Chapter 6

Noah

Who the hell did he think he was?

I should’ve stormed out of that room, slammed the door behind me, and told him to shove his clipboard up his—

But I didn’t.

Instead, I walked out like a good little soldier, head high, ears burning, and heart doing this annoying stutter-step thing it only seemed to do around him. That voice… the way it slid over my skin and stuck in my spine like a hook—I hated it. I hated that I liked it.

Mr. A had messed me up.

I’d fantasized about him for weeks. Dreamed of being beneath his hands, listening to his voice, giving up control I didn’t even want to admit I was clinging to. I’d craved everything he offered, every dark promise he whispered in those late-night chats.

But this? Craving Coach Mercer? That was different.

That was dangerous.

And yet… every time he ordered me around, every time he looked at me like I was something to shape and mold—I felt it. That low, unwelcome pull. That heat.

And yeah, a part of me still wondered. Still suspected the impossible. What if they were the same man? What if Mr. A and Coach were just two names for the same pair of sharp grey eyes?

If that was true, I was completely, utterly screwed.

I dragged myself out of bed earlier than I should’ve. I didn’t sleep much anyway. My head was a warzone, and my body was worse.

By 6 a.m. sharp, I was at the hotel gym, pounding away at the treadmill, trying to sweat out every fucked-up thought I shouldn’t be having. I was here to play football—not to obsess over fifty shades of whatever the hell this was. I didn’t swing that way. I didn’t need a Dom. I didn’t need Coach Mercer telling me how to think or breathe or behave.

And yet...

My chest tightened when I heard the gym door open.

I glanced up.

He walked in like a storm dressed in black—still damp from the shower, hair messy, smelling like mint and command. His gaze swept over me, slow and assessing.

Approval flickered in his eyes.

Good boy.

He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to. I felt it in every inch of my skin.

And damn it—my heart skipped again.

Slowly, deliberately, he walked over to the weights like he owned the place. Like he owned me. Picked up a clipboard, tapped it once against his palm, then looked at me like I was the next thing he meant to break.

“Off the treadmill.”

I nearly rolled my eyes—but I didn’t. Not when I saw the gleam in his eyes. Not when my body jolted like it liked being spoken to like that.

I slowed the belt and stepped off, wiping sweat from my neck with the towel slung over my shoulder.

“Warm-up’s over,” he said. “Time to train the parts that actually matter.”

I swallowed hard. “What, like abs?”

His lips twitched—just enough to be dangerous. “Control.”

Before I could ask what the hell that meant, he tossed me a pair of resistance bands and pointed to the floor. “Plank holds. One minute. When I say switch, you crawl to the next station. You rest before I say—your ass starts over.”

My chest tightened. “You serious?”

His gaze dropped, just for a second, to my waist. Then slid slowly back up. “Do I look like I’m playing, Blake?”

No. No, he didn’t.

I dropped into a plank, biting back a groan. Every inch of me screamed from yesterday’s travel, from the tension, from the way I couldn’t stop thinking about him—them—and now he was putting me through this?

“One minute,” he said calmly, stepping closer. “You flinch, we restart. You collapse, we add push-ups. You get mouthy…”

He let the sentence hang in the air, unfinished.

But I felt the end of it.

You get punished.

My arms shook. Sweat dripped from my forehead to the mat. My muscles burned—and so did my thoughts.

He circled me slowly, like a predator evaluating prey. Calm, silent, commanding. I could feel him watching the way I held my body, the tension in my back, the twitch of my hands when I wanted to give out but didn’t.

“You do like being told what to do, don’t you?”

His voice came from behind me, low and smug. My jaw clenched.

“No, Sir, I don't.”

A pause.

“That ‘s why you’re hard?”

Fuck. My breath caught. “I’m not.”

But I was. I could feel my boner beginning to pulse against my briefs.

“Mm.” He walked around to face me again, arms crossed. “Sure about that?”

I dropped my gaze, teeth grinding as the timer on his phone beeped.

“Switch,” he said, cool and sharp.

I crawled to the next station, humiliated. Turned on.

He didn’t stop. Lunges. Wall sits. Arm raises with those stupid bands that felt like hellfire after ten seconds. Every time I started to struggle, he was there—correcting me, mocking me, watching me.

I was sweating, my body shaking.

“Having a hard time? You wanted this,” he said at one point, his voice like velvet-wrapped steel. “That’s why you’re here.”

I gritted my teeth. “You brought me.”

His smirk deepened as he circled behind me again. “Exactly. As my assistant, remember? But you're not my fucking secretary, right? You are a player, and you wanted to sweat, correct? Well, I'm gonna make you sweat.”

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My legs were locked in a wall sit, muscles trembling, breath shallow.

“Let me tell you how it’s gonna be, boy,” he said quietly, just behind my ear. “From this day forward, I’m going to watch you. Closely. I’m going to push you. Correct you. Monitor what you eat, how you sleep, how you train… and how you respond.”

My chest tightened. He wasn’t yelling. Wasn’t angry. He didn’t have to be.

“I’m going to break you down, piece by piece,” he said, circling to face me. “Not to destroy you, Blake—but to build you into the man you’re too afraid to become.”

His eyes burned into mine.

“Discipline. Control. Obedience. That’s what separates a player from a leader. And make no mistake…” His voice dropped, low and dark. “I will lead you there. Even if I have to drag you.”

I didn’t say a word.

I couldn’t.

Because part of me wanted to fight back.

And part of me wanted to fall to my knees and say, Please.

But I did neither.

My knees nearly buckled as I pushed forward harder, just to prove to him that breaking was gonna take work, but in reality, I could already see the slightest crack underneath my shaky surface.

By the time we finished, I was soaked in sweat, my muscles shaking, my pride in shreds—and somehow, all I could think about was him.

The way he looked at me. The way he spoke to me. The way he saw through me.

I was here to become a quarterback.

But I was starting to think he had something else in mind entirely.