Chapter 176

Aiden

My baby boy fucking did it.

No caution, no hesitation, no fear—just raw talent and pure heart exploding into the kind of play people will talk about for years. Watching him cross that end zone felt like my lungs finally remembered how to work. Pride didn’t just hit me—it tore through me like a shockwave, something too big for my chest, something that made my hands shake and my throat burn.

He looked like a god out there.

And he was mine.

It took every ounce of restraint I had in my body not to tear his helmet off and kiss him senseless in the middle of the field. And when he looked into the cameras and thanked me—when he said I “rode his ass harder than anyone”—I had to bite my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Only Noah would say something like that on national television and make it sound like both a football compliment and a confession.

William’s face, however…

Now that was a masterpiece.

His jaw went tight, shoulders locked, posture razor-sharp. The realization was settling in: Noah wasn’t broken. He wasn’t subdued. He wasn’t his in the way William wanted him to be.

The dean stood not too far from him, shaking hands with donors, acting like he’d personally coached the entire season. William leaned in, whispering something in the dean’s ear, and the dean threw a glance my way—calculating, probing, concerned.

I didn’t care.

Let them talk.

Let William try to scare me.

Let them come for me.

I already made my decision.

If I had to burn my reputation, my job, my name to make sure Noah kept his career and his freedom, I’d do it without blinking. I’d already begun the groundwork.

From the moment we started training, I convinced him to erase his old playboy trail. The flirty pictures with girls draped over him, the late-night party shots, the comments, the bragging, the entire persona he built back home just to survive the expectations people had of him. After that, I spent the past month clearing every trace of his past record—bar fights, club incidents, the messy hookups that the media would twist into a scandal the second his name hit their radar.

He hadn’t been a bad kid. He’d just been playing the role everyone decided he should fill. And I wasn’t about to let the world weaponize that against him now. I negotiated with his West Virginia’s old staff, who threw themselves at the chance to say they “molded” a future NFL star. I just had to promise their school would be mentioned when the spotlight came.

Now only one “problem” remained.

Me.

If scandal hit, I would take every ounce of blame.

Quietly. Cleanly. Willingly.

Noah would walk out untouched.

But that conversation—that choice—belonged to both of us this time.

No more fixing his life behind his back.

No more deciding for him.

Today wasn’t about that.

Today was about him.

After my interviews, I spoke with the scouts—several of them practically drooling to claim him. One, in particular, understood what mattered: longevity, injury clauses, development support, media protection. That was the one. And, of course, William hovered nearby like a vulture in a tailored suit because, after all, he was still managing negotiations. I let him speak. Let him smile. Let him feel in control—for now.

But if Noah agreed to let me give him his life back, that contract would be done, and William would lose every inch of his leverage.

Noah brushed past me as he left the field, sweat-damp, flushed, electric, his eyes locking with mine in a flash of heat and certainty so strong it nearly buckled me. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just let the look say everything.

Later.

I excused myself, ignoring the dean calling my name, and headed down the tunnel. People tried to stop me the whole way—congratulations, questions, pats on the shoulder—but all I could think about was him.

By the time I made it to the locker hallway, he was already there, leaning against the wall like he had been waiting for me, even if he would never say it in front of anyone. For a moment, neither of us spoke. We just… looked. Everything we’d been holding back sat thick between us—what we’d nearly lost, what we’d almost ruined, what we still wanted.

I stepped close enough that no one passing by would hear. My hand brushed his—not enough to be seen, but enough to be felt. I slid the hotel room key card into his palm.

“Go celebrate with them first,” I murmured, voice low, steady, full. “And then…”

A pause.

“Come celebrate with me.”

His fingers closed around the card.

His breath hitched.

His eyes said yes.

And that was enough to bring me back to life.

The celebration was chaos in every direction. The school had taken over a hotel ballroom, and it felt like half the state had shown up to watch Noah be crowned champion. Music pounded, champagne popped, fans and players shouted over one another. Everyone wanted a moment with him—pictures, hugs, hands clapping his shoulders. He was glowing from it, flushed and exhausted and radiant.

I stayed close enough to see him, far enough to be invisible.

Lexie held his hand sometimes. It was for the cameras, for the narrative, for the world that thought it knew how this story was supposed to go. She smiled at him like she truly believed she was part of his victory, and he smiled back because he was a good man. A kind one. I didn’t think either of them realized how badly that kindness burned.

I wanted to go to him.

To touch him.

To take him away from all of them.

But I waited.

Because tonight was his.

And loving him meant letting him be celebrated.

After a while, I slipped out. My body was running on fumes, and my heart felt too full and too raw to keep myself upright among crowds any longer. I told one of the staff I was turning in early and headed back to the room.

The quiet hit me like a sudden drop in altitude.

The hotel room was dim, city light spilling through a gap in the curtains. I showered. Sat at the edge of the bed. Let the noise of the night fade through the walls until it became nothing but vibration. I could still hear echoes of the cheering in my head. I could still see him crossing that end zone.

And I waited.

Not nervously. Not anxiously.

Simply certain.

Because I knew him.

And I knew what that look had meant when I left him.

At some point, the hallway outside went silent. The hotel settled. The city exhaled.

Then—soft and quiet—the door lock clicked.

The keycard slid.

The knob turned.

The door eased open.

Noah stepped inside and closed it behind him, leaning against it for a second like he needed that breath to steady himself. His shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled, hair a mess from hands and sweat and celebration. He looked wrecked and beautiful and so achingly real I almost forgot how to speak.

He crossed the room in three steps.

“Noah,” I said, my voice low because it had to be. “I am so proud of you. I don’t even know how to—”

I didn’t get the rest out.

He kissed me, hard and sudden and certain, like every mile we’d traveled to get here was being burned down behind us. His hands were in my hair, on my jaw, pulling me in like he had been starved. I kissed him back just as fiercely, gripping his waist, his back, holding him close enough to feel every breath shake through him.

There was no caution now.

No distance.

No pretending.

Just us, meeting in the dark like gravity had finally done its job.

When he broke for air, our foreheads rested together, breaths unsteady, lips still brushing like neither of us could bear to stop.

The world had disappeared outside that door.

Tonight, there was only this.