17. Penn

Chapter 17

Penn

R eagan is by the fountain, her back to me, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She’s fiddling with her switchblade again. Part of me wants her to cut me with it, and the other part wants to carve myself into her skin. I should have done it the other night after I took her on our little pyro mission.

The fucking sex we had that night was goddamn amazing. I will never forget watching her ride me into fucking oblivion.

I stride over to her, the weight of my football gear barely registering as I focus on the hellfire beauty I get to call fucking wife.

“Hey there, stabby,” I grin, holding out my jersey to her. “You’re wearing this to the game.”

“Is that so?” Reagan smirks, eyeing the piece of clothing like it’s poisoned. “What if I told you I’m allergic to polyester?”

“Then I guess we’re about to find out if hives are your color.” I wink, letting my eyes linger on her lips for a moment before meeting her gaze again. “Put the fucking jersey on. Be a good little wifey for me.”

Her eyes narrow. “Seriously, Blackwood? Is this your way of marking your territory?”

“Precisely,” I say with a grin, stepping closer. “Think of it as a public service. Letting everyone know you’re taken. You’re doing a civic duty preventing the deaths of many by slipping it on. I’ll work on something more permanent.”

My sly smile never falters, even as I watch her slip my jersey over her head, the oversized fabric hanging off her shoulders and swallowing her frame. Thank fuck she’s tall as hell and the hem doesn’t fully cover that bitable ass. The sight sends a thrill down my spine, knowing she’s wearing my name, my number.

“Your possessiveness is showing,” Reagan quips, adjusting the jersey to fit more comfortably as she ties one side up with a hair tie. “Might wanna tuck that back in. “

“Hellfire, there’s no hiding my claim on you.” I lean in close, our bodies nearly touching as I let my breath brush against her earlobe. “Your mine, whether either of us likes it or not.”

“Jesus, psycho, you really know how to charm a girl,” she snaps, her fingers curling into fists at her sides, but I can see the flush creeping up her cheeks, betraying her anger.

“Isn’t that why you married me? Life is never boring.” I tease as I take a step back.

Reagan rolls her eyes, the bitterness in her smirk barely masking the flash of something darker in her gaze. “Yeah, because I had so much fucking choice in the matter. Newsflash Blackwood, my ‘I do’ wasn’t exactly conscious.”

“Ah, yeah,” I chuckle, closing the distance between us again. “You were out cold on your feet. If I’m not mistaken, Rae Rae, you drooled a bit on my shoulder during the vows.”

“You’re an asshole,” she says finally, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“You didn’t seem too unconscious when you moaned my name two hours ago, so you’re not that mad about it.”

“If you think earlier was anything more than me getting off…” she snaps.

“And you’re a hell of a lot more compliant than you’d like to admit.” I lean against the edge of the fountain, feeling the cold spray mist my face. “But hey, who am I to stop you from fulfilling your wifely duties?”

She glares daggers at me, her fingers gripping the switchblade tighter. “Don’t push your luck.”

I grin, unfazed by the threat.

I grab her wrist and pull her against me, caging her in my arms. My hand tangles in her hair, tugging it back just enough to expose the slender curve of her neck. “Remember what happened last time you tried to fight me?”

Her breath hitches; she’s remembering alright. I can see it in the way her pupils dilate, in the flush spreading down her neck. My fingers tighten in her hair as if reminding both of us.

“You remember how you rode my fingers,” I murmur, my voice a low growl as my lips ghost over the shell of her ear. “How you begged for it, moaned my name. Pleading for me to go faster, deeper, harder.”

Her body tenses against mine, her breaths coming faster now.

“Shut up,” she manages to hiss, but it lacks conviction.

“And then came all over me,” I continue, unrelenting. “So fucking pretty when you let go like that. ”

“Psycho,” she whispers, a warning and a plea all rolled into one.

“But the best part?” I tighten my hold on her hair and pull back just enough to look into her dazed eyes. “Watching you while I used your cum to get myself off.”

I can practically see the conflict raging inside her, but it only adds fuel to the fire burning in my chest. I can’t help but smirk as I lean in closer, my breath mingling with hers.

“God, you should’ve seen yourself,” I say, my voice rough with desire. “So, fucking desperate. And me? Covered in your slickness, pumping myself to your flushed, pliant body…nothing has ever felt so goddamn right.”

Her nostrils flare, and her teeth grit together as if she’s trying to bite back whatever retort is on the tip of her tongue.

Without giving her a moment to think—or fight back—I grab her chin and force her mouth to mine. It’s not gentle or sweet; it’s raw and consuming. I feel her resistance for a split second before she retaliates by sinking her teeth into my lip. Pain shoots through me, sharp and immediate, as the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

I pull back just enough to catch my breath, panting slightly as I stare down at her. She looks defiant and triumphant, blood smearing across her lips where they touched mine.

“Fuck,” I whisper, grinning like a madman despite the throbbing pain in my lip. I feel the blood coating my teeth and lips as I laugh softly. “You know I fucking love when you bite me.”

She shoves at my chest, and I let her slip out of my hold. Reagan steps back, her eyes narrowing as she tries to collect her wits. Her chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins, making her pulse visibly throb at her throat. Clad in my jersey, she looks every bit as wild and untamed as ever.

I take a step back myself, giving her some space. “You look fucking good in my colors.”

Reagan wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing my blood even more.

She huffs, rolling her eyes as she turns away toward where the girls are, but not before I catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Whatever,” she mutters.

“Oakley, Iris,” I acknowledge my brothers’ respective girls, scanning the two of them with a quick glance. They’re standing by the entrance to the stadium. “Ramsey, you’re on escort duty.”

“Got it,” Ramsey responds, his tone clipped and efficient. He’s already moving toward them, his dark hair falling messily over one eye.

“Make sure they get good seats,” I add, my voice dropping into a lower, more dangerous register. “And for fuck’s sake keep an eye on them. All goddamn three of them are danger magnets.”

“Understood.” Ramsey’s eyes flicker, but he nods, leading the girls away.

“Good luck, pennywise,” Oakley calls back, her voice soft.

“I knew you liked me better than Jerry, lil Ashford,” I reply, watching as they disappear into the throng of people streaming into the stadium.

The air is thick with anticipation, the smell of popcorn and sweat mingling in a cloud that hovers above the crowd. I walk back into the locker room and see my brothers waiting for me .

“Alright, dickheads,” I say, turning to Lincoln and Jeremiah. “Let’s win this fucking shit so I can add a ring to my fucking fingers.”

Lincoln cracks his knuckles. Jeremiah just nods, his eyes going cold and calculating. I look around for Graham, but figure he’s already out there.

We jog onto the field, the roar of the crowd hitting us like a wall of sound. It vibrates through me. This game, like everything else in my life, is just another place where I can prove myself and I have every intention of coming out on top. This is where I belong—under the lights, in the center of it all.

“Wildcard!” Coach yells from the sidelines. I nod my head and take my position. The cold of January not bothering me one fucking bit.

“Blue 42! Blue 42! Set, hut!” The ball snaps back, and I’m off, muscles coiled and ready. Everything sharpens—the colors of the jerseys, the flash of helmets, the pounding rhythm of feet slamming into the turf.

“Go, go, go!” I shout to hype myself up, dodging a defender with a quick sidestep. My eyes scan the field, locking onto my quarterback. With a flick of his wrist, the ball soars through the air, spiraling perfectly into Coleman’s waiting hands. Touchdown.

The crowd erupts, their cheers merging into one deafening roar. I can feel their eyes on me, the admiration, the desire, the envy. I thrive on it, let it fuel me, let it feed the hunger that gnaws at my insides.

“Nice throw,” Jeremiah mutters to Linc as we jog back to the huddle.

“We ain’t done yet,” I shoot back, a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth.

“Not by a long shot,” he replies, his voice low and serious .

“Next play,” I say, turning my focus back to the game. “Double reverse. Let’s fuck ‘em up.”

“On three,” Lincoln adds, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“One, two, three—Spartans!”

We break, and the game resumes, each second a blur of motion and noise. I lose myself in it, letting the adrenaline surge through me, making me faster, stronger. The world narrows down to the field, the ball, the next move.

“Penn!” Lincoln shouts, and I pivot as he launches the ball toward me. Another perfect pass, another touchdown. The crowd goes wild, and I soak it in, every cheer, every scream adding to the fire inside me.

“You’re on fire tonight,” Coach says, clapping me on the shoulder as I come off the field for a quick breather.

I don’t say shit to Coach as I wipe the sweat from my brow. My eyes scan the stands, falling on Reagan. Even from here, I can see her wearing my jersey, a smirk playing on her lips. She catches my eye and flips me off, and I can’t help but laugh.

“Where the fuck is Graham?” Lincoln’s voice cuts through the noise of the crowd. I glance around, the absence of our brother gnawing at my gut, a warning that something is wrong. I just don’t know what it is.

“Fuck if I know,” I mutter, scanning the sidelines. He just got cleared to be back on the field for this fucking game.

Jeremiah sidles up beside us, eyes narrowed. “He should have been here by now. Something’s off.”

“Yeah, no shit,” I snap, my mind racing.

The whistle blows for half-time, and we jog off the field. Lincoln and Jeremiah waste no time making a beeline for their girls. I watch them, a pang of something bitter twisting in my chest. Jealousy? Nah, I don’t get jealous unless someone is doing a little murdering and doesn’t fucking invite me along.

“Hey angel,” Lincoln says, swooping Iris into a kiss. Jeremiah’s already got Oakley wrapped up in his arms, whispering something that makes her giggle.

“Get a room,” I call out, trying to keep my tone light, but it’s strained. My eyes drift back to the stands, searching for Reagan. She catches my eye, and for a second, the world narrows down to just us. Her lips curl into an actual smile, and damn if it doesn’t make me want to drag her somewhere private and?—

“Penn!” Coach’s voice snaps me back to reality. “We need you focused.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.” I turn back toward the field, shoving the thoughts of Graham and Reagan deep down where they can’t distract me. Not now.

“Where the fuck is my brother, anyway?” I mutter under my breath, taking my position. The second half is about to start, and we’ve got a game to win. But that nagging anxiety about my brother won’t let go.

“Let’s finish this,” Lincoln says, clapping me on the back. His eyes are sharp, determined.

“Yeah,” I agree, feeling the familiar fire ignite within me.

The whistle blows, and we’re back in the game. Every play, every move, is like heroin to me. The crowd roars, but all I can hear is the pounding of my own heart.

Jeremiah yells, but I can’t make out what it is, and I barrel through the opposing team’s line, the ball snug in my grip. The crowd roars, but all I hear is my heartbeat pounding in my ears like a war drum.

“Pass to Anderson!” someone shouts. I glance up, spotting my teammate open on the left. With a flick of my wrist, the ball sails through the air, landing perfectly in his hands. He sprints toward the end zone, and the crowd erupts.

“Fuck yes!” I shout, adrenaline pumping through my veins. But there’s no time to celebrate. We regroup, ready for the next play.

Worry gnaws at the edges of my focus. But I shove it down. Not now. There’s a game to win.

The ball snaps, and we’re off again. I dodge, weave, my body a finely tuned machine.

“Fucking goooooo!” someone screams, and I break free, sprinting down the field. The world narrows to the rush of wind in my ears, the ground pounding beneath my feet. I can almost taste victory.

“Touchdown!” the announcer’s voice booms, and the stadium erupts. But there’s no time to bask in the glory. We’re on a roll, and I can’t let up.

“Keep it up, wildcard!” Coach yells, and I nod, wiping sweat from my brow. The Spartans are gaining the upper hand, and we can’t afford to lose momentum.

I scan the field. My eyes catch Reagan’s for a split second, her smirk still there, taunting me. She sticks out her tongue and rubs her middle finger across it. She’s taunting me and one day I’m going to cum all over the bright pink piece of flesh and gag her with my seed.

My wife is such a fucking smartass.

I’m ready to finish this and claim my victory prize. The game isn’t over yet, but with every play, every hard-won yard, we’re getting closer.

I shake off the distractions to keep my head in the rest of the game. Graham, Reagan, all of it can wait. Right now, it’s just me, the ball, and the end zone.

Lincoln calls the final play, and I run like the fucking devil himself is chasing me for my slippers. It’s only when I feel the ball slide into my hands, and I cross that chalk line that everything comes crashing into me.

“And that’s game.” The final whistle pierces the air, and the stadium explodes into chaos. Screams, cheers, bodies pressing against me as my team swarms around me.

“Fuck yeah, Spartans!” someone hollers nearby.

“Penn!” Coach’s voice cuts through the noise, dragging me back to reality. He’s got that no-nonsense look, the kind that means something serious is going down, and he used my fucking name.

“Get your brothers,” he says, his tone clipped.

“What’s up, Coach?” I ask, but he’s already turning away, heading toward the sidelines where Lincoln and Jeremiah are laughing, their girlfriends hanging off them like trophies.

“Lincoln! Jeremiah! Over here, now!” I yell, my voice rough with urgency.

“What’s the deal?” Lincoln’s still grinning, but it fades fast when he sees Coach’s face.

“Something happened,” Jeremiah murmurs, ever the intuitive one.

“Yeah, no shit,” I snap, pushing through the crowd until we’re all standing in front of Coach.

“Listen up.” Coach’s voice drops, gravelly and heavy. “Graham’s been in an accident. He’s at the hospital.”

The world tilts, the roar of the crowd fading into a distant hum. Graham. In an accident. The words hang in the air, suffocating, choking.

“How bad?” Lincoln asks, his voice breaking.

“Don’t know yet,” Coach replies, looking us dead in the eye. “But it sounds serious. ”

“Shit,” Jeremiah whispers, running a hand through his hair, his mind racing.

“Fuck!” The word bursts out of me, raw and angry. I want to hit something, break something. Anything to make this not real.

“Get dressed,” Coach says, softer now. “I’ll drive you boys to the hospital.”

“Right,” I mutter, turning on my heel. My mind’s a storm, thoughts colliding like lightning strikes. Graham. Always the quiet one, the steady one. And now…what the fuck happened to my goddamn Grammy? Someone’s going to fucking die. My fingers itch for my lighter. Desperation clinging to me to flick the flame on and light something up. I need the control, the power. I’m spiraling and I need to fixate on something.

I head to the locker room, each step heavier than the last. I’ve got no time for games anymore.

“Fuck!” I slam my fist into the locker, the metallic clang reverberating through the room. My hands shake as I fumble with my gear, ripping it off like it’s suffocating me. The victory, the cheers—it all fades into nothing. Goddamn it.

“Penn, calm down,” Jeremiah says, but his voice is distant.

“Calm down? Are you fucking kidding me?” I snap, throwing my helmet across the room. It crashes against the wall and falls to the floor with a dull thud. “Grahams in the hospital, Jeremiah. How the hell am I supposed to calm down?”

“He’s tough,” Lincoln adds, trying to sound reassuring, but there’s a crack in his voice that betrays his own fear. “He’ll pull through.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” I growl, yanking off my jersey. The locker room smells of sweat and desperation. “We don’t even know what happened. ”

“Let’s just get there and see for ourselves,” Jeremiah tries again, more insistent this time.

“Fine,” I mutter, grabbing my stuff. My mind races. Images of Graham lying broken, bleeding, flood my vision. I can’t shake them. Can’t breathe.

I walk right out of this fucking locker room and straight into my fucking wife and all I can think is, if my brother doesn’t live, then everything has to die.