Page 104 of Wicked Fury

He lands, two feet kissing the end zone like lovers reunited after war. The ball is cradled against his chest. The cheers fade, the only sound that matters is the thud of the ball secured against his ribs.

“Touchdown,” I breathe, half-prayer, half-expletive. The taste of victory is sweet, spiked with the tang of sweat and imminent release.

“Fuck yeah!” I punch the air, victorious, invincible. My heart’s hammering against my ribcage, every pulse screaming Iris’ name. She’s out there, waiting, watching. Lust and pride mingle in my veins, potent and sweet as sin. There’s a violent silence before reality erupts, but I barely hear it. My gaze cuts through the pandemonium, seeking her.

The roar of the crowd hits me like a tidal wave, wild and relentless. The stadium is an electric beast, alive with the chaos of celebration, the scent of sweat and glory thick in the air.

I’m sprinting before I know it, muscles singing with adrenaline, every cell in my body wired for this moment. Penn’s wide-eyed grin meets mine as we crash together, a collision of brothers. Our fists collide, a solid thump that resonates through me. The only one missing is Graham. Ever since that injury a few weeks back that’s kept him off the field and in the physical therapy center, we haven’t felt complete. He should be here with us.

“Did you see that?” Penn gasps out between breaths, his eyes alight with disbelief and elation.

“Couldn’t miss it,” I shoot back, the smirk finding its home on my lips without effort. Jeremiah joins our huddle.

“Damn right!” Jeremiah’s voice booms, his arm slinging over our shoulders, pulling us in tight. “We did it, brothers!”

“More like I did it,” I quip, the rebel in me refusing to let the moment pass without staking my claim.

“Team effort, Blackwood,” Jeremiah reminds me, though his chuckle betrays his agreement with my arrogance.

“Fine, fine,” I concede, rolling my eyes for effect. “But let’s not forget who threw the ball.”

“Only ‘cause I caught the damn thing!” Penn retorts, giving me a playful shove that nearly sends me stumbling.

“Details,” I scoff, but my wide grin is all the admission they need. We break apart, still buzzing with the high of victory, the taste of it sweet and addictive on my tongue.

“Let’s hear it, Spartans!” I shout, throwing my arms up, inciting the crowd further. They respond with a loud cheer, a wave of sound that crashes down on us, lifting us higher on its crest.

“Blackwood! Blackwood!” The chant builds, echoing my name, my brothers’ name, a reverberation that vibrates through the ground and into my bones.

“Shit, I was made for this,” I mutter under my breath, soaking in the adoration.

“Looks like it’s not just the game I’m winning tonight,” I muse to myself, feeling that coil of heat and desire stirring deep inside, laced with anticipation for the play yet to come.

The euphoria of victory is like a drug coursing through my veins as I scan the sea of faces, each one a blur except for her—my North Star in a constellation of chaos. Iris stands alone, firm against the swell of bodies, and she’s wearing my jersey, “Blackwood” emblazoned across her back. My chest swells with pride and possessiveness; that jersey looks a hell of a lot better on her than it ever did on me.

“Damn,” I breathe out. The sight of her lights a fire in my belly, warmer than the adrenaline still pumping through my system. She’s a vision, all full lips and curves, wrapped up in my name. It’s like she knows exactly what that does to me, how it makes my blood sizzle.

I don’t walk over to her—I prowl, every step oozing confidence as our eyes lock, magnetic and charged. Her smirk matches mine, a silent challenge thrown down between us. I see you, her eyes say, and oh, I can’t wait to answer that call.

“Look at you, quarterback.” Her voice cuts through the noise around us, sharp and smooth as glass.

“Guess you’re my lucky charm,” I say, all cocky confidence.

“Or maybe you’re just finally living up to my expectations,” she shoots back.

Then, I’m there. Without breaking stride, I scoop her up, her body melding into mine. She wraps her legs around me, and goddamn if it isn’t the most natural thing in the world.

“Easy there, QB,” she teases, her breath hot against my ear. “Don’t want to give the crowd too much of a show.”

“Let them watch,” I growl low, my voice barely above a whisper, the promise of later lingering in the air between us like sparks ready to ignite. “They’ll never get as close as you are right now.”

The helmet clatters to the ground, a hollow sound swallowed by the roar of the crowd. Sweat snakes down my temple, catching in the stubble along my jaw. I’m breathing hard, each exhale a mixture of relief and triumph, but all that fades to static as I lock eyes with Iris.

“Careful, angel,” I tease, the smirk coming easy despite the weight of emotions pressing against my ribs, “You might just start a trend wearing me like that. Everyone is going to want a Blackwood jersey.”

Her laughter is a spark in the night, quick and bright. She tilts her head, hair tumbling over one shoulder, the edges of my jersey brushing against her thighs in a whisper of temptation.

“Please, Blackwood,” she snarks back, that familiar fire dancing in her green eyes, “There are four of you, five if you count Ram. You’re just lucky enough to be the label on this one. The world has four others to choose from. This Blackwood…” She points to the number sixty-two, “This one is fucking mine.”

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