Page 30 of Wicked Fury

Each message is a lifeline cast into digital silence, and with every passing second, the knot in my stomach pulls tighter.

“Yo, Blackwood, you gonna join us or is football beneath you now?” one of the linebackers’ jeers, but I wave him off, my eyes burning holes into the phone screen.

“Leave it,” I growl, swiping away another round of notifications that aren’t hers. The locker room stinks of desperation and defeat, and I can taste the bitter tang of anxiety at the back of my throat. Iris’ absence is a void, a black hole sucking away my focus, my drive, my goddamn sanity.

“Sixty-two, you playing or what?” The coach’s voice cuts deeper this time, but it’s no match for the silent scream of my phone. No new messages. Nothing. Just the echo of my racing thoughts and the scent of stale air mixed with the sting of icy-hot.

“Playing,” I mutter, hitting my locker with more force than necessary. The metal clangs, but it’s nothing compared to the chaos raging inside of me. If Iris thinks she can play these games with me, she’s got another thing coming.

“Get your head in the game, QB,” Coach warns, his hand clapping my shoulder. But even his grip feels distant, like I’m already miles away, chasing after the ghost bitch that is my stepsister and obsession.

“Got it, Coach,” I lie, because the truth is, I don’t have anything. Not with the way things are right now. Not without knowing why she’s pulled a vanishing act that’s got my insides twisted up like the wreckage of a bad car accident. More than anything, it’s the audacity of her to not even do something so fucking simple as watch the goddamn game.

“Good. Let’s turn this around.”

I nod, but it’s automatic. There’s no turning this around. Not when the game I’m really playing is one of desire and obsession. The stakes higher than any scoreboard could tally. And right now, I’m losing. Big time.

The crunch of the turf beneath my cleats is stark, and the contrast to the silence coming from Iris doesn’t go unnoticed by me. My eyes sweep the stands again, just in case, desperate for a flash of chestnut waves or the glint of resentment that would signal her presence, but there’s nothing.

“Linc, man, what’s going on with you?” Jeremiah’s voice cuts through my thoughts, laced with concern and confusion. His brows are knit together in a mix of frustration and brotherly worry.

“Nothing,” I snap back, sharper than I intend. The truth is, I’m spiraling, every fiber of me itching to bolt from this field and hunt her down. But instead, I’m here, trapped in a game that suddenly means jack shit to me.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” Penn chimes in, his tone needling under my skin. “You’re playing like shit, and it shows. A shitty ass quarterback affects the whole ass team, bro.”

“Back off,” I growl, my patience fraying. I can feel their eyes on me, measuring, judging, but they can’t possibly understand the inferno of anger and fuck, concern raging inside me.

“Coach is gonna have your ass if you keep this up,” Graham warns, and sure enough, the old man’s baritone booms across the sidelines moments later, calling me out. “Jesus Christ, Blackwood! What’s distracting you?”

“Nothing, Coach,” I lie again, feeling a rebel surge against even this man I respect. There’s a part of me that wants to scream the truth, to tell him that my toy has gone missing, and football be damned. But I swallow that down. I don’t want the world in my business and I sure as fuck don’t need Coach to know I’m spiraling over some girl I essentially fucking kidnapped.

“You got one more damn chance to get your act together,” he barks, and I nod, but it’s as empty as the hollow thud of my heart without her nearby.

“Sure thing.”

Second half starts, and I’m a mess of misplaced focus and raw nerves. Without a word, I corner Mason, one of the second-string running backs, at the sideline.

“Find out where she is and who she left with,” I command, the threat clear in my voice. “Do whatever it takes. If you don’t get me something by the time we walk off this field, I swear I’ll make your life hell.”

“Got it, Lincoln,” Mason nods, knowing better than to argue with me now.

I throw myself back into the game, but every pass feels off, like I’m throwing paper airplanes instead of a football. My teammates’ curses become a litany in the background, mixing with the jeers and groans of the crowd. With each incomplete pass, the scoreboard solidifies our loss, and I can barely bring myself to care.

“Blackwood, what the hell was that?!” Coach yells after another botched play.

“Sorry, Coach,” I mutter, but the words taste like ash. The final whistle blows, sealing our fate, and all I can think about is her. Where is she? Who is she with? Is she…?

“Come on, we’re done here,” I say to no one in particular, slipping away from the grasping hands of defeat and into the uncertainty that awaits me off the field. The urgency to find my stepsister is a living thing inside me, clawing its way out.

The hotel room feels like a cage, the walls closing in with every unanswered minute. I pace back and forth like a restless animal, my phone a mocking anchor in my hand. The stagnant air tastes of frustration, and the silence is maddening—oppressive and accusing. I pause, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to push out the image of Iris betraying me.

My phone buzzes, a sudden shockwave against the quiet, and I lunge for it. It’s Mason. I read the words, each one a punch in the gut.

Mason RB - 2nd String has potential

Iris was seen getting into a car with some blonde chick and Nick Teller.

Nick—the sleazy dealer for all of your favorite campus vices. My blood boils, my fingertips practically punching through the screen as I dial her number.

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