Page 34 of Wicked Fury

“Is everything alright?” My father’s voice slices through my thoughts, sharp as glass.

“Of course,” I try to sound easy going and cheery, but my eyes are still locked with Lincoln’s. He’s a storm cloud in human form, and I can’t help but wonder if the hurricane that tore through my room is planning on doing any more damage. He’s bold, invasive, and a little bit twisted.

“Get in the car, Iris.” Dad’s command is terse, and I oblige, not because I’m eager to obey, but because it puts a metal barrier between me and Lincoln. The door slams with a finality that echoes in my chest.

As we pull out of the lot, Lincoln kicks his bike to life, the roar of the engine a wild thing that claws at the inside of my skull. I watch him through the rearview mirror, heart hammering against my ribs. If he decides to approach, to challenge my father, it’ll be an explosion of testosterone and rage that I will ultimately be blamed for.

I never thought I’d be looking forward to a tutoring session.

Chapter 13

Lincoln

The door to the coach’s office slams behind me, a telltale echo of my mood. I stride in, muscles tense, sweat cooling on my skin from practice—a mix of exertion and irritation brewing beneath the surface. The old man’s here, already perched like a vulture waiting to pick at the carcass of my patience.

“Lincoln,” his voice grates, cutting through the silence with its usual disappointment. “What’s crawled up your ass lately? You’ve been out of sorts since your mother decided to shackle herself to Dan fucking Shelby.”

I clench my fists, feeling the weight of unseen chains tighten. My jaw sets hard enough to grind teeth to dust. I can feel the heat of anger simmering under my skin, a silent current of rage threatening to erupt. But I push it down, deep, where I can contain it because lashing out right now at my coach and my father will only spell disaster. I’d very much like to not end up locked in some room for a week because I dared to cross the line with Robert Blackwood.

“Nothing’s up,” I lie, my voice steady as a rock but about to erupt like a volcano underneath it all.

My coach’s glare is next, as if I need another thorn in my side. “Blackwood, you’ve been dropping the ball literally and figuratively. Get your head in the game or sit the next one out.”

“Sure thing, Coach,” I retort, every word laced with sarcasm that drips like acid. I’m smirking on the outside, but inside? It’s a goddamn typhoon.

“Your old man’s got a point, though.” He crosses those beefy arms, his biceps bulging like they’re trying to escape his skin. “You got talent, son, but talent ain’t worth shit without focus. Your head’s not in the game. You’re playing like an amateur out there.”

“Listen, Lincoln,” Dad interjects, his ice-cold stare locking onto mine. “You better shape up. Your little escapades they reflect on all of us.”

“Escapades?” I echo, baiting him with a taunting edge to my tone. “You mean like fucking one of your son’s best friend’s girlfriend?”

“Watch your mouth, boy,” he warns, his voice laced with a threat that’s all too familiar.

“Whatever you say…Dad.” The title feels like ash on my tongue.

The door to the coach’s office cracks open, and in slips an interruption I don’t need right now. I just want to get this damn talk over with. This damn blonde from the stands, the one who had slunk away under my scathing mockery, stands there clutching a stack of papers to her chest like a shield. My annoyance simmers into a slow burn.

“Come in,” Coach grumbles, his voice dripping with disinterest as he glances up at the intrusion. She steps inside, a peppy little fucking hop as she walks that is annoying as fuck. Who the fuck walks like that?

“Hi everyone! I brought the injury reports you asked for,” she chirps, her voice a grating melody of saccharine sweetness and artificial cheer that scrapes against my already frayed nerves.

“Thanks, Nicole,” Coach says with a dismissive flick of his wrist, barely giving her a second glance. “Just leave them on the desk.” His words sound flat, carrying an undertone of ‘get out as soon as you can.’

“Of course!” She smiles, too wide, too eager, and I find myself gritting my teeth at the sight. Her presence is like a buzzing fly—irritating and persistent.

“Is there anything else you need?” she asks, lingering longer than necessary.

“Nope, that’ll be all,” Coach replies, not bothering to look up from the paperwork she just added to his pile. He sounds like he’s talking to a particularly dense child, and I can’t help but smirk at the dismissal dressed as politeness.

“Alright then,” Nicole says, flashing me a glance that she probably thinks is coy. It lands like a lead balloon. Just another thing to piss me off today.

I turn my back on her, dismissing her from my mind as easily as swatting away that same pesky fly. My thoughts are already darkening again, shifting to Iris, to the rush I get from bending her will to mine. That’s where my real interest lies—not with some intern who doesn’t know when to quit.

“Girl gets on my damn nerves,” Coach grumbles under his breath, though loud enough for me to catch. His eyes roll toward the ceiling as if seeking divine patience.

“Interns,” he grumbles, tossing the papers onto his cluttered desk like they’re contaminated. “The head of sports medicine has a soft spot for her. Thinks she’s got potential.” The words drip with skepticism, echoing my own sentiments.

“Potential to what? Annoy the hell out of everyone?” I can’t help but retort, my voice laced with sarcasm. A smirk dances on my lips, though it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

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