Page 13 of Flag On The Play (Gridiron Warriors #5)

NOVA

T he beat drops, the lights shift, and the music pulses through the club like it always does. My body moves automatically. It’s fluid, practiced, powerful, but my head? My head’s somewhere else entirely.

The crowd’s loud tonight. The money’s falling around me like confetti. But I don’t notice it.

Because all I can hear is his voice.

"You were the only girl I couldn’t forget."

Goddamn him.

And then there was me, shooting back, “And you were the boy I never let myself remember.”

It’s on a loop. Like a broken record carved into my skull. I don’t know if I’m more turned on or terrified by the fact that we said those things out loud.

Finlay Reed has always been the wild card. And last night? He threw down a full hand and told me I needed to pick one.

He said I’m his good luck charm.

He kissed me like it was more than lust.

And then he left with a look that said, your move, Nova.

The problem is, I don’t know which move to make.

As I twirl around the pole one final time, landing in a slow, sultry crouch, I force my mind to focus. I arch my back. Smile. Bite my lip. But it’s all fake. All for show.

Because I already know what I need more than a fat stack of tips tonight.

I need to talk this shit out.

I shoot off a text as soon as I get backstage.

Me: Emergency girl meeting. Roxy’s place. One hour. Bring wine. Or tequila. Or both. I'm spiraling.

Delaney: On my way.

Roxy: I already have wine. But I’ll grab tequila too because I know your spiraling ass needs more.

I don’t even get changed all the way. I just throw on a hoodie over my leggings and top, shove my makeup wipes into my purse, and head out.

Roxy’s apartment is exactly what you’d expect from a woman like her. It’s chaotic, wild, colorful. String lights hang from the ceiling. Her couch is green velvet. There’s a neon sign above the kitchen window that says ‘Fuck around and find out.’

“Wow, everything is lit up tonight,” I say when I walk in.

“Like you don’t need this exact vibe tonight,” Roxy grins, holding out a glass of red wine.

Delaney’s already curled up on the armchair, cardigan pulled over her knees, a bottle of water in her lap like she’s the designated voice of reason. Again.

I drop onto the couch, take a long sip, and groan. “Okay. I have to tell you both something, and I don’t want commentary until I’m done.”

“That’s ominous,” Roxy says, plopping beside me.

“Let her talk,” Delaney murmurs.

I stare at the glass for a second, then blurt it all out. “I slept with Finlay. At Jace’s party. We argued, drank too much, flirted, and then we ended up in one of the bedrooms.”

“Oh shit.” Roxy grins like she’s just been handed the season finale twist of a drama series.

“And then last night he came to my place. Said we needed to figure this out. We made out, it got heated, but I told him no sex until we figure it out.”

Delaney lifts a brow, impressed. “Look at you setting boundaries.”

“I know, right?” I say with a dry laugh. “But when we talked, he said I’m the only girl he’s never been able to forget. He said I’m his good luck charm and that he plays better when I’m around.”

“That’s kinda hot,” Roxy says, sipping her wine. “A man performing better because of you? Queen shit.”

“Yeah, or it’s pressure I didn’t ask for. What happens if I leave? He throws an interception and blames my vagina?”

Delaney actually chokes on her water.

I drop my head into my hands. “I’m so confused.”

Roxy nudges me. “Okay, real talk. Do you want to be with him?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “He’s not who he used to be. Or maybe he is, and he’s just learned how to wear a better mask. Either way, he’s gotten under my skin.”

“Sounds like you’re scared,” Delaney says softly.

“I am,” I admit. “I’ve kept this wall up for years, and he’s breaking through it like it’s paper. It’s not just about sex, and that makes it scarier.”

Roxy leans in, her voice gentle for once. “So what would make you happy, Nova? Him? Or staying safe behind your walls?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “But I think I want to find out.”

“Then take your time,” Delaney says. “Set the pace. Make him prove it’s real.”

“Make him work for it,” Roxy adds. “And if you decide he’s still a fucking asshole, we’ll handle that.”

I laugh for the first time in hours and clink my glass against theirs. “You two are the worst influences.”

“And the best friends,” Delaney smirks.

“Cheers to figuring shit out,” Roxy grins.

We raise our glasses, and for the first time in days, the knot in my chest starts to loosen.

Maybe I don’t know what this thing with Finlay is, but I’m starting to believe it’s worth figuring out.

Me: You busy tonight?

Finlay: Depends.

Me: On?

Finlay: On whether or not you’re inviting me over.

Me: I am.

Finlay: Then no, I’m not busy.

Shit. This is happening.

I toss my phone onto the counter and pull up the recipe I bookmarked earlier. I’m talking actual food. Real ingredients. Like I’m a whole-ass adult trying to impress a guy or something.

Which I immediately regret.

Why did I decide to cook?!

I’ve never cooked a full dinner in my life unless we’re counting ramen noodles and scrambled eggs, which apparently we’re not.

But tonight? I wanted to go big. Or at least I was trying until I managed to burn the chicken, start a small grease flare-up on the stovetop, and set off the smoke detector. All within thirty minutes.

There’s a pot boiling over, something sticky on the floor, and I’m fanning smoke out the window with a potholder.

“Motherfucker”

He knocks.

I freeze. Covered in flour. Possibly smelling like a roasted tire.

I stare at the mess. The kitchen looks like a food truck exploded.

I could just not answer. Say I was in the shower. Or asleep. Or that I got amnesia and forgot he was coming.

But he knocks again.

With a sigh, I wipe my hands on a towel, which is also covered in something brown and possibly charred, and open the door.

Finlay stands there in jeans and a black Henley, looking like pure temptation. He’s smiling until the smell hits him.

His nose twitches. “Is that burnt hope and dreams I’m smelling?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s called home cooking.”

“Is the ‘home’ part of it, because it smells like it’s on fire?”

“Do you wanna come in or stand there roasting me like my chicken?”

“Is it chicken?” he says, stepping in and surveying the scene. “Because based on the smoke cloud and the smell, I would’ve guessed vengeance?”

I shove his arm. “Shut up.”

He laughs and lifts a lid off one of the pots. “Okay, this one looks edible?”

I slap his hand away and sigh. “Alright, fine. I ruined dinner. I tried. I actually tried. I found a damn recipe, went to the store, chopped things, followed directions, sorta. And it still went to shit.”

“I’m impressed,” he says, leaning against my counter. “This is the most effort anyone’s ever put into trying to kill me.”

“Oh my God, you’re an ass,” I laugh, flinging a towel at him.

He catches it mid-air, his grin wide. “I’m ordering pizza. And we’re never speaking of this again.”

“Deal,” I say, plopping onto a stool and dragging my hair into a messy bun. “But extra cheese. I’ve earned that.”

When the pizza arrives, we eat on the couch. Our legs tangled casually like this isn’t terrifying, like I didn’t invite him here to have an actual conversation.

But after the last slice is gone and we’re sipping soda, I know it’s time.

“I meant it when I said we needed to talk,” I say quietly.

His face shifts. Serious. Attentive. “Okay.”

“I’ve been thinking. A lot. And I don’t want to keep dancing around this thing between us.”

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack if you don’t just say it,” he mutters, setting his drink down.

I take a breath, heart pounding. “I’m willing to try. To actually try and see what this could be.”

His eyes lock on mine, and for the first time since he walked through my door, he doesn’t have a quip or comeback.

“But,” I add, “I need you to understand that I have concerns.”

“Okay. Tell me.”

“I can’t feel like I’m just your lucky charm. That if you play like shit one week, it’s because I wasn’t wearing thigh-highs and blowing kisses from the crowd.”

His mouth lifts at the corner, but he nods. “Fair.”

“And I’m a stripper. This is my job. This is what I do. Men flirt, grab, tip, talk shit. They fall in love with the fantasy. And they all say they can handle it. Until they can’t. Every relationship I’ve had has ended because of this job.”

Finlay leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Nova. Do you think women don’t throw themselves at me?”

I raise a brow. “You’re a hotshot quarterback. I know damn well they do.”

“Exactly. We both deal with people wanting us for surface-level shit. Looks, sex, status. But that’s not what this is,” he says, gesturing between us.

“You don’t care about my highlight reel, and I sure as hell don’t care how many dollar bills you rake in a night.

I care about you. The girl who tried to cook chicken for me.

Who challenges me. Who scares the shit out of me because I know if I mess this up, I’ll regret it forever. ”

I stare at him, swallowing the lump in my throat.

He shifts closer, eyes soft. “Losing my dad made one thing clear. I’ve wasted a lot of time. And I’m done doing that.”

My voice wavers. “So, what now?”

“Now?” He slides his hand over mine. “Now we figure it out. Together. Day by day. No pressure. No superstition. Just you and me.”

I nod slowly. My heart races, but for the first time, it’s not with panic. It’s with hope.

“Alright then,” I whisper. “Let’s figure it out.”

“Good,” he smirks. “But just so you know, I’m never eating your cooking again.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, Reed.”

“A lucky charm?” he winks.

And just like that, I know I’m in trouble because I’m smiling like a fool, and I don’t even care.