Page 48 of Wicked Fury

Murmurs ripple across the field, the savagery of Coach’s suggestion not lost on anyone. This is how it goes in our world—no room for weakness, no quarter given.

“Tampons, Coach? Really?” I quip, my voice laced with enough sarcasm to cut steel. “We saving that for the next first aid seminar?”

“Keep it up, Blackwood,” Coach shoots back, a warning clear in his steely eyes. “You’re one smartass comment away from running laps till sunrise.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I retort, my smirk firmly in place.

“Get cleaned up,” Coach orders the bleeding player, dismissing him with a jerk of his head. “The rest of you, back to drills!”

I throw a wild ass play that I know Coach is going to fucking tear into my ass about, but it fucking worked, and it was goddamn beautiful.

“Blackwood,” Coach’s voice is nothing but gravel, “you got a death wish or just a hard-on for insubordination?”

“Neither,” I breathe out, slow and deliberate, letting the defiance simmer in the air between us. “Just allergic to bullshit.”

I can almost hear the tightening of his jaw, the clenching of his fists. The old man’s got a fuse shorter than a virgin’s first time, and I’m dancing on it with gasoline-soaked cleats.

“Watch that mouth, boy. You’re not invincible.” Coach steps into my space, an unmovable mass.

“Never said I was,” I counter, smirking as if we’re discussing the weather rather than the fact that I’ve just turned his field into a circus act. “But you gotta admit, it adds to the entertainment value.”

“Entertainment?” He snorts, the sound cutting through the tension. “This isn’t a damn reality show. This is football, and you’re supposed to be leading this team.”

“Am I not memorable?” My tone drips with sarcasm. “Seems like I’m doing something right.”

“Memorable like a cleat up the ass,” he retorts, but there’s no denying the begrudging respect that flickers in his eyes. “You’ve got talent, Lincoln. Don’t waste it.”

As drills pick up again, I throw myself into each motion, every play. My body moves with practiced ease, muscles flexing, heart pounding. The scent of fresh sweat mingles with the earthiness of the field, an intoxicating blend that fuels the fire within.

“Lincoln, the hell are you trying to prove?” Penn asks, trotting up beside me, his eyes gleaming with the same chaotic energy that’s been driving us all day.

“Prove?” I shoot him a glance, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “Nothing to prove, Penn. Just playing the game.”

“Keep playing like this. It almost makes me hard,” he says, having to cross the line just to irritate me.

This is where I belong. Straddling the edge and at any moment I could go tumbling over. Football, my father, my brothers, my angel. They all tug at me.

I’m rewriting the story and it’s everything.

Chapter 20

Iris

Ipush open the door to my room, a smile of relief plastered on my face, ready to collapse into the chaos I call my sanctuary. The grin dies. My duffel of cynicism drops to the floor with a thud that resonates through the stark emptiness. It’s all gone. Every last scrap of me snatched away. My breath catches in a room too vacant to echo it back.

“Shit,” I mutter, my voice a stranger in this hollow space. The walls—bare. Where the hell are my clothes? Panic claws at my chest, and I spin around, praying this is a sick joke. But no textbooks lie in wait to mock my distress, no photographs smirking from their perches. Just... nothingness. A void where my life should be.

“Lincoln,” I breathe out, biting down on my lip until I taste metal. I thought he might try to make me sleep at Blackwood house, but I didn’t think he’d go through all this trouble to move all of my things.

I storm out, my footsteps sound angry against the linoleum. Determination ignites within me, fierce as the sting of alcohol on an open wound. I’m a battering ram with a destination—the resident assistant’s office. Someone’s going to answer for this. I don’t give a fuck if he fucks every female on the campus while holding his goddamn football. He shouldn’t have this much power.

The RA’s door looms ahead, and I don’t bother knocking. I shove open the door to the office, my heart pounding in a rhythm of pure, unadulterated fury. The resident assistant glances up from their desk, and an expression of bored nonchalance is all she’s giving me.

“Don’t start with me, Iris. There was nothing I could do,” she quips, but I’m not here for her attitude today.

That’s all it takes for me to snap, slamming my palms down onto the cold surface of the desk. “My entire room is empty. Everything is gone. Why did you allow that?”

“Ah, right.” They lean back in their chair, fingers laced behind their head. “Some guys from the football team mentioned they were helping you move. Took all your stuff with them.”

---