Chapter 7

Aiden

Don’t get me wrong—I’m not a sadist.

Or an asshole. At least… not completely.

Everything I did that morning, I did for him. The exercises, the pace, the precision—it was all part of the plan. A structured, personalized training routine tailored to shape him into the best damn quarterback he could become.

...With just a touch of extra pressure. For fun.

And because I could.

Potato, potahtoh.

He wanted discipline? He was getting it.

He wanted to lead a team? Then he had to learn how to follow first.

Besides, it was how I was trained—how I became the star player everyone worshipped before the lights dimmed and my career ended too soon. Someone had pushed me past my limits once, forced me to confront my weaknesses and sharpen every edge. And now… it was my turn to do the same for someone else.

But with Noah, it wasn’t just legacy.

It wasn’t just coaching.

The more time I spent with him, the more he reminded me of myself—young, cocky, brilliant, and burning with ambition he hadn’t learned how to control.

And the more he let me shape him, mold him, test him… the more he stopped being just a player. He was becoming my project. My responsibility.

My newest, messiest addiction.

I watched him through the mirror as he strained under the bands. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, spine taut, arms trembling. His body fought. His ego rebelled.

But he obeyed.

And fuck, if that didn’t make something primal coil low in my stomach.

By the time physical training was over, Noah was ready to be my secretary.

He showed up after the healthy breakfast I had prearranged for him, on time and without a single complaint.

Until my next set of instructions of course, when he inevitably had to throw his usual tantrum.

I closed the folder in front of me and glanced at the clock. “You’ve got thirty-five minutes.”

Noah gave me a look. “You're shitting me…”

“Printing. Highlighting. Memorizing. You’ve got your list.” I handed him the notes with a pen clipped to the edge. “Unless you need me to spell it out again?”

His jaw tightened, but he snatched the folder and stormed off without another word.

I smirked.

Exactly thirty-three minutes later, he returned—papers neatly highlighted, notes scribbled in the margins in surprisingly decent handwriting. Okay, maybe not decent. But it was legible. Mostly. He placed the stack on the desk like it was an offering and stood there.

Waiting.

I didn’t look up.

Instead, I flipped to the next section of the day’s schedule and said, “Rehab consult in twenty. I expect you to know the summary of Dr. Patel’s report by then.”

He didn’t move.

“You’re dismissed.”

Still, he hesitated. I could feel the tension coming off him—expectant, twitchy, hopeful. Like a dog waiting for a treat that never came.

But I didn’t say good boy.

Didn’t even say thank you.

He turned sharply and left with a huff.

But, as we met for the rehab consult, he had the report memorized.

Word for word.

I tested him. Pushed him. Asked questions in different order, interrupted him mid-answer. And damn if he didn’t keep up.

“Inflammation markers?” I asked suddenly.

“Down by 17%, which the doctor attributes to the adjusted icing protocol.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And the new range-of-motion goal?”

“Seventy-five degrees by next week.”

I nodded. “You could’ve just said ‘yes,’ Blake.”

He stared at me. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” I muttered, scribbling on the clipboard. “You’re just trying too hard.”

He bristled. “I’m doing what you asked.”

“You’re doing what I expect. That’s not the same thing.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, but said nothing.

The rest of the day went like that—obedience without praise, task after task completed with gritted teeth and growing silence. He was doing everything right, and I didn’t give him so much as a nod of approval.

Not outwardly.

But inside?

I was impressed. And that was the problem.

Because the more he obeyed… the more I wanted to break the rules I’d set.

The gym was quiet by nightfall. Everyone else had called it, but I wasn’t done yet. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop thinking.

So I trained.

Not for the team. Not for the next game or performance metrics. For myself.

To prove I still could.

I was halfway through the second set of rows when I spotted them—Noah’s headphones, slung over the bench like he’d dropped them in a hurry.

I walked over and picked them up.

One side was cracked. The foam worn thin. Definitely not top-tier gear—but somehow, so him. Stubborn. Scrappy. Trying so fucking hard.

I set them aside, but not before a smile tugged at the edge of my mouth.

My mind drifted. Of course it did. To his shoulders, tight and glistening earlier. To the way he’d moved through drills like a man possessed—muscle stacked over muscle, lean but deadly. Powerful. So young. So damn alive.

Valuable.

So much potential it made my teeth ache.

My smile faded.

Because I remembered what it felt like to have that strength.

And how quickly it could all fall apart.

I turned toward the cable machine, adjusted the settings, and locked my brace tighter around my left leg.

Slowly, I started the reps—controlled lifts, high resistance. No shortcuts. No cheating.

My quad burned. The scar tissue screamed. The old injury flared up like it always did when I pushed it too far—but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

Come on.

The fifth rep faltered. My leg buckled for half a second before I forced it back into line.

“Fuck,” I muttered, wiping my face.

This was the price of being almost great.

Of getting so close—then losing it all.

I kept going.

By the end, my shirt was soaked. My body pulsed with pain and adrenaline. I grabbed a towel, ran it across my neck, and headed for the shower.

The water hit my skin like a slap. I braced against the tiles, letting the stream roll down my back, my shoulders, my chest.

And there he was again.

Noah.

Not in the gym, not in drills—but in my mind.

His flushed skin under the lights. His shirt riding up to expose the ripple of his abs. The way his lips parted when he was out of breath—when he was trying so hard to please me.

I imagined his fingers on me. Rough. Curious. Learning.

His body pressed to mine, trembling not from exertion… but from the edge of surrender.

His mouth trailing down my stomach. His voice whispering Sir, not with defiance, but reverence.

My hand slid down.

And for one glorious, torturous moment—I let myself imagine what it would feel like to own him.

Not just train him.

But fully submit him.

My mind was nursing the fantasy of him—my hand slowly wrapping around my length… when I heard the gym door open and shut.

I froze.

Water still running, heart pounding, hand clenched at my side.

And then I heard the footsteps.

Light. Hesitant.

Familiar.

Noah.