30. Lincoln

The pavement pounds beneath my sneakers and sweat courses down my temple. The burn in my thighs is a sweet ache as I round the final corner of St. Charles University's perimeter. My lungs pull at the humid air as I try and force my body to finish. The campus is still quiet in the early morning mist, the ancient oaks standing over my solitary ritual. I need to be back on the field, feeling the turf beneath my feet, the ball and its ridges under my fingers, and the pressure to complete the pass. Nicole fucking Sullivan isn't going to rob me of this. She's going to fucking recant her bullshit lies and I'm going to drag the fuck out of her and her entire family if I have to.

By the time I finally reach the street that my house is on, my skin is covered in sweat and my breath is heavy, each exhale a fog in the chilly morning air, and I walk the last stretch, cooling down my exerted muscles until the gravel of our driveway crunches underfoot. I'm a machine, built on routine and raw determination, the kind that doesn't just aim for the top but claws its way there, bloody and unbowed.

As I stride into the living room, the scent of coffee mingles with the tang of my sweat-soaked shirt. Iris is there, perched on the edge of the couch, her body tight with nerves. Her sweet lavender and lemon scent greet me as I breathe in heavily. Her fingers assault her nails, and her lip is caught between her teeth—a sure sign she's riding her anxiety.

"Lincoln," she starts, her voice a mix of excitement and trepidation, "I found something about Nicole—you need to see this."

She's clutching at her phone like it's a lifeline, eyes wide. I can't help but admire the way her brain works, always whirring, piecing together puzzles I sometimes don't even see.

"Slow down, baby," I tell her, the endearment rolling off my tongue naturally, laced with a possessive warmth.

I'm still catching my breath, sweat trickling down my back, when I cut her off. "Hold up, I gotta meet Coach. You'll fill me in later?"

A pout tugs at the corners of her full lips, and she scowls, her eyes sharpening with a familiar challenge. "Oh, sure," she says with a voice dripping with sarcasm, "because groping Coach is definitely top priority over clearing your name, right?"

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. The water I'm guzzling goes down the wrong pipe. I cough, sputtering, but damn if she doesn't draw out a chuckle from me. She always knows how to hit where it hurts, or in this case, make me choke on my own spit.

"Watch it," I growl, but there's no malice—the fire, the fight—is what makes us feel fucking alive…together.

"Keep it classy, Shelby," I retort, setting the empty bottle on the counter with a thud.

In two strides, I'm towering over her hands braced on either side of her head on the back of the couch. I lift one and find the nape of her neck. I pull her into a harsh kiss, fueled by the frustration and desire that always simmers just beneath our skin.

"Fine," Iris snaps, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. "Just go, then."

"Stay your pretty little ass in the fucking house while I'm gone," I command, my voice low and laced with an edge. "It's the safest place for you."

As I pull away, my fingers trail down, tweaking her nipple piercing through the fabric of her shirt and feel it harden under my touch. Her sharp intake of breath is music to my ears.

Breaking away, I straighten up, leaving her sitting there with that kiss branded onto her lips. I know she'll taste me long after I've left. She's a vision of temptation as she reclines there, all sass and rebellion.

"Whatever you say... boss," she throws at my retreating form, a mix of heat and annoyance trailing in the air between us.

"You got a smart mouth, angel," I reply, already halfway to the door, the urgency to deal with Coach pumping through my veins, thick and hot.

The air in Coach's office is like a thick fog of tension, almost tangible. I step in, and the door closes with a click that sounds more like a cell door slamming shut behind me. Coach doesn't look up immediately, his eyes pinned on some papers scattered across his desk—a battlefield of bureaucracy and bullshit.

"Coach," I start, my voice steady despite the anger brewing in my chest. "Let's get this over with. When am I testing?"

He finally looks up, and I can see the strain around his eyes, the weight of the world—or at least, the weight of St. Charles' football legacy—resting on his hunched shoulders. "Lincoln, we're not testing you," he says, his voice sounding like broken glass being crushed underfoot.

My breath catches somewhere in my throat. "What do you mean we're not testing? That's the fastest way to clear this shit and get me back on the field. We both know that test was tampered with or swapped."

"Son, it's not that simple," he says, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. "There are... pressures. From above. The situation with Nicole?—"

"Nicole?" I spit out her name like it's poison on my tongue. My fists clench at my sides, knuckles whitening. "She's setting me up!"

"Lincoln, I need you to calm down?—"

"Calm down?" The words explode from me, shards of disbelief coated in sarcasm. "You think I'm gonna sit here and play nice while she plays victim? After what she pulled?"

Coach shakes his head, the lines in his forehead deepening. "There's a process, Lincoln. We have to follow?—"

"Fuck the process!" The walls almost shudder with the force of my voice. "When has that ever been our way? We play hard, we play to win. Why're you backing down now?"

He doesn't answer right away, and the silence is a living thing, wrapping its fingers around my throat. When Coach finally speaks, his words do nothing to ease the stranglehold.

"Until this is resolved, you're benched, Lincoln. I'm sorry. Allegations are serious?—"

"Allegations, my ass." I'm pacing now, a caged animal desperate for an escape. "She wanted something at that party, and I said no. Next thing I know, Iris' room is broken into, my car is vandalized, and then these ‘bruises' show up? It's all a setup!"

"Listen to me," the coach tries to assert authority, but he sounds defeated. "I want to believe you, son, but my hands are tied."

"Your hands are tied?" I throw back, my voice a razor edge of contempt. "So what, you just bend over backward for every accusation thrown our way? What happened to trust? To loyalty?"

"Lincoln, the board?—"

"Fuck the board!" I roar, the words ricocheting off the walls. There's a burning behind my eyes, the lines between fury and desperation blurring. "I'm innocent, and I will prove it. With or without your help."

"Sit down," he orders, but there's no force behind it. He knows as well as I do that sitting isn't an option—not when every fiber of my being screams for movement, for action.

"I don't have time to sit," I snarl, already backing toward the door. "Every second I waste here gives her more time to spin her web of lies."

I flick the glossy photo across the coach's cluttered desk, my disgust a living thing between us. "You can't seriously buy this act."

His fingers hover over the image of Nicole's marred skin—shades of violet and angry red—and I see it, that flicker of doubt in his eyes before he schools his expression into one of concern. The stench of stale coffee hangs in the air, but it's the scent of betrayal that chokes me.

"Lincoln," he starts, voice heavy, "these are serious. If these bruises?—"

"Are self-inflicted bullshit," I interrupt, my tone laced with scorn. "She's played you all like damn fools. And now you're dancing to her tune instead of listening to the truth."

He leans back in his chair; the leather creaking under the weight of his decision. "The pictures, the allegations... Lincoln, I can't put you on the field until this mess is cleared up."

"Because of some self-inflicted bruises?" My voice is a serrated edge, cutting through the bullshit. "I'm the victim here, Coach. You know me."

"Lincoln," Coach's voice is a gravelly rumble, the kind that precedes a storm, "you gotta keep your head cool. We're doing what we can."

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.