Page 9 of Wicked Fury

My muscles tense, ready for the onslaught. I’ll channel every ounce of my frustration into the game. Each pass will be a bullet, each tackle a declaration of war. Today, the field is my battlefield, and I won’t let anyone—or anything—get in my way.

“Time to show them who’s king around here,” I growl, flexing my fingers. The leather of the football will feel good in my hands, a reminder that here, at least, I’m in control. Here, no one questions my worth.

“Let’s go, sixty-two! Make it fucking count!” Coach’s voice booms across the field, a beacon of authority that I actually respect. Maybe because he’s the only one who can kick my ass without flinching. Or maybe because, despite everything, he believes in me.

“Count on it,” I reply, a predatory smile creeping onto my face. With a deep breath, I step onto the field, leaving behind the shadows of Port Hollow and stepping onto the field. It’s time to play, and hell if I’m not going to win.

The moment my cleats dig into the churned earth of the field, I can feel it—the rage boiling in my veins.

“Blackwood! What the hell was that?” Coach’s voice cuts through the noise sharp as fuck.

“Improvisation,” I snap back, my words tinged with absolute rage.

“Your head’s not in the game!” he barks, stepping up to me, our faces inches apart. “Get your act together or sit the hell out!”

“Try benching me,” I challenge, my gaze locking onto his. My chest heaves, breaths coming fast and hot, the scent of fresh sweat and dirt filling my nostrils.

“Lincoln, chill, man,” Jeremiah mutters, grabbing my arm. Penn’s hand clamps down on my other shoulder, a vise attempting to squeeze sense into me.

“Off my damn field, Blackwood!” Coach’s command is a thunderclap, rattling my skull. “Figure your shit out or kiss your spot goodbye. I don’t have time for your underdeveloped frontal lobe bullshit. Freshman Jenkins is hungry for your spot, and I won’t hesitate to give it to him.”

“Fuck,” I hiss, feeling my brothers tug me away, their grip insistent. The world narrows to this humiliation—my kingdom slipping through my fingers because of one goddamn mistake.

“Let’s cool off,” Jere says, his voice low, a futile attempt at calm.

“Like hell,” I grind out, shaking them off. But I know when I’m beat—for now. I need to let Coach’s temper cool before I actually do get fucking benched. I stomp toward the sidelines, the stands casting long shadows over me almost like prison bars.

“Freshman can’t fill my shoes,” I mumble under my breath, a defiant spark still alive within the hollow of my chest. I’ll be damned if I let this break me. Not today. Not ever.

I slump on the bleachers, the metal cold and unforgiving against my skin. My breath comes out in ragged drags, heavy with the stink of defeat and anger. My brothers flank me, their presence like walls boxing me in.

“Lincoln, what the hell’s crawled up your ass and died?” Graham’s voice cuts through the tension, his concern wrapped in annoyance.

“Nothing,” I snap, the lie bitter on my tongue. “Just need a minute.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Penn chimes in, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes me. He’s always been too perceptive for his own good.

Before I can tell him to mind his business, I sense it—the prickling on the back of my neck, that unmistakable feeling of being watched. I whip my head around, catching sight of her—a blonde girl, distant yet focused. Eyes locked on us like we’re prey.

“Who the fuck is that?” Penn’s curiosity is piqued, which is never good for anyone except for Penn.

“Who fucking cares,” I grunt, dismissing her with a wave of my hand. “Probably some jersey chaser you dipped your dick into.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” he smirks, though his eyes stay trained on her a moment longer, as if he’s sensing something. He may be a fucking clown, but when Penn’s gut says something, we always listen.

“Focus, Lincoln. You gonna get your shit together or what?” Jeremiah’s voice hammers at my resolve.

“Damn right I am,” I affirm, the fire reigniting within me. I’m not done. Not by a long shot. I push off from the cold embrace of the bleachers, ready to reclaim what’s mine.

The sun’s glare off the metal bench is a dull headache behind my eyes as I squint at the blonde figure still watching us. Her silhouette blurs in the heat waves rising from the turf, but I don’t care enough to focus. Not my type, not my problem.

“Fuck,” I exhale, rubbing the tension from my neck and forcing my attention back to the guys. “So, I roll up to this shit-show of a wedding, right? And guess who’s princess of the damn parade?”

Jeremiah cocks an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued despite the irritation etched on his face. “Who the hell?—”

“Iris fucking Shelby,” I cut him off, my voice showing my undeniable disbelief. “Walking down the aisle like she owns the place.”

“Doing what?” Jeremiah’s tone sharpens, obviously thrown by the image.

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