Page 46 of Wicked Fury

I stroll in, all swagger and confidence. The office is a shrine to victory—a testament to blood, sweat, and tears. Trophies glint like teeth bared in a grin, and team photos adorn the walls, forever frozen mid-triumph. I’m in some of those pictures, eyes glazed with the feeling of conquest. This space reeks of worn leather and nostalgia, a scent that’s become as familiar to me as the musk of my own skin after a game.

“Coach,” I greet him with a smirk, nodding at the assistant coach who lurks by the door like some kind of underfed vulture. They’ve got that serious look painted on their faces, the kind that means business or bad news.

My eyes meet his, and he motions for me to take a seat. He hands me a cup, and I take it without hesitation. It’s been a while since I’ve partied, so this drug test is just a formality.

“Random drug test,” he states, pushing the cup across the polished wood toward me. It slides with an ease that makes my insides churn, though I don’t let it show.

“Didn’t know we were hitting the bottle so early today, Coach.” My voice rolls out cool and even, laced with that hint of defiance that often dances on the edge of my tongue.

“Cut the crap, Blackwood. You know the drill,” he shoots back, unamused.

“Always,” I reply, snatching the cup without missing a beat. The plastic feels light in my palm—innocent, almost. Yet it carries the weight of my reputation, the promise of my future.

“Privacy of the bathroom’s yours. Don’t keep us waiting.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” A flash of white teeth, and I’m off to piss in a cup.

I do my business quickly because I’m feening to get to practice and let the gridiron ground me. I wash my hands and return to the football staff, still maintaining my casual demeanor.

With a smirk playing on my lips, I saunter back to Coach’s desk, armed with my innocence in a cup. His eyes lift, piercing me with that hawk-like scrutiny as I lay down the sample on his desk, the plastic surface now a confessional booth.

“Like clockwork,” I quip, keeping the atmosphere light despite the gravity of this urine oracle.

“Lincoln,” Coach says in a serious tone. “You know the importance of your role as a leader on this team.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter under my breath. I’ve heard this spiel before. But Coach doesn’t seem to notice my lack of enthusiasm.

“This week’s game will determine the rest of our year,” he continues. “We need you to step up and lead this team to victory.”

Coach’s tone is as hard as the trophies glinting on the shelves. He leans forward, his expression etched with the roadmap of games won and lost. “You’re not just carrying the ball, you’re carrying this team. And come Saturday, you’re carrying our season.”

“Pressure makes diamonds, right?” My attempt at levity bounces off him like a bad pass.

“Or it crushes,” he counters, eyes locking onto mine. “I need your head in the game, Lincoln. Not on some chick, not on whatever hell you raise off the field. You’ve got talent, but talent isn’t worth a damn without discipline.”

“Discipline’s my middle name.” A lie as bold as the tattoos riding up my arm.

“Prove it.” Coach’s words are a challenge, a cliff edge I’m toeing, tempted by the fall. “Be the leader I know you can be.”

“Never been good at playing hero, Coach. But I’ll give ‘em hell out there.”

“Make sure it’s the right kind of hell, Blackwood.” Coach pats my shoulder, a weighty touch meant to ground me. “Dismissed.”

“Got it, Coach,” I say with a smirk. Like I need some pep talk from him. I’m always ready to dominate on the field.

As I turn to leave the locker room, my eyes catch Penn’s mischievous gaze. He’s holding a football, grinning like a madman. I shake my head and head toward the middle of the field so I can start warming up.

Before I can react, the ball hits me square in the back. A jolt of pain runs through my body, but I refuse to let it show. Penn bursts into laughter, reveling in the chaos he creates.

“Real mature, Penn,” I grunt, rubbing the spot where pigskin kissed my spine. I straighten up, giving him a smirk. “Nice arm, though. Maybe try hitting a receiver next time.”

But the guys around us are just getting started, their hyena laughter mixing with the scent of fresh-cut grass. It’s like blood in the water; they circle, grins wide and eyes glinting with something darker than humor.

“Speaking of scoring, how’s your new sister keeping you warm at night, Blackwood?” one of them jeers, elbowing his friend. They snicker, the sound grating against my last nerve.

“Better than your hand does you, that’s for sure,” I shoot back, my voice like flint striking steel. Iris isn’t up for their locker room banter.

“Bet she makes you recite penal code before touching her precious skin,” another chimes in, his laugh sharp as broken glass. “Heard she wears pearls to bed.”

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