Page 73 of Wicked Fury

I let out a scoff, sharp and bitter. “Yeah? Doesn’t seem like enough. I get it, this shit is serious, but why is no one paying attention and actually checking the facts that are plain as fucking day? I wasn’t anywhere near her. I’m always with my brothers or fucking Iris Shelby.”

The room feels too small, suffocating, like it’s squeezing the truth right out of me. I can feel the weight of my cross against my chest, a heavy irony against my heated skin.

“Look, I don’t want my life torn apart over something I didn’t do. I need you to believe me.” It’s a plea wrapped in steel, a demand for faith when mine’s hanging by a thread.

“Lincoln,” he says again, and there’s a note of something that might pass for sympathy if I wasn’t so screwed up inside, “it’s a process. These things take time.”

“Time is a luxury I don’t have.” My voice is as tight as the muscles coiled in my shoulders. “Every second this hangs over me, it’s another second people are doubting, whispering, judging.”

“Playing isn’t just about skill—it’s about character too. And right now—” He pauses, his gaze steady on mine.

“Right now, what?” My fists clench at my sides, knuckles whitening. “You think those bruises are more eloquent than my innocence? Then years of dedication?”

“Lincoln, if there’s even a shadow of doubt?—”

“Then cast some damn light on it!” I bark out, the frustration boiling over. “Test me! Investigate! Don’t just sit here while she paints me as some monster!”

“Until this is resolved, you’re benched, son.” His voice is iron, the finality of it echoing in the cramped office space.

“Son?” A bitter chuckle escapes my lips. “Spare me the familial crap. When it counts, I’m just another jersey number to you.”

“Lincoln—”

“Save your breath.” I cut him off, pushing back from the desk, my movements sharp, jagged. “I know where I stand now.”

“Where you stand could cost us the season,” he calls after me, but I’m already out of my seat, anger propelling me forward.

“Better the season than my name,” I throw over my shoulder.

“If the team won’t back me, I’ll clear my name alone,” I don’t let him speak, hand already on the doorknob, ready to slam it behind me and take this fight to the real battleground.

And with that, I’m out the door, leaving the coach in his paper-strewn prison, my mind racing with plots and plans. Nicole has played her hand, but she doesn’t know who she’s dealing with. She’s about to find out what happens when you corner a beast—it doesn’t whimper and die; it comes out fighting, baring teeth, and claws. And I’m all out of patience.

Chapter 31

Iris

My fingers tap against my thigh, the only outward sign of the worry within me. The Blackwood house’s opulence is suffocating without Lincoln here with me, each gilded edge and plush velvet cushion mocking my anxiety. Lincoln had a meeting with his coach today to find out what’s going to happen since his arrest and the false charges Nicole has put on him.

The double doors burst open with a force that should scare me, but I already know who it is. Lincoln strides in, his presence filling the room like a dark cloud swallowing the sun. That smirk from earlier isn’t there now. Instead, his expression mirrors the storm he carries inside, and the tension in those dark orbs tells me things didn’t go his way.

“Bad news,” Lincoln growls, voice edged with the kind of fury that could set fire to rain.

My heart skips as if it’s trying to keep pace with the drumming of my fingers. “Spill it.”

“Permanently benched.” The words are a gut punch. “Footballs off the table for me now.”

“You know your coach knows you didn’t do anything to her.” We both know her assault allegations have tainted everything, but it doesn’t make it any less frustrating.

Lincoln’s gaze holds mine, his usual smoldering heat replaced with something colder, steelier. It’s a look that says he’s ready to go to war, and hell, so am I.

I reach for the folder I’ve been preparing while he’s been gone. The well-organized tabs taunt me, each one a section dedicated to Nicole’s past misdeeds, all documented in excruciating detail. My fingers flip open to a particularly damning page; it’s a police report about her ex-boyfriend’s ‘mysterious’ accident.

“Always knew you were sharp as fuck, angel.” Lincoln’s voice is rough, and I try not to tremble under the weight of his intense eyes on me as he leans over my shoulder to scan the pages.

“You used to hate that about me,” I quip back, despite the heat rising to my cheeks. Can’t show weakness, even if his unexpected praise feels like a shot of alcohol, warm and intoxicating.

He chuckles darkly, thumbing through the evidence with a focus that’s almost predatory. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”

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