3. Lincoln

The sun's already blazing down on the empty parking lot as I swing my Range Rover into the last available spot. Gravel crunches underneath me, and my chest tightens with a combination of anger and adrenaline—it's gonna be a long-ass day. The scent of freshly cut grass from the field slices through the morning air, but it does shit to improve my mood.

"Thank fuck," I mutter under my breath, the words lost in the growl of the engine as I kill it. If I were one second later, Coach would've had my ass. I don't need another lecture about responsibility—not today.

I slam the car door harder than necessary; the sound echoing like a damn gunshot. It's barely seven in the morning and I'm already wound up tighter than that creepy jack-in-the-box Penn had when we were kids. Last night's farce of a wedding replaying in my head doesn't help. My mom's sudden nuptials—a sloppy affair that felt more like a business merger than a celebration of love. Again, marriage is useless. And Iris… Damn, that girl knows how to crawl under my skin and set up fucking camp there.

"Lincoln Blackwood, you're nothing but an arrogant prick who thinks the world should worship at your feet." Her voice taunts me, those emerald eyes flashing with scorn. She had the audacity to call me out, refusing to be another person that simpers for me.

And she's right—I'm pissed because she didn't melt into a puddle of adoration after I fucked her. As if her indifference is a personal attack on my ego. Usually, they all want more, but not Iris. She's got this infuriating self-control when it comes to me that makes me want to shatter it just to see her break. But now, she's fucking family, and that complicates things in ways that are going to make this little game so much more enticing.

The musky scent of the locker room slams into me like a linebacker as I crash through the doors, heart still throttling from the last-minute dash across campus. The hollow echo of my sneakers against the tiled floor syncs with the jumbled thoughts ricocheting in my skull.

"Linc, man, you're cutting it close," Jeremiah calls out, his voice bouncing off the walls lined with open lockers and discarded gear.

"It's fucking fine." I grunt, struggling to pull on my pads, the straps resisting as if sensing my urgency. I glance at the clock, its red digits glaring back at me menacingly, a silent observer marking my tardiness.

"Didn't think you'd stick around Port Hollow," Penn chimes in. "You didn't off the groom, did you? Just give us a heads up so we can cover for you."

"Ha-ha," I snort, yanking my jersey over my head, the fabric stretching tight across my shoulders. "I should've just for making me sit through that boring ass ceremony."

Jeremiah, hovering nearby, adds with a smirk, "Need an alibi? ‘Cause I was thinking we spent the night playing poker and discussing Proust."

"Very funny." My voice is as dry as the humor in their eyes. "I'm too pretty for prison."

"Bro, you okay?" Graham's concern slices through the banter, his eyes scanning mine for any sign of the usual reckless defiance.

"Never better," I lie through clenched teeth, fastening my helmet, the familiar pressure a welcome vise squeezing the remnants of chaos from my mind.

"Let's move," I bark, not waiting for their response. We emerge into the sunlight, the field sprawling before us like a kingdom awaiting its ruler. The clatter of shoulder pads and shouts fill the air, violence set to the rhythm of thudding pigskin.

"About damn time, Blackwood!" Coach's roar welcomes me, the threat of his displeasure a distant storm cloud I'm too wired to fear. My brothers fall into step beside me, an unspoken pact of blood and bone against whatever hell this day wants to throw my way.

"Let's tear it up," I growl, the promise of redemption lying just beyond the white lines painted on the turf. And I intend to claim it, one play at a time.

My muscles tense, ready for the onslaught. I'll channel every ounce of my frustration into the game. Each pass will be a bullet, each tackle a declaration of war. Today, the field is my battlefield, and I won't let anyone—or anything—get in my way.

"Time to show them who's king around here," I growl, flexing my fingers. The leather of the football will feel good in my hands, a reminder that here, at least, I'm in control. Here, no one questions my worth.

"Let's go, sixty-two! Make it fucking count!" Coach's voice booms across the field, a beacon of authority that I actually respect. Maybe because he's the only one who can kick my ass without flinching. Or maybe because, despite everything, he believes in me.

"Count on it," I reply, a predatory smile creeping onto my face. With a deep breath, I step onto the field, leaving behind the shadows of Port Hollow and stepping onto the field. It's time to play, and hell if I'm not going to win.

The moment my cleats dig into the churned earth of the field, I can feel it—the rage boiling in my veins.

"Blackwood! What the hell was that?" Coach's voice cuts through the noise sharp as fuck.

"Improvisation," I snap back, my words tinged with absolute rage.

"Your head's not in the game!" he barks, stepping up to me, our faces inches apart. "Get your act together or sit the hell out!"

"Try benching me," I challenge, my gaze locking onto his. My chest heaves, breaths coming fast and hot, the scent of fresh sweat and dirt filling my nostrils.

"Lincoln, chill, man," Jeremiah mutters, grabbing my arm. Penn's hand clamps down on my other shoulder, a vise attempting to squeeze sense into me.

"Off my damn field, Blackwood!" Coach's command is a thunderclap, rattling my skull. "Figure your shit out or kiss your spot goodbye. I don't have time for your underdeveloped frontal lobe bullshit. Freshman Jenkins is hungry for your spot, and I won't hesitate to give it to him."

"Fuck," I hiss, feeling my brothers tug me away, their grip insistent. The world narrows to this humiliation—my kingdom slipping through my fingers because of one goddamn mistake.

"Let's cool off," Jere says, his voice low, a futile attempt at calm.

"Like hell," I grind out, shaking them off. But I know when I'm beat—for now. I need to let Coach's temper cool before I actually do get fucking benched. I stomp toward the sidelines, the stands casting long shadows over me almost like prison bars.

"Freshman can't fill my shoes," I mumble under my breath, a defiant spark still alive within the hollow of my chest. I'll be damned if I let this break me. Not today. Not ever.

I slump on the bleachers, the metal cold and unforgiving against my skin. My breath comes out in ragged drags, heavy with the stink of defeat and anger. My brothers flank me, their presence like walls boxing me in.

"Lincoln, what the hell's crawled up your ass and died?" Graham's voice cuts through the tension, his concern wrapped in annoyance.

"Nothing," I snap, the lie bitter on my tongue. "Just need a minute."

"Doesn't look like nothing," Penn chimes in, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes me. He's always been too perceptive for his own good.

Before I can tell him to mind his business, I sense it—the prickling on the back of my neck, that unmistakable feeling of being watched. I whip my head around, catching sight of her—a blonde girl, distant yet focused. Eyes locked on us like we're prey.

"Who the fuck is that?" Penn's curiosity is piqued, which is never good for anyone except for Penn.

"Who fucking cares," I grunt, dismissing her with a wave of my hand. "Probably some jersey chaser you dipped your dick into."

"Wouldn't be surprised," he smirks, though his eyes stay trained on her a moment longer, as if he's sensing something. He may be a fucking clown, but when Penn's gut says something, we always listen.

"Focus, Lincoln. You gonna get your shit together or what?" Jeremiah's voice hammers at my resolve.

"Damn right I am," I affirm, the fire reigniting within me. I'm not done. Not by a long shot. I push off from the cold embrace of the bleachers, ready to reclaim what's mine.

The sun's glare off the metal bench is a dull headache behind my eyes as I squint at the blonde figure still watching us. Her silhouette blurs in the heat waves rising from the turf, but I don't care enough to focus. Not my type, not my problem.

"Fuck," I exhale, rubbing the tension from my neck and forcing my attention back to the guys. "So, I roll up to this shit-show of a wedding, right? And guess who's princess of the damn parade?"

Jeremiah cocks an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued despite the irritation etched on his face. "Who the hell?—"

"Iris fucking Shelby," I cut him off, my voice showing my undeniable disbelief. "Walking down the aisle like she owns the place."

"Doing what?" Jeremiah's tone sharpens, obviously thrown by the image.

"Her dad," I spit out the words, "is now married to my mom." The confession feels like acid on my tongue, burning with betrayal.

"Shit, man. That's twisted." Penn's smirk fades into something resembling concern, though it's fleeting.

"Twisted doesn't fucking cover it," I say, the anger bubbling up again, hot and corrosive. "She was high as a kite, too. Popping pills during the damn vows."

"Damn," Penn says, nodding with a mix of respect and sarcasm. "That's commitment to your vices. Got to hand it to her for that."

I snort, the sound harsh in the quiet around us. "Commitment or not, it's fucked up."

"Everything about today is fucked up," I mutter under my breath, shaking my head as I stand up, ready to channel all this rage into the only thing I know will take the edge off—the game.

Graham's piercing brown eyes narrow, skepticism written all over his buzz-cut head. "Nah, ain't no way. Her ass is always miss goody two-shoes in class and answering all the questions. She's the smartest girl on campus and she can't possibly be dumb enough to be getting high during the actual wedding."

"Bro, I don't give a shit what she does in class," I say, my words slicing through the disbelief hanging in the air. The memory flashes hot and vivid—her, standing there with glassy eyes, fumbling with the damn locket around her neck. "She was definitely popping pills mid ceremony. Saw it with my own goddamn eyes."

The muscles in my jaw clench as I replay the scene, the taste of bile lingering in my throat. Iris, so fucking untouchable in her fancy dress, yet unraveling at the seams. It pisses me off how she can play the part, how everyone buys into her act.

I keep bitching about Iris and my mom, can't help it—it's like scratching at a wound, knowing it'll bleed but doing it, anyway. "They're all fucking buddy buddy now, and that smart mouth of hers—" I catch myself, a growl rumbling from deep within. "She just knows how to push my buttons."

"Jesus, Lincoln," Jeremiah finally breathes out, his green eyes wide with something that looks like dawning realization. "Holy fuck, it's really happening. I've never seen you this fucked up over a girl before."

My blood runs hotter at his words. The last thing I need is an analysis of my fucked-up state, especially when it comes to her. "Don't get it twisted, Jere," I snap back. "This ain't about her—it's about the whole fucked up situation."

But who am I kidding? My skin's too tight, my thoughts too tangled around that enigmatic girl with her goddamn smirk and those piercing emerald eyes that seem to see right through me.

"Keep talking, brother, and I'll show you just how fucked up I can get," I threaten, every muscle coiled, ready to spring. My brothers know better than to prod further. They've seen me lose it before, and nobody's itching for a repeat performance.

"Chill, Linc," Penn chimes in, trying to diffuse the tension with that cocky grin of his. But even he doesn't push it, not when the air's thick enough to choke on.

The burn of fury is a poison in my veins, but I suck it back, hold it tight. I can't let it spill onto the field, not when every play counts. The whispers of my brothers fade into the background—just white noise—as I shove the chaos into the darkest corner of my mind.

"Let's do this," I mutter, more to myself than to them. Every muscle coils as we stride back onto the field, the grass a welcome solidity beneath my cleats. Coach's eyes are on me, hawk-like, waiting to see if I'll crack. I shoot him a nod that's all challenge and no submission, and he returns it with a grudging respect. It's enough.

"Blue forty-two! Blue forty-two! Set, hut!" My voice cuts through the air, a sharp command that echoes off the bleachers. I drop back, the ball a familiar weight in my hands, my full attention locked on Penn as he sprints down the field. He moves like he owns the damn place, confidence rolling off him in waves. I launch the pigskin, spiraling it through the air—it's perfect, it's fucking poetry.

Penn snatches it from its flight, the smack of leather against flesh a confirmation of my precision. For a moment, nothing else exists but the satisfaction of a flawless execution.

"Nice catch, shithead," I throw at Penn, a smirk tugging at the edge of my mouth. It's our language, this push and pull on the field, this brotherhood forged in sweat and adrenaline and blood.

"Like you ever doubted it," he fires back, that eternal grin plastered on his face.

We line up again; the team pulsing with energy, hungry for the next play. It's two more rounds of seamless motion, the kind of plays that remind me why I live for this game, why I bleed green and gold.

"Wrap it up, boys!" Coach's voice booms, signaling the end of practice. Reluctantly, we ease up, the intensity dialing back as helmets come off and we head toward the lockers.

"Damn good throws today, Lincoln," one of the guys, Cameron, slaps my shoulder, and despite everything—the rage, the confusion, Iris—I can't help but feel the ghost of pride flicker in my chest.

"Thanks, man," I say, keeping it cool, collected. The mask is firmly back in place. But inside? Inside I'm still a storm, thoughts of everyone's favorite good girl and her wild defiance churning up a hurricane that threatens to wreck me from the inside out.

The tang of sweat and dirt hangs heavy, evidence of the grind we've just been through.

"Hey, Lincoln, toss me my towel, will ya?" Jeremiah calls out, his voice echoing off the metal and tile.

"Get it yourself," I shoot back without looking, peeling the tape from my wrists. The banter is mindless, a distraction from the knot twisting in my gut.

I'm about to shrug off my jersey when Penn's voice slices through the haze of steam and chatter, stopping me dead. "Yo, Linc." He leans against his locker, arms folded, that trademark sly grin curving his lips. "The most important question I need an answer to is, what was it like to fuck your sister?"

Blood pounds in my ears, hot and insistent. My hands still, the jersey halfway up my torso, exposing the inked skin beneath. My jaw clenches tight enough to shatter teeth, and for a second, the locker room falls away—all noise drowned out by the rush of anger.

"Fuck off, Penn," I growl, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in my voice. The smirk on his face doesn't waver; if anything, it grows wider, more irritating.

"Come on, man," he prods further, pushing off the locker with a casualness that belies the sharp glint in his hazel eyes. "Don't leave me hanging."

"Trust me, there's nothing you need to know," I say, pulling the jersey over my head with a force that's a hair shy of tearing fabric. The air is thick, charged with something combustible, and Penn's playing with matches.

"Really? ‘Cause from where I'm standing, there's everything to know," he says, the words edged with a provocation that's designed to cut deep.

"Consider it a fucking mystery, then." My response is clipped, brusque, but inside I'm reeling. Every part of me screams to launch across the room and wipe that smug expression off his face. But I don't—I can't. Instead, I pivot on my heel, stalking toward the showers, leaving my brother and his damn questions in my wake.

As water cascades down, pounding against my skin, I try to drown out everything—the taunts, the memories, the illicit thrill that runs through me when I think of her. Iris, with her maddening defiance and that intoxicating scent, somehow both forbidden and deeply desired. It's a craving I never asked for, a hunger that refuses to be sated.