I need him gone.
Whatever it takes, I need my life back.
Because if he stays, and if he keeps looking at me like he can see through me, I don’t know what’s going to happen.
I just know it won’t be something I can control.
CHAPTER 4
BRODY
For the second time, Lincoln Beckett pivots on his heel and storms away from me. The doors to the main wrestling floor slam so hard the frame rattles. For a long moment, nobody moves. Everyone looks around and then at me, flat on my ass on the mat, staring after him like an idiot.
They’re all probably wondering what it is I did to set him off. What I continue to do, since he’s very obviously hated me since the moment I got here.
But does he really hate me that much?
I get that my playful attitude rubs him the wrong way. I admit that I may have pushed it a little too far just to rile him up, but the running away is concerning. He’s not fighting with me, cursing, or shoving. He just runs. And people don’t run like that unless they're afraid of something. Or hiding something.
I have a theory about what he might be hiding. A thought I’ve pondered since I pinned him to the mat just over two years ago. A theory he all but just confirmed.
Because the way he reacted? The way he looked at me, back then and again today? The silent panic radiating off him every time our bodies brushed against each other?
I’ve seen it before. Not often, but enough to recognize it.
It speaks loudly of a guy who is trying very, very hard not to get caught wanting something he’s been taught not to want. A guy who thinks his whole life will implode if anyone sees him for what he is.
It would explain the hostility and obvious nerves, the toxic show of masculinity. The intensity of his vitriol for someone he doesn’t know. Someone who might know something about him that no one else does.
Not that I’d ever out someone like that. But he doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him.
What I do know is that calling him out or cornering him won’t help him. Threatening his sense of control won’t help him.
So I don’t go after him. Instead, I exhale slowly and peel myself off the mat, smoothing my shorts down and pretending what just happened is normal, despite the way everyone is staring at me.
If Lincoln is closeted—or scared, or confused, or something else entirely—that’s his business. I understand the fear. Being anything other than straight, especially in a sport like this, can be daunting. But that doesn’t excuse his behavior. It doesn’t give him the right to lord his power as a future leader of the elite class over me and try to make a fool out of me.
I need to figure out how to stop scaring him without backing down. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to finish my damndegree and take care of my family. Wrestling is what’s affording me that ability. It’s the only reason I’m here.
Still… I can’t help but be intrigued.
My skin prickles remembering the way he shivered when he pinned me.
The way his breath caught.
The way something soft and vulnerable flickered behind his anger.
I don’t know exactly what’s going on with him, but I’m curious enough to try to find out, and maybe try to help. Quietly, and without blowing up either of our lives.
I don’t want to be his enemy. But I’m not going to roll over and show my belly, either.
“Alright, spill. What the fuck is up with you and Beck?”
Fish drops his tray on the table and stares at me like he’s waiting for some big news that would explain the icy cold shoulder and behavior their captain has shown me since I arrived at Huntston. He’s a moody jerk whenever he’s around me, and seems to go out of his way to avoid me outside of practice.
I shrug. “He’s just intense.”
Fish raises an eyebrow. “It’s unusual for him to be this hotheaded.”
