Page 10 of Wicked Fury

“Her dad,” I spit out the words, “is now married to my mom.” The confession feels like acid on my tongue, burning with betrayal.

“Shit, man. That’s twisted.” Penn’s smirk fades into something resembling concern, though it’s fleeting.

“Twisted doesn’t fucking cover it,” I say, the anger bubbling up again, hot and corrosive. “She was high as a kite, too. Popping pills during the damn vows.”

“Damn,” Penn says, nodding with a mix of respect and sarcasm. “That’s commitment to your vices. Got to hand it to her for that.”

I snort, the sound harsh in the quiet around us. “Commitment or not, it’s fucked up.”

“Everything about today is fucked up,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head as I stand up, ready to channel all this rage into the only thing I know will take the edge off—the game.

Graham’s piercing brown eyes narrow, skepticism written all over his buzz-cut head. “Nah, ain’t no way. Her ass is always miss goody two-shoes in class and answering all the questions. She’s the smartest girl on campus and she can’t possibly be dumb enough to be getting high during the actual wedding.”

“Bro, I don’t give a shit what she does in class,” I say, my words slicing through the disbelief hanging in the air. The memory flashes hot and vivid—her, standing there with glassy eyes, fumbling with the damn locket around her neck. “She was definitely popping pills mid ceremony. Saw it with my own goddamn eyes.”

The muscles in my jaw clench as I replay the scene, the taste of bile lingering in my throat. Iris, so fucking untouchable in her fancy dress, yet unraveling at the seams. It pisses me off how she can play the part, how everyone buys into her act.

I keep bitching about Iris and my mom, can’t help it—it’s like scratching at a wound, knowing it’ll bleed but doing it, anyway. “They’re all fucking buddy buddy now, and that smart mouth of hers—” I catch myself, a growl rumbling from deep within. “She just knows how to push my buttons.”

“Jesus, Lincoln,” Jeremiah finally breathes out, his green eyes wide with something that looks like dawning realization. “Holy fuck, it’s really happening. I’ve never seen you this fucked up over a girl before.”

My blood runs hotter at his words. The last thing I need is an analysis of my fucked-up state, especially when it comes to her. “Don’t get it twisted, Jere,” I snap back. “This ain’t about her—it’s about the whole fucked up situation.”

But who am I kidding? My skin’s too tight, my thoughts too tangled around that enigmatic girl with her goddamn smirk and those piercing emerald eyes that seem to see right through me.

“Keep talking, brother, and I’ll show you just how fucked up I can get,” I threaten, every muscle coiled, ready to spring. My brothers know better than to prod further. They’ve seen me lose it before, and nobody’s itching for a repeat performance.

“Chill, Linc,” Penn chimes in, trying to diffuse the tension with that cocky grin of his. But even he doesn’t push it, not when the air’s thick enough to choke on.

The burn of fury is a poison in my veins, but I suck it back, hold it tight. I can’t let it spill onto the field, not when every play counts. The whispers of my brothers fade into the background—just white noise—as I shove the chaos into the darkest corner of my mind.

“Let’s do this,” I mutter, more to myself than to them. Every muscle coils as we stride back onto the field, the grass a welcome solidity beneath my cleats. Coach’s eyes are on me, hawk-like, waiting to see if I’ll crack. I shoot him a nod that’s all challenge and no submission, and he returns it with a grudging respect. It’s enough.

“Blue forty-two! Blue forty-two! Set, hut!” My voice cuts through the air, a sharp command that echoes off the bleachers. I drop back, the ball a familiar weight in my hands, my full attention locked on Penn as he sprints down the field. He moves like he owns the damn place, confidence rolling off him in waves. I launch the pigskin, spiraling it through the air—it’s perfect, it’s fucking poetry.

Penn snatches it from its flight, the smack of leather against flesh a confirmation of my precision. For a moment, nothing else exists but the satisfaction of a flawless execution.

“Nice catch, shithead,” I throw at Penn, a smirk tugging at the edge of my mouth. It’s our language, this push and pull on the field, this brotherhood forged in sweat and adrenaline and blood.

“Like you ever doubted it,” he fires back, that eternal grin plastered on his face.

We line up again; the team pulsing with energy, hungry for the next play. It’s two more rounds of seamless motion, the kind of plays that remind me why I live for this game, why I bleed green and gold.

“Wrap it up, boys!” Coach’s voice booms, signaling the end of practice. Reluctantly, we ease up, the intensity dialing back as helmets come off and we head toward the lockers.

“Damn good throws today, Lincoln,” one of the guys, Cameron, slaps my shoulder, and despite everything—the rage, the confusion, Iris—I can’t help but feel the ghost of pride flicker in my chest.

“Thanks, man,” I say, keeping it cool, collected. The mask is firmly back in place. But inside? Inside I’m still a storm, thoughts of everyone’s favorite good girl and her wild defiance churning up a hurricane that threatens to wreck me from the inside out.

The tang of sweat and dirt hangs heavy, evidence of the grind we’ve just been through.

“Hey, Lincoln, toss me my towel, will ya?” Jeremiah calls out, his voice echoing off the metal and tile.

“Get it yourself,” I shoot back without looking, peeling the tape from my wrists. The banter is mindless, a distraction from the knot twisting in my gut.

I’m about to shrug off my jersey when Penn’s voice slices through the haze of steam and chatter, stopping me dead. “Yo, Linc.” He leans against his locker, arms folded, that trademark sly grin curving his lips. “The most important question I need an answer to is, what was it like to fuck your sister?”

Blood pounds in my ears, hot and insistent. My hands still, the jersey halfway up my torso, exposing the inked skin beneath. My jaw clenches tight enough to shatter teeth, and for a second, the locker room falls away—all noise drowned out by the rush of anger.

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