And I stayed where I was, water still hitting the floor where he’d stood, my hand still raised toward nothing.

That night, hours before the championship, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering if cornering him in the showers had only broken him further. He didn’t want to hear me. He didn’t want to look at me. I had lost him. My boy. And without him, the rest of it—coaching, the game, my future—meant nothing. My chest ached so hard I had to press a hand to it just to breathe.

The doorbell rang.

I pushed up too fast, dizzy, stumbling to the door with eyes still raw.

“Noah—?”

But it wasn’t him.

“Sorry,” Micah said quietly. “It’s just me.”

The disappointment hit so sharply my knees nearly buckled. “What are you doing here, Micah? You should go.”

“I just wanted to check on you. You haven’t answered any of my messages. Are you okay?”

I let out a rough breath. “No. I’m not okay. I lost the man I love. And I ruined him. Tomorrow is the championship, and he’s falling apart. And so am I.” My voice scraped as I said it. “To hell with my future, but his is on the line and he can’t even lift his head.”

Micah studied me, eyes shining with something both tender and aching. “Do you love him that much?”

“More than I love myself.”

Silence.

Then Micah nodded once, slow and resigned. “Then you need to tell him.”

“You think I haven’t tried?” I whispered. “He won’t talk to me.”

Micah drew in a deep, steadying breath. Then he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the top of my head — the gentlest, most human touch either of us had left.

“Then,” he murmured, straightening, “he’ll have to talk to me.”