21. Lincoln

My phone vibrates against my thigh, and I fish it out of my pocket, squint at the screen—Coach's name glaring back at me. "Yo," I signal to my brothers, the gym's echoes wrapping around us, "Coach wants me."

"Again?" Penn's eyebrow arches, his suspicion palpable.

"Probably another lecture on team leadership or some bullshit." Jeremiah grunts, hoisting more weight than humanly advisable.

Graham just shakes his head, beads of sweat catching light, "What the fuck could he want now?"

"Can it wait?" Penn's voice cuts through the noise, his curiosity plain as day on his sweaty ass face.

"Doesn't look like it." Annoyance tightens my jaw as I shove the phone back into my pocket, and re-rack my weights. "I'll catch up with you guys."

"Watch your back," Graham grunts from behind his bench press.

"Always do," I smirk, but it feels hollow. Something's brewing; I can taste the unease in the air, thick as the stench of exertion that hangs in the gym.

I shrug, already spinning on my heel, leaving them to their dick measuring contest with clanking metal.

Passing through the doors, the air shifts from dense to crisp. Ramsey Blackwood, my cousin, who's lingering by the door with a bunch of wide-eyed freshmen hockey players. I stride past, acknowledging him with a brief, sharp nod. His eyes are all questions, but I'm fresh out of answers.

"Keep your head up, Ram," I mutter, not breaking stride.

Pushing through the double doors of the gym, I head for the coach's office. The office door looms ahead, a portal to whatever fresh hell awaits. I knock out of habit, but don't wait for an answer. Coach's office smells like disappointment, and there he sits like a king of his sad little domain.

"Coach." I keep it short, not in the mood for niceties.

"Lincoln, take a seat," he says, but I'm a statue, standing.

"Let's cut the shit. What's this about?" I cross my arms over my chest. It's a standoff, Coach behind his desk, me looming by the threshold.

His eyes are grave. Not good. "You failed your drug test. I gotta bench you."

"Failed?" My voice is a bullet, quick and deadly. "That's impossible."

The words explode from me, tasting toxic and vehement. "You know I don't fuck around during the season and if I was going to, I would have given you a heads up and we could have swapped my sample with Jere's."

"Sit down, son."

"Like hell I will," I snap back. Blood's pounding, heart's racing. A mix of disbelief and anger bubbles inside me, threatening to spill over. "There's been a mistake."

"Protocol is protocol." His tone is granite, unyielding.

"Protocol my fucking ass!" My voice ricochets off the walls. "There's been a mistake. Run it again."

"Out of my hands." Coach shrugs, and I want to grab him, shake the stupid fucking apathy out of him.

"Then get it into your hands!" I lean across the desk, muscles coiled, every inch of me screaming defiance. "This is my life we're talking about!"

"Save it!" My hand slams against his desk, the impact ricocheting through my bones. "You know me. I wouldn't jeopardize my position on the team. Our goddamn ticket to nationals."

"Lincoln—" Coach's tone has that edge, the one that says he's about to fucking snap.

"Who did it?" I demand, narrowing my eyes. "Because someone's setting me up. And when I find out who, they'll wish they'd never heard the name Blackwood."

The door to Coach's office slams behind me. My skin's too tight, every nerve ending on fire with the sting of accusation. How? How did this happen? The hallway blurs as I storm down it. My breaths come out in ragged pulls—betrayal tastes like copper in my mouth.

My knuckles itch with an urge for destruction, and before I can rein it in, my fist connects with the cold metal of a locker.

"Shit!" The echo follows the blow, slamming down the hallway. I barely register the sting across my hand, too consumed by how everything is unraveling. Goddamn it.

"Whoa, man!" Brandon's voice cuts through the fog of my rage. I spin on my heel, glaring at the underclassman who's made the mistake of crossing my path. His eyes are wide, the wrong place at the wrong time written all over his expression.

"Didn't see anything, did you?" I step up close, invading his space.

"Uh—no, nothing," he stammers, backpedaling against the lockers.

"Good." My voice is a low growl. "Keep it that way. And never look me in the eye again if you know what's good for you." The threat hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken. He nods like a puppet, and I pivot away from him before my anger finds another outlet.

I yank my phone out, thumb flying across the screen, a message to my brothers and Ramsey.

Failed drug test. Benched. Iris might be behind this. I moved all her shit to the house, and she's pissed. Need to make her confess.

Failed drug test. Benched. Iris might be behind this. I moved all her shit to the house, and she's pissed.Need to make her confess.

My Dipshit Brother

Settle down killer

I knew Penn"s reply before it comes, but there"s no settling. Not when everything I"ve fought for is slipping through my fingers because of some twisted game Iris is playing.

Need your help Ramsey

I text next, my mind racing as I concoct a plan.

Got a job for your hacker ass. Dig into Iris" shit. Find me something dirty.

Rams

Already on it. Give me 20

Comes the reply. Quick, efficient, Ramsey doesn"t disappoint.

Good. Find something I can use

I text, the last bit of hope clinging to the possibility of clearing my name.

Rams

Alright, alright. I"ll see what I can do

He replies after a tense minute, and I release a breath I'd been holding in my chest.

Thanks

I type out, though gratitude isn"t what"s fueling me. It"s a burning desire to make Iris pay for trying to strip me of my legacy, piece by piece. She thinks she can play me? No one plays Lincoln Blackwood and walks away unscathed.

She wants a war? She"s got one

G-Wagon

Careful, Linc. Don"t let obsession become your downfall.

My brother warns me, but it"s too late for caution. Obsession is already leading me to hell, and Iris Shelby is about to learn that the hard way.

The metallic clank of weights and the scent of sweat hit me the second I burst back into the gym. Adrenaline still courses through my veins, driving me forward. My brothers, scattered among the weights and rubber mats, are eyeing me probably wondering how far I might snap right now.

"Graham," I bark out, my voice slicing through the tense air. He looks up, nodding once, a silent agreement passing between us. "Spot me."

I shrug off my hoodie, leaving me in my tank top and revealing the sinew of my arms that I'm about to push to the limit. The bench is cold against my back, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from my core. The barbell hovers above, loaded with plates that promise a sweet distraction. I want it to hurt.

"Ready?" Graham's standing over me, hands poised under the steel. I give him a tight-lipped smirk, because ready isn't even a question; it's my default setting.

"Always."

The weight descends, a gravitational pull proving that I'm defying it with every fiber of muscle. One rep, two, then three. My arms push against the force, my thoughts locked on Iris and her twisted games.

"Come on, Linc, push!" Penn yells from somewhere to my right.

I grunt in response, my body obeying the primal call to exertion. But as the reps climb, so does the anger, transforming each lift into an act of contempt. Iris thinks she can corner me? I'll show her what it means to be trapped.

"Easy, Lincoln," Jeremiah chides from somewhere to my left. "You're gonna bust a vein."

"Or bust someone else's face," Penn mutters under his breath. I can hear the smirk in his voice without having to look.

"Wouldn't be the first time," I shoot back between grunts, forcing out another rep.

Graham's hands hover near the bar, ready to catch it if my strength gives. But it doesn't. It won't. Not until I've exacted some semblance of revenge.

"Enough!" Jeremiah's voice cuts through the grunts of the gym. He's at my side now, prying the bar from my determined grip and racking it with a clang that resonates through my bones.

"Like hell it is," I growl, but the bar is already racked. I sit up, chest heaving, eyes blazing.

Jeremiah steps forward, a bottle of some post-workout recovery concoction in hand. "Drink," he orders, thrusting it at me.

My lips part, but before I can speak?—

"Nah, not here bro," Penn cuts in, eyes scanning the space. His gaze lingers on a cluster of underclassmen nearby. "Walls have fucking ears, and some of these boys are more loyal to their gossip than to their girlfriends."

I snatch the drink, downing it in one go. It's sour, stings on the way down—like swallowing my pride. We need privacy for this conversation. A plan forms, and I stand, raged barely contained, and energy just waiting to be expelled. The heavy weights weren't enough. I need to make someone crumble.

"Let's bounce," I say, voice low, a command more than a suggestion. My brothers gather their gear, understanding unspoken. We move as one unit—tight, impenetrable, ready for war.

"Yo, where's Ramsey?" I snap, scanning the gym for my cousin's familiar lean figure, but he's nowhere to be found.

"Kid bailed right after your ‘call to arms' text," Graham says, his voice dry as he towels off his neck. He throws the towel into his own bag, a smirk playing on his lips. "Guess your hacker task was more appealing than leg day."

"Good," I mutter. At least one of the Blackwood brood doesn't challenge every damn word out of my mouth.

"Probably halfway to hacking the Pentagon by now." Jeremiah chuckles, slinging his bag over his shoulder, while Penn's laughter is a low rumble.

"You sure you didn't doctor your birth certificate? Because I'm pretty sure I should be the eldest here," Penn teases, grinning at me with brotherly insolence.

"Keep dreamin', little brother." My retort comes quick, sharp, but there's no heat behind it.

"Let's get this done," I say, jaw clenched, the taste of revenge bitter on my tongue as we stride out of the gym doors.

I can almost taste the retribution, a flavor that curls around my tongue like moonshine. My phone buzzes—a text from Ramsey, no doubt. It's got to be the dirt I need, the sweet evidence that'll bury her lies six feet under.

I swipe the screen with a flick of my thumb, eyes scanning the message that's supposed to be my lifeline. But instead of salvation, all I find is a goddamn punch to the gut.

Rams

Linc, she's clean. Nothing. No evidence linking Iris to the test. When she's not with you she's in class. Sorry man.

My vision blurs red. Clean? That can"t be right. Ramsey must"ve missed something; he has to have.

What the fuck do you mean nothing?!

I snap back, fingers pounding the screen.

She's hiding it well, but she"s not smarter than you.

Rams

Man I've torn through everything. There's nothing. You know I don't miss shit.

Ramsey doesn't fuck up. But this—this can't be happening. My chest tightens with a wicked fury that threatens to detonate, and I'm gripping my phone so hard it might snap in half.

"Then she's more cunning than we thought," I grind out, pacing now, a caged animal itching for a scrap. Who else would dare cross me?

A breath shudders through me, and for a moment, I'm lost in the image of her. Those eyes that hide shadows darker than mine, her full lips smirking at the chaos she's caused.

"Fuck," I breathe out, the word a curse against the power she holds without even knowing it.

Ram, dig deeper. She"s gotta have slipped up somewhere. She"s not walking away from this.

I punch the words out, each one a vow, a curse.

Rams

Can"t create evidence that doesn"t exist cousin. I"m telling you it"s a dead end.

Dead end my ass

I snarl, anger curling tightly inside me. It"s a serpent, ready to strike, to poison everything in its path—including me. But I don"t care. All I can think about is making Iris pay for playing me like a damn fiddle.

Rams

Trust me, Lincoln. If it was there, I"d have found it.

Ramsey insists, his text a slap of cold logic across my seething emotions.

I make my way across campus, the sounds of my brothers' banter fading behind me. They're talking strategies, plays for our next moves, but all I can hear is the thud of my heart ringing in my ears.

"Lincoln, man, maybe it wasn't Iris," Jeremiah ventures, a note of reason in his voice, but it grates against my raw nerves.

"Look at the facts," Penn chimes in, his analytical mind dissecting possibilities. "Who else stands to gain from screwing with you? Whose chick have you fucked lately?"

"Or maybe someone who wants Iris out of the picture?" Graham suggests, his biceps flexing as he grips his gym bag tighter.

"None of that matters," I spit out, my jaw tight enough to crack walnuts. "Who's fucking side are you on? Because right now you aren't acting like my brothers."

"Easy, tiger," Jeremiah chimes in, ever the voice of reason, but there's a fire in his tone too. They know the stakes are high, and they're with me, ready to stand or fall together.

"Let's just play it smart, huh? If we off legal eagle and it doesn't fix all your problems, then you're gonna have to deal with the problem still and won't even have her to torment." Penn suggests, but his smirk tells me he's ready for the thrill of the hunt as much as I am.

"Smart," I scoff. "Yeah. I'm thinking real fucking smart now."

And then it hits me, a wicked idea blooming like a nightshade flower. If the evidence won't come to us, then we'll have to craft the trap that will make Iris Shelby fall into it. Because if there's one thing I know about playing the game, it's that every player has their breaking point.

And I intend to push Iris to hers.