Page 15 of Flag On The Play (Gridiron Warriors #5)

NOVA

I wake up to warmth.

Not the kind you fake with extra blankets or cheap heaters. The kind that sinks into your skin, anchors you to the moment, and makes you never want to leave.

It’s coming from him.

One of his arms is slung over my waist, his body curved around mine like we were made to fit. And God help me it feels right. Too right.

Sunlight slips through the curtains, bathing the room in soft gold. I can see the skyline through the massive windows, but all I can really focus on is the steady sound of his breathing behind me. Calm. Even. Completely unbothered by the emotional wreckage he’s left me drowning in.

Because last night wasn’t like the first time.

It wasn’t drunk.

It wasn’t impulsive.

It meant something.

And now I have no idea what to do with that.

I shift slightly, trying to untangle myself from him without waking him up. I need space. I need air. I need to think without his bare chest pressed against my back and his hand curled possessively on my hip like I’m his.

Like I want to be.

“Don’t,” he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, gravelly and unfairly sexy. “Five more minutes.”

My heart thuds. “I was just?—”

“You were trying to sneak out,” he says, eyes still closed, but his hand tightening. “Not happening.”

“I wasn’t?—”

“Nova,” he cuts in, finally opening his eyes. Sleepy. Soft. But locked on me like I’m the only thing in the world worth waking up for. “Stay.”

Two weeks ago, I would’ve rolled my eyes and told him to get over himself.

Now?

Now I just stare at him, completely unsure if walking away would be self-preservation or the biggest mistake of my life.

“I can’t promise I won’t screw this up,” I whisper.

He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his fingers slow and gentle. “Good. Then we’ll screw it up together.”

I hate that he always says the right thing.

Worse?

I hate how badly I want to believe him.

He pushes up, leaning on his elbows. “Breakfast.”

“I’m sorry, are you offering or requesting?”

He pushes the comforter off and stands up. Naked. His ridiculously perfect body makes it impossible to look away.

Disappointment hits when he walks into his closet and my view is gone.

He comes out in a pair of gray sweatpants and tosses a shirt at me.

“Put that on and meet me in the kitchen.”

He walks out of the room, giving me the space I thought I wanted.

I slip on the Nighthawks shirt that is entirely too big and stand up.

My heart is beating fast. My pulse is racing.

“Calm down, it’s breakfast,” I whisper, shaking my head.

I pad down the hallway, still taken aback by how beautiful his penthouse is. Last night I didn’t get to appreciate just how impressive it is.

The place is massive. Like, stupidly massive.

The ceilings are high enough to echo, and floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, revealing a skyline that looks straight out of a movie. The city is active below with cars and people everywhere, but in here it feels still. Quiet. Almost peaceful.

His living room looks like it was pulled from a high-end design catalog.

Sleek, modern furniture in muted grays and deep blues.

A ridiculously oversized sectional that could seat a football team and probably has.

Clean lines. Minimal clutter. The kind of place that screams money and success without having to say a word.

And yet, there are hints of him everywhere.

A framed photo of his team after a championship win.

A game ball on a glass shelf. A pair of sneakers kicked half under the couch, like he got home and ditched them without thinking.

It’s him, polished but real. Structured, but still a little chaotic around the edges.

The kitchen is all black marble and chrome, intimidating and cold like it was designed by someone who’s never cooked a damn thing in their life. But who am I to talk? I couldn’t even pull off a dinner for him.

I glance around, taking it all in. The space, the air, the view. Everything about it is a far cry from my world. I live in a small apartment, where the walls are thin and the neighbors are nosy. My apartment smells like vanilla and body spray. His smells like ambition and restraint.

But then I catch sight of a wine bottle still out from last night, two glasses beside it. A blanket half draped on the couch, where things got heated.

And suddenly, this place doesn’t feel cold at all.

It feels like possibility.

Like something new.

Like him.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel out of place.

“Hey, get your sexy ass in here.”

I hate that I grin and hate even more that I listen.

I sit on the counter with his shirt falling over my knees, thankful for the coffee he hands me.

I’m watching him frown at a frying pan like it’s personally offended him.

Apparently, he didn’t have enough in his fridge to prepare a decent enough breakfast. A scrabbled egg that isn’t burning is good for me, but not so much for him.

“This is why I need to go shopping more often,” he mutters, poking at the small portion of eggs.

I stifle a laugh behind my coffee mug. “You act like scrambled eggs are high-stakes.”

“They are when you’re trying to impress your girlfriend.”

My heart stutters at the word, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy muttering under his breath and shoving toast into the toaster.

I try to play it cool. “Girlfriend, huh?”

That gets his attention.

He glances over his shoulder, smirks, then walks over and stands between my legs. “You slept in my bed. You’re wearing my shirt. I made you breakfast even if it’s not what I wanted. I feel like I’ve earned that title.”

I raise a brow. “Bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”

He leans in, nuzzles my neck. “A little. But you’re still here, aren’t you?”

Damn him.

Damn that smile.

Damn, the way he smells like coffee and soap and everything I didn’t know I wanted.

I press my forehead to his. “For now.”

His hand slides to the back of my neck. “Then I’ll just have to give you a reason to stay.”

And God help me, I’m afraid he already has.

I’m curled up on Roxy’s absurdly green velvet couch, a throw pillow clutched to my chest like it’s armor. Delaney hands me a glass of wine, yes, wine, at one in the afternoon, and plops down beside me while Roxy lights incense in the corner because, of course, she does.

“So let me get this straight,” Roxy says, spinning around dramatically. “You went to his place. Candles, flowers, and wine were waiting. You had the best sex of your life, and now you’re panicking because what? He didn’t run screaming?”

I glare at her. “It’s not that simple.”

“It never is,” Delaney says softly. “But you’re not freaking out because you don’t like him. You’re freaking out because you do .”

I exhale a breath I’ve been holding all morning. “Exactly.”

Roxy flops into the armchair. “So what’s the real issue? You’re scared he’s going to change his mind?”

“No,” I whisper. “I’m scared I will.”

Delaney gives me that gentle, knowing look that always makes me feel both exposed and seen. “Because of your job?”

“Because of everything,” I admit. “I’ve been on my own for so long. I don’t know how to let someone in. Not really. And Finlay? He’s intense. He’s all in, and I’m still trying to figure out if I’m even in at all.”

Roxy sighs. “Look, I’ve known you forever. And I’ve seen you hook up, flirt, brush dudes off like lint. But this? This is different. You don’t cook for guys. You don’t sleep over. You definitely don’t smile like a damn lovestruck idiot the next morning.”

I don’t argue, because she’s right.

Delaney squeezes my hand. “So what are you going to do?”

I stare at the wine in my glass, the soft hum of music in the background, the girls who’ve always had my back.

“I’m going to keep trying,” I say quietly. “But on my terms. Slow. Honest. And real.”

Because for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to run.

I want to stay.

And maybe, I want to fall.