Page 1 of Flag On The Play (Gridiron Warriors #5)

NOVA

I paint on confidence the same way I swipe on red lipstick. Bold, unapologetic, and with just enough precision to make it look effortless. But let’s not get it twisted. Nothing about this life is easy.

My stage name is Lux, because Max, the manager, said it sounds expensive and powerful. I didn’t argue. Power is exactly what I need to feel before I step under those lights and pretend I’m in control.

The mirror in the dressing room is cracked in the corner.

Fitting, really. Most of us here are a little cracked, hiding the damage behind sequins and fake lashes.

I smooth a hand over my fishnet-covered thigh and tug the tiny black skirt into place.

The outfit’s barely legal, but that’s the point.

It’s armor made of glitter and illusion.

I glance at the other girls. They are laughing, stretching, touching up gloss, and I smile.

“Damn, girl. That red is fire on you,” Candy whistles, sliding a sparkly heel onto her foot as she eyes me in the mirror.

I smirk, running a hand through my curls. “It’s the shade of sin. Men eat it up.”

“And you serve it with a silver spoon,” she grins, popping a piece of gum between her teeth.

I laugh, a real one, not the fake kind I’ll paste on for the next few hours. Candy’s good people. Most of the girls here are. We share hair spray, secrets, trauma, and hustle.

We come from different places for sure. Single moms, high school dropouts, college students, women clawing their way out of something or into something better. For me, it’s survival laced with a middle finger to every man who ever thought he had power over me.

No, this isn’t what little girls dream of when they’re playing dress-up. And it’s definitely not what mothers hope for when they kiss their daughters goodnight. But dreams don’t keep the lights on, and hopes don’t pay for student loans, overdue bills, or rent in a city like New York.

Stripping does.

I make more in a week than I did in six months waiting tables and dodging grabby hands for minimum wage.

I don’t clock in at some soulless office job or rely on anyone else to take care of me.

I’ve got a two-bedroom apartment with a view, health insurance through a dancer’s union, and a retirement account I actually contribute to.

Tell me again how I should be ashamed.

“I’m up after you,” Jules says, adjusting her rhinestone-covered bra. “You gonna do the chair routine tonight?”

I nod. “Yeah. Men tip more when they think you’re going to sit on their face.”

The girls laugh. It’s raunchy, it’s ridiculous, and it’s true.

The house lights dim, signaling ten minutes to curtain.

My stomach tightens from the anticipation, the rush.

I might not be center stage in a Broadway show, but I know how to own a room.

When that spotlight hits, Nova Wilde becomes Lux.

And Lux doesn’t break, doesn’t flinch, and doesn’t let anyone see behind the glitter.

The stagehand pokes his head into the dressing room. “Lux, you’re on in five.”

I nod and take one last look at myself in the mirror. Lipstick bold. Eyes lined sharp. Skin glowing under powder and confidence.

I might not have a diploma on the wall or a family bragging about me at holidays. But I have something more dangerous.

Independence.

And the power to make men fall to their knees.

The music starts thumping outside. It’s heavy and seductive, like the making out before sex.

And tonight, like every night, I’ll make them look. I’ll make them want. And I’ll make damn sure none of them forget who the hell I am.

The bass hits like a heartbeat, slow and steady, thumping through the floor and into my chest. The spotlight slices through the dark, bathing me in a soft, sultry glow. The music is low, dirty, and commanding. I step onto the stage, every inch of me alive.

I become her.

Lux.

And Lux owns every eye in the room.

The whistles and cheers rise as I strut across the stage, heels clicking like a countdown. I wrap a leg around the pole, arch my back, and let my hair fall as the crowd eats it up. Their attention isn’t power, it’s currency. And tonight? I’m rich.

Hands grip drinks tighter. Eyes widen. Jaws slacken.

And I smile.

Not for them, but for me.

There’s something wickedly intoxicating about being the one in control. These men come here with fat wallets and fantasies, and I turn their hunger into dollar signs. I make them feel things they’ll never touch. That’s the trick. That’s the power.

My fingers trail down my thigh, slow and deliberate, as I bend toward the edge of the stage. A man leans forward, jaw hanging like he’s never seen a woman before. I wink. He tosses a bill. Another follows. And another.

I keep dancing because this is my stage, my body, my rules.

The chair routine hits, and I slide into it like liquid sex, rolling my hips in a rhythm I know drives them crazy. There’s no shame here. Only sweat, seduction, and sweet satisfaction.

Then, just before the music fades and I prepare for my final pose, I hear it.

One word.

Soft, stunned, and completely out of place.

“Nova?”

I freeze.

It’s quiet, barely audible above the low rumble of the crowd. But it cuts through the music like a gunshot.

No one here knows my real name.

No one’s supposed to.

My head snaps toward the voice before I can stop myself. My heart drops. Knees wobble. The confidence I wore like armor suddenly cracks.

And there he is.

Finlay. Fucking. Reed.

Sitting near the back of the room, his body draped in arrogant confidence and a dark fitted shirt that hugs muscles that weren’t there back in high school. His jaw tighter. Shoulders broader. But those stormy gray eyes that are locked on me are exactly the same.

So is the smirk. That same cocky smirk curling his mouth. He looks expensive and smug and just as irritating as I remember.

I haven’t seen him in years, and I already want to make him choke on that smug little smirk. He thought rejecting him in high school made me a cold bitch. Maybe I am. But at least I never begged for his attention like the rest of them.

So I roll my hips one last time. Slow, controlled, powerful. I drag my fingers down my body like I’m sculpting something divine, then throw a wink straight at him. Let him look. Let him want. Let him realize I’ve turned into the kind of woman he’ll never be able to handle.

The lights go down. Applause rises. My heels click against the stage as I strut toward the exit without a single glance back.

He said my name like it still meant something.

Too bad for him, Lux doesn’t answer to anyone.