Page 51 of Wicked Fury

My phone vibrates against my thigh, and I fish it out of my pocket, squint at the screen—Coach’s name glaring back at me. “Yo,” I signal to my brothers, the gym’s echoes wrapping around us, “Coach wants me.”

“Again?” Penn’s eyebrow arches, his suspicion palpable.

“Probably another lecture on team leadership or some bullshit.” Jeremiah grunts, hoisting more weight than humanly advisable.

Graham just shakes his head, beads of sweat catching light, “What the fuck could he want now?”

“Can it wait?” Penn’s voice cuts through the noise, his curiosity plain as day on his sweaty ass face.

“Doesn’t look like it.” Annoyance tightens my jaw as I shove the phone back into my pocket, and re-rack my weights. “I’ll catch up with you guys.”

“Watch your back,” Graham grunts from behind his bench press.

“Always do,” I smirk, but it feels hollow. Something’s brewing; I can taste the unease in the air, thick as the stench of exertion that hangs in the gym.

I shrug, already spinning on my heel, leaving them to their dick measuring contest with clanking metal.

Passing through the doors, the air shifts from dense to crisp. Ramsey Blackwood, my cousin, who’s lingering by the door with a bunch of wide-eyed freshmen hockey players. I stride past, acknowledging him with a brief, sharp nod. His eyes are all questions, but I’m fresh out of answers.

“Keep your head up, Ram,” I mutter, not breaking stride.

Pushing through the double doors of the gym, I head for the coach’s office. The office door looms ahead, a portal to whatever fresh hell awaits. I knock out of habit, but don’t wait for an answer. Coach’s office smells like disappointment, and there he sits like a king of his sad little domain.

“Coach.” I keep it short, not in the mood for niceties.

“Lincoln, take a seat,” he says, but I’m a statue, standing.

“Let’s cut the shit. What’s this about?” I cross my arms over my chest. It’s a standoff, Coach behind his desk, me looming by the threshold.

His eyes are grave. Not good. “You failed your drug test. I gotta bench you.”

“Failed?” My voice is a bullet, quick and deadly. “That’s impossible.”

The words explode from me, tasting toxic and vehement. “You know I don’t fuck around during the season and if I was going to, I would have given you a heads up and we could have swapped my sample with Jere’s.”

“Sit down, son.”

“Like hell I will,” I snap back. Blood’s pounding, heart’s racing. A mix of disbelief and anger bubbles inside me, threatening to spill over. “There’s been a mistake.”

“Protocol is protocol.” His tone is granite, unyielding.

“Protocol my fucking ass!” My voice ricochets off the walls. “There’s been a mistake. Run it again.”

“Out of my hands.” Coach shrugs, and I want to grab him, shake the stupid fucking apathy out of him.

“Then get it into your hands!” I lean across the desk, muscles coiled, every inch of me screaming defiance. “This is my life we’re talking about!”

“Save it!” My hand slams against his desk, the impact ricocheting through my bones. “You know me. I wouldn’t jeopardize my position on the team. Our goddamn ticket to nationals.”

“Lincoln—” Coach’s tone has that edge, the one that says he’s about to fucking snap.

“Who did it?” I demand, narrowing my eyes. “Because someone’s setting me up. And when I find out who, they’ll wish they’d never heard the name Blackwood.”

The door to Coach’s office slams behind me. My skin’s too tight, every nerve ending on fire with the sting of accusation. How? How did this happen? The hallway blurs as I storm down it. My breaths come out in ragged pulls—betrayal tastes like copper in my mouth.

My knuckles itch with an urge for destruction, and before I can rein it in, my fist connects with the cold metal of a locker.

“Shit!” The echo follows the blow, slamming down the hallway. I barely register the sting across my hand, too consumed by how everything is unraveling. Goddamn it.

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