19. Lincoln

"Blackwood, my office. Now." Coach's voice booms from the doorway, his head poking out like a battle-hardened general. I'm up on my feet before the last syllable dies in the air, the heavy thud of my cleats against the locker room floor resonating with a rhythm.

I stroll in, all swagger and confidence. The office is a shrine to victory—a testament to blood, sweat, and tears. Trophies glint like teeth bared in a grin, and team photos adorn the walls, forever frozen mid-triumph. I'm in some of those pictures, eyes glazed with the feeling of conquest. This space reeks of worn leather and nostalgia, a scent that's become as familiar to me as the musk of my own skin after a game.

"Coach," I greet him with a smirk, nodding at the assistant coach who lurks by the door like some kind of underfed vulture. They've got that serious look painted on their faces, the kind that means business or bad news.

My eyes meet his, and he motions for me to take a seat. He hands me a cup, and I take it without hesitation. It's been a while since I've partied, so this drug test is just a formality.

"Random drug test," he states, pushing the cup across the polished wood toward me. It slides with an ease that makes my insides churn, though I don't let it show.

"Didn't know we were hitting the bottle so early today, Coach." My voice rolls out cool and even, laced with that hint of defiance that often dances on the edge of my tongue.

"Cut the crap, Blackwood. You know the drill," he shoots back, unamused.

"Always," I reply, snatching the cup without missing a beat. The plastic feels light in my palm—innocent, almost. Yet it carries the weight of my reputation, the promise of my future.

"Privacy of the bathroom's yours. Don't keep us waiting."

"Wouldn't dream of it." A flash of white teeth, and I'm off to piss in a cup.

I do my business quickly because I'm feening to get to practice and let the gridiron ground me. I wash my hands and return to the football staff, still maintaining my casual demeanor.

With a smirk playing on my lips, I saunter back to Coach's desk, armed with my innocence in a cup. His eyes lift, piercing me with that hawk-like scrutiny as I lay down the sample on his desk, the plastic surface now a confessional booth.

"Like clockwork," I quip, keeping the atmosphere light despite the gravity of this urine oracle.

"Lincoln," Coach says in a serious tone. "You know the importance of your role as a leader on this team."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I mutter under my breath. I've heard this spiel before. But Coach doesn't seem to notice my lack of enthusiasm.

"This week's game will determine the rest of our year," he continues. "We need you to step up and lead this team to victory."

Coach's tone is as hard as the trophies glinting on the shelves. He leans forward, his expression etched with the roadmap of games won and lost. "You're not just carrying the ball, you're carrying this team. And come Saturday, you're carrying our season."

"Pressure makes diamonds, right?" My attempt at levity bounces off him like a bad pass.

"Or it crushes," he counters, eyes locking onto mine. "I need your head in the game, Lincoln. Not on some chick, not on whatever hell you raise off the field. You've got talent, but talent isn't worth a damn without discipline."

"Discipline's my middle name." A lie as bold as the tattoos riding up my arm.

"Prove it." Coach's words are a challenge, a cliff edge I'm toeing, tempted by the fall. "Be the leader I know you can be."

"Never been good at playing hero, Coach. But I'll give ‘em hell out there."

"Make sure it's the right kind of hell, Blackwood." Coach pats my shoulder, a weighty touch meant to ground me. "Dismissed."

"Got it, Coach," I say with a smirk. Like I need some pep talk from him. I'm always ready to dominate on the field.

As I turn to leave the locker room, my eyes catch Penn's mischievous gaze. He's holding a football, grinning like a madman. I shake my head and head toward the middle of the field so I can start warming up.

Before I can react, the ball hits me square in the back. A jolt of pain runs through my body, but I refuse to let it show. Penn bursts into laughter, reveling in the chaos he creates.

"Real mature, Penn," I grunt, rubbing the spot where pigskin kissed my spine. I straighten up, giving him a smirk. "Nice arm, though. Maybe try hitting a receiver next time."

But the guys around us are just getting started, their hyena laughter mixing with the scent of fresh-cut grass. It's like blood in the water; they circle, grins wide and eyes glinting with something darker than humor.

"Speaking of scoring, how's your new sister keeping you warm at night, Blackwood?" one of them jeers, elbowing his friend. They snicker, the sound grating against my last nerve.

"Better than your hand does you, that's for sure," I shoot back, my voice like flint striking steel. Iris isn't up for their locker room banter.

"Bet she makes you recite penal code before touching her precious skin," another chimes in, his laugh sharp as broken glass. "Heard she wears pearls to bed."

"Only thing she wears to bed is a smile," I retort, casual as a quarterback sidestepping a tackle. But inside, a coil winds tight, ready to snap. I grit my teeth, feeling my anger rise. Iris may be innocent, but she's mine. And no one talks about her like that.

I'm a caged animal on the practice field, fury churning in my gut like a storm. Every taunt about Iris is another bar in the cage, every snicker a tightened screw. My blood's a live wire; I can feel it sparking under my skin, yearning to ignite.

"Watch where you're throwing, Blackwood!" Brandon yells from across the field, his voice dripping with condescension.

The name ‘Blackwood' echoes, mocking me. It's not just my name; it's an expectation, a legacy. And right now, it feels like a damn shackle.

"Maybe you should watch where you're standing," I spit back, my words slicing through the thick tension.

Brandon struts over, chest puffed out like he owns more than just the turf beneath his cleats. "Or what, your highness? You'll tattle to Daddy?"

My smirk flickers. Wrong move, Brandon.

I snap. The world tilts as I launch myself at him. My fist connects with his nose, a satisfying crunch that drowns out the surrounding gasps. Blood spurts, bright against the green field, and Brandon stumbles back, hands cupping his wound. I stand over him, breathing hard, fists still clenched and ready.

"Blackwood! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Coach's bellow cuts through the chaos.

I straighten up, but there's no remorse in my stance, no apology in my eyes. I'm a predator, cornered and snarling, even as Coach storms over.

"Lincoln, in my office, now!" Coach commands, pointing toward the building with a finger that might as well be a loaded gun.

In the silence of his office, trophies and team photos bear witness to our standoff. The way he's looking at me pins me to the spot. A challenge issued without words.

"Son, you're the leader of this team. Your actions set the tone," Coach starts, his voice deceptively calm.

"Then maybe they'll learn not to push me," I retort, defiance coating my words like armor.

"No, Lincoln." His voice sharpens, cutting through my defenses. "You don't get to lose control. Not here, not ever."

"Sometimes control's just an illusion, Coach."

"An illusion you damn well better maintain, or you'll find yourself watching the season from the sidelines."

His threat hangs heavy, a guillotine poised above my head.

"Understood, Coach," I say, my tone empty of submission.

"Good. Now get out there and set it right. Show them who you are."

"Always do," I mutter, already turning for the door.

"Lincoln," Coach calls after me, a final warning in his voice. "Don't make me regret keeping you on that field."

But regrets? They're for those who fear consequences. And me? I chase them like the thrill before the hit, the rush of the game, the heat of desire.

Walking back to my teammates the metallic tang of blood hangs heavy in the air, clinging to the back of my throat like a bad omen. That's what I get for letting my guard down—a show for these vultures.

"Looks like the boy can't handle a little blood," Penn cackles, his voice slicing through the tension on the field. He bends over, clutching his stomach, his laughter clashing against the hush that's fallen over the others.

I glare at him, my fists clenching and unclenching. The desire to wipe that smug grin off my brother's face is intense, but then again it always is. This is what Penn does.

"Maybe he needs a kiss to make it better," Penn continues, his words dripping with insinuation.

"Shut the hell up, Penn," I snap, my voice low and dangerous.

Across from us, Brandon's complexion is ashen, shoves wads of tissue up his nose, trying to staunch the flow. His eyes meet mine, the silent hate there loud for busting his shit wide open. Maybe next time he'll think twice about talking shit to his quarterback. His fucking captain.

"Since our intern decided to be MIA today, guess you'll have to play doctor yourself," Coach barks out, his attention fixed on the dude. "And if that doesn't work, maybe try shoving a tampon up there. Heard it works wonders."

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.