11. Lincoln

The roar of the crowd is a dull buzz in my ears as I scan the bleachers. Where the hell is Iris? She agreed she'd be right there—front and center—in the spot where I told her to sit. The empty seat mocks me, a gaping hole in an otherwise packed sea of faces. My mistake thinking she'd just sit the fuck down and stay put for fucking once.

"Blackwood! Focus!" Coach's voice slices through the clamor, but it's white noise, all of it. My fingers tighten around the pigskin, and for a fraction of a second, I'm back in the game. Muscle memory takes over—pivot, aim, throw—but it's all off. The ball spirals out of control, like my thoughts, and hits the turf with a sickening thud. A strain of groans rises, and we lose possession.

"Dammit, Blackwood!" someone shouts from the sidelines, but I barely hear them over the blood pounding in my temples, my gaze still fixed on that damn empty seat.

Halftime is a blur of locker room sweat and curses. I'm glued to my phone, thumb smashing the screen as I fire off texts to Iris.

Where are you?

Sent.

This isn"t funny

Sent.

Talk to me dammit

Sent.

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.

"Come on! Answer me, you little bitch," I urge, each ring an eternity. But the voicemail greeting cuts through interrupting any other thought I had.

"Dammit!" I hurl the phone onto the bed, the impact too soft, too forgiving. She's playing games, but she doesn't know who she's messing with. I'm not just some random campus frat fuck she can sideline. The thought of her—laughing, touching, talking with anyone, it ignites this rage in me. Something primal, where my whole body is screaming to hunt her down and force her to submit to me.

"Next time you see me, angel," I mutter to the empty room, "you'd better be ready to deal with the demon you called up." My voice is a low growl, filled with the promise of retribution. She thinks she can toy with me? I'm about to show her how wrong she is.

I dial once more, knowing she won't answer, and I wait for the stupid robotic voice to start talking. Once I get the shrill beep, I let loose, breath heaving like I've been running sprints. "Iris," my voice is a blade sharpened with rage, "you think you can start this war and then just hide? Wrong move." My chest burns with each word, the threat heavy in the air around me. "You want chaos? I'll bring you chaos. Brace for impact, because when I find you, there'll be hell to pay."

The ghost of her laughter echoes in my head, that smug satisfaction she gets under my skin. She'll learn. Iris Shelby will learn that no one walks away from Lincoln Blackwood. No one.

My knuckles collide with the hotel wall, a dull crack slicing through the silence, pain radiating up my arm — good, real, tangible. The sting is nothing compared to the disturbance inside me. The phone buzzes in my pocket, a mocking vibration against my thigh. Common sense knows it's not her, but I'm delusional enough to think it might be. Maybe she fucking saw the error in her fucking bullshit.

Mr. Always Right

You're losing control.

I"m fine, and no, I haven"t found her yet. Thanks for askin

My thumb hammers out the words, my patience frayed to its last thread.

My Dipshit Brother

Lincoln, chill. You"re losing it over a girl

Penn"s words flare across the screen, mockery woven through every letter. I can almost hear his taunting voice, that "I told you so" laced with sarcasm.

Fuck off Penn

I shoot back, the anger a live wire beneath my skin. I exit the chat, tossing the phone onto the bed, but it's not long before it buzzes again. Penn"s persistence is a match to my already short fuse.

My Dipshit Brother

Stop being a little bitch and get your shit together

The message reads, Penn's audacity just another jab to my ego.

"Asshole," I mutter, abandoning my phone entirely. I can deal with them later. Right now, I have a warpath to carve, and Iris Shelby is at the end of it.

The world shrinks to the pounding in my skull, a relentless rhythm that's all rage. I continue to stalk the room like an animal circling its cage, every nerve ending screaming that for action. Instead, I'm stuck in this fucking hotel room, in this fucking city, because of football. I might just fucking hate the sport right now.

Knock, knock, knock.

My hand closes around the doorknob and wrenches the door open with more force than necessary, the metal groaning in protest.

"Jesus, Lincoln," Graham's voice is a low rumble, almost lost in the chaos of my thoughts. His attention flickers to the hole in the plaster, his eyebrow arching in silent question—a judgment I neither need nor want.

Penn thrusts his phone in my face, his screen displaying the text from earlier, the edges of his lips twitching with poorly concealed glee. "Coach is about ready to bench your ass for good."

"Fuck off." The words are a growl, torn from somewhere deep within me.

"Get your shit together," Penn snaps back, undeterred by my glare. "We're leaving without you if you keep up this shitty mood. Hell, even Coach doesn't want you on the bus."

"Can't be worse than your playing out there," Jeremiah mutters under his breath, but it's loud enough for me to catch. His eyes roll, as if my life's just another inconvenience.

"Shut up, Jere," I snarl, my fists clenching at my sides. "You think any of this is funny?"

"Only as funny as you chasing after a girl who clearly doesn't give a fuck," Penn retorts, unflinching. "She's not here, bro. And neither are we, so pack your shit and move it."

"Is this how you help? By pissing me off more?" My voice is a blade, sharp and dangerous.

"Sometimes, you need to be cut to realize you're bleeding, Lincoln," Graham says quietly, his eyes steady on mine. "Let's go."

"Yes, this is how we help, because we cleared it with Coach for us to not ride back with the team to campus. So say thank you and quit trying to pick fights with us," Jeremiah says, always trying to be the problem-solving brother.

"Fine," I spit the word like it's poison, turning back into the room. As they file out, I toss clothes into my duffle with reckless abandon. Iris' scent lingers on her sweater, a taunting reminder of her. I shove it down, deeper into the bag, as if I could bury my desire along with it.

"Remember who you are, Lincoln," Graham calls over his shoulder, his voice oddly solemn. "Don't lose yourself over someone else."

"Too fucking late," I mutter. My reflection in the mirror doesn't flinch; it never does. But beneath the tattoos and the smirks, something trembles—something desperate and hungry for retribution.

"Linc," Penn's voice slices through the tension. "Come on, man. This isn't you."

"Isn't it?" I challenge, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Maybe you don't know me at all."

"Maybe," he concedes, and there's a hint of something there, a crack in his usual bravado. "But I know enough to say this—don't fuck up your life for one chick. You'll regret this."

"Regrets are for people who feel guilt, Penn," I say, slinging the bag over my shoulder, the weight grounding me. "And right now, all I feel is pissed."

Iris' bag is next, and I snatch it up, my fingers curling around the strap like a vise. "At least you assholes manage to do something right," I growl, the words as bitter as the taste of defeat that still clings to my tongue.

Graham's voice cuts through the tension, low and even. "I'll handle the front desk, cover for the wall." His eyes flicker to the damage, the unsaid ‘before Dad finds out' hanging heavy in the air.

"Thanks," I grunt, barely audible. In my head, scenarios play out like scenes from a movie. Iris, her smirk wiped clean by fear when she realizes I'm not playing nice anymore. And make no mistake, I've been nice for me.

"Seriously, man, chill before you do something stupid," Jeremiah intones, but his words are just ripples in the storm raging inside me.

"Stupid left the station the moment she did." I snatch up our bags and head for the door, letting it slam behind me with a satisfying crack. If these walls could talk, they'd be screaming bloody murder.