Page 72 of Wicked Fury

As I pull away, my fingers trail down, tweaking her nipple piercing through the fabric of her shirt and feel it harden under my touch. Her sharp intake of breath is music to my ears.

Breaking away, I straighten up, leaving her sitting there with that kiss branded onto her lips. I know she’ll taste me long after I’ve left. She’s a vision of temptation as she reclines there, all sass and rebellion.

“Whatever you say... boss,” she throws at my retreating form, a mix of heat and annoyance trailing in the air between us.

“You got a smart mouth, angel,” I reply, already halfway to the door, the urgency to deal with Coach pumping through my veins, thick and hot.

The air in Coach’s office is like a thick fog of tension, almost tangible. I step in, and the door closes with a click that sounds more like a cell door slamming shut behind me. Coach doesn’t look up immediately, his eyes pinned on some papers scattered across his desk—a battlefield of bureaucracy and bullshit.

“Coach,” I start, my voice steady despite the anger brewing in my chest. “Let’s get this over with. When am I testing?”

He finally looks up, and I can see the strain around his eyes, the weight of the world—or at least, the weight of St. Charles’ football legacy—resting on his hunched shoulders. “Lincoln, we’re not testing you,” he says, his voice sounding like broken glass being crushed underfoot.

My breath catches somewhere in my throat. “What do you mean we’re not testing? That’s the fastest way to clear this shit and get me back on the field. We both know that test was tampered with or swapped.”

“Son, it’s not that simple,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “There are... pressures. From above. The situation with Nicole?—”

“Nicole?” I spit out her name like it’s poison on my tongue. My fists clench at my sides, knuckles whitening. “She’s setting me up!”

“Lincoln, I need you to calm down?—”

“Calm down?” The words explode from me, shards of disbelief coated in sarcasm. “You think I’m gonna sit here and play nice while she plays victim? After what she pulled?”

Coach shakes his head, the lines in his forehead deepening. “There’s a process, Lincoln. We have to follow?—”

“Fuck the process!” The walls almost shudder with the force of my voice. “When has that ever been our way? We play hard, we play to win. Why’re you backing down now?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and the silence is a living thing, wrapping its fingers around my throat. When Coach finally speaks, his words do nothing to ease the stranglehold.

“Until this is resolved, you’re benched, Lincoln. I’m sorry. Allegations are serious?—”

“Allegations, my ass.” I’m pacing now, a caged animal desperate for an escape. “She wanted something at that party, and I said no. Next thing I know, Iris’ room is broken into, my car is vandalized, and then these ‘bruises’ show up? It’s all a setup!”

“Listen to me,” the coach tries to assert authority, but he sounds defeated. “I want to believe you, son, but my hands are tied.”

“Your hands are tied?” I throw back, my voice a razor edge of contempt. “So what, you just bend over backward for every accusation thrown our way? What happened to trust? To loyalty?”

“Lincoln, the board?—”

“Fuck the board!” I roar, the words ricocheting off the walls. There’s a burning behind my eyes, the lines between fury and desperation blurring. “I’m innocent, and I will prove it. With or without your help.”

“Sit down,” he orders, but there’s no force behind it. He knows as well as I do that sitting isn’t an option—not when every fiber of my being screams for movement, for action.

“I don’t have time to sit,” I snarl, already backing toward the door. “Every second I waste here gives her more time to spin her web of lies.”

I flick the glossy photo across the coach’s cluttered desk, my disgust a living thing between us. “You can’t seriously buy this act.”

His fingers hover over the image of Nicole’s marred skin—shades of violet and angry red—and I see it, that flicker of doubt in his eyes before he schools his expression into one of concern. The stench of stale coffee hangs in the air, but it’s the scent of betrayal that chokes me.

“Lincoln,” he starts, voice heavy, “these are serious. If these bruises?—”

“Are self-inflicted bullshit,” I interrupt, my tone laced with scorn. “She’s played you all like damn fools. And now you’re dancing to her tune instead of listening to the truth.”

He leans back in his chair; the leather creaking under the weight of his decision. “The pictures, the allegations... Lincoln, I can’t put you on the field until this mess is cleared up.”

“Because of some self-inflicted bruises?” My voice is a serrated edge, cutting through the bullshit. “I’m the victim here, Coach. You know me.”

“Lincoln,” Coach’s voice is a gravelly rumble, the kind that precedes a storm, “you gotta keep your head cool. We’re doing what we can.”

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