Page 23 of Flag On The Play (Gridiron Warriors #5)

NOVA

I ’ve been camped out at Roxy’s for the past few days, buried beneath a mountain of blankets, emotions, and takeout containers.

Her couch is sunken from my weight and misery, and the only light in the apartment comes from the soft flicker of the TV that’s been playing shows I’m not even watching.

Delaney stops by between shifts, trying to cheer me up with cupcakes and cuddles, and Roxy hasn’t left my side, unless she’s working, grabbing us more snacks, or threatening to find Finlay herself and “rearrange his pretty boy face.”

But none of it helps. Because I still feel hollow. Broken.

I’ve never had the media care about me. Never had my name plastered in bold print across gossip articles or used in punchlines on social media.

“Stripper scores quarterback.” “From pole to penthouse.” “Flag on the play: Finlay fumbles with a sex worker.” There’s no end to it.

I stopped reading after the first day, but they keep showing up in my notifications, in my texts, in everything.

And even worse than all of that was how he reacted.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t upset that I was reduced to a headline, that the world saw me as something cheap and disposable. He acted like it was no big deal. Like it was inevitable.

I walked into his penthouse expecting him to be on fire with rage.

Expecting him to comfort me, hold me, tell me he had my back.

But instead, he looked tired. Apologized with a shrug.

Told me to quit as if giving up a job I fought so hard to be proud of was an easy fix.

As if hiding in his life, in his space, behind his privilege, was the solution.

And the worst part?

I wanted to lean on him. I wanted to let him carry me through it. But he didn’t reach out the way I needed him to.

He didn’t see me.

Now all I see is how fast it all came crashing down.

I press the side of my phone against my chest, tears stinging my eyes as I stare at his name on my screen again. He’s still trying with calls, texts, voicemails, but I can’t bring myself to answer. Not when the hurt still sits like a boulder on my chest.

I trusted him.

I fell for him.

Harder and faster than I thought possible. And now I feel like a damn idiot for believing that a guy like Finlay fucking Reed could ever really understand someone like me. That he could love someone like me.

Roxy walks in with a bottle of wine in one hand and a pint of ice cream in the other, eyeing me carefully.

“You look like you’re thinking about texting him again,” she says, setting them both down and plopping beside me.

“I’m not,” I lie.

“Good. Because he’s still a dick.”

I huff out a breath. “He’s not a dick, Roxy.”

“He didn’t fight for you the way you deserve, babe. I don’t care how dreamy his abs are or how good he is in bed. You were humiliated. And he made you feel like you were the problem.”

“I know,” I whisper. My voice cracks, and she wraps an arm around me.

“I saw what they’re still saying online. People suck. But you’re not what they say. And anyone who really knows you, like he should, would have shut that shit down.”

I nod against her shoulder, holding back a sob.

“I don’t know if I can forgive him,” I whisper.

“You don’t have to decide now,” she murmurs. “You just have to breathe. And stay strong. And remember who the hell you are. Nova Wilde. Dancer. Fighter. Woman with a big-ass heart who fell for the wrong guy or maybe the right guy who fucked up in all the wrong ways.”

I know she’s right, and the truth is, I’m not ready to let him go.

Not yet.

Because even through the pain, I still love him.

I’ve been doing my best not to think about him, not to think about what he’s doing, but my brain is cruel.

Because yesterday was the game. The game.

The one that could send his team to the Victory Bowl.

I try to convince myself I don’t care. That I don’t want to know. That knowing will make this harder.

But the question is there, heavy and unwanted.

I glance at Roxy, who’s scrolling through her phone on the other end of the couch, her legs pulled up under her. My voice is so small I almost don’t recognize it.

“Did they win?”

Roxy looks up immediately, her expression softening. There’s no judgment in her eyes, only understanding. She knows me too well, knows the way my heart is still tangled with his even if I wish it wasn’t.

She sets her phone down and shifts closer, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Yeah, babe,” she says gently. “They’re going to the Victory Bowl.”

My throat tightens, and I nod, but it’s an awkward movement.

I don’t know if I want to smile or cry. Pride and heartache war inside me, tearing me in two. God, I hate that part of me is happy for him. That I can picture the way his eyes light up when they win. That I can imagine him on the field, sweat dripping down his temple, grinning at his teammates.

And I hate even more that I’m not there to see it.

Roxy studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “I know you love him.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, a tear slipping free before I can stop it. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to you,” she says softly. “You wouldn’t be asking otherwise.”

I press my lips together, trying to will myself not to cry harder. But my chest aches so badly, and the truth is, I don’t even know if this is something we can come back from. I don’t know if I can forgive him for making me feel small when I needed him to make me feel safe.

Roxy pulls me into her arms, and I let her. My tears soak her hoodie, but she doesn’t care. “It’s okay to miss him,” she murmurs. “It’s okay to be hurt and proud at the same time. You just need to figure out which one’s louder.”

I nod against her shoulder, but I’m not sure I’ll ever know.

It’s been a week since Finlay got back from his game, and that was the last time he tried reaching out.

One week.

Seven days.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours of silence.

I guess getting over me is a hell of a lot easier for him than it is for me.

Or maybe he already was. Maybe I was the only one holding on while he was figuring out how to let go.

I’m back in my apartment now. Roxy has been my rock, but I’m tired of feeling like the fragile woman she needs to piece back together. I need to figure out how to glue my own cracks shut, even if it’s messy.

So, I went to work tonight.

I danced.

Not with my heart in it, not with the teasing smile that makes me good tips, but I moved to the music anyway.

I let the bass pound through my body like it could drown out the whispers.

I ignored the sly smirks, the not-so-subtle nudges between customers.

Pretended I didn’t hear them say, “Isn’t that the one who seduced Finlay Reed? ”

I came home after, stripped down, got in the shower, and stood under the spray until my skin turned pink and my fingers wrinkled. The water was scalding, but it couldn’t burn off the ache lodged inside my chest.

Now I’m curled up on my couch, hair damp and curling around my shoulders, wrapped in the oversized hoodie I stole from Roxy months ago. I’m angry. I’m sad. But there’s something else, something small but real, pride.

Because today, I took one step toward healing, and I survived.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and the screen lights up with Roxy Facetiming me. I swipe to answer, forcing a smile.

“I’m fine,” I say before she can ask.

She’s at Heaven, and I can see Delaney leaning into the frame behind her. They both look like they’re trying to read my mood, like they’re tiptoeing around something.

“Nova, you should watch something,” Delaney says, her voice careful.

“Only if you want to,” Roxy adds quickly.

A thread of confusion tightens in my gut. “What is it?”

They glance at each other, like they’re silently debating who’s going to drop the bomb. Finally, Delaney sighs. “It’s a video. It’s everywhere online.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “Yeah, I don’t think I need to see that. Reading about it was hard enough.”

“This is different,” Delaney says, her eyes soft but insistent.

Roxy nods. “Believe me, babe, you want to watch this.”

“Why?” My voice cracks, because I’m not sure I can handle another knife to the heart.

Delaney leans forward. “Because it’s Finlay.” She pauses, letting his name settle like a punch to my ribs. “And it’s not what you think. I just sent the link. Go watch it.”

Before I can protest, they hang up.

I sit there staring at my phone, my thumb hovering over the screen like touching it might burn me. Finally, I click the link. The video loads, and there he is, Finlay Reed, sitting in front of a backdrop with the team’s logo and the Victory Bowl logo splashed across it, cameras flashing all around.

My breath catches. Just seeing him again has my heart aching, my stomach knotting, and tears threatening to fall.

He’s in a team hoodie, hat pulled low, but nothing can hide the tired shadows under his eyes. He looks wrecked. Not the usual cocky, untouchable Finlay Reed the world is used to seeing.

A reporter’s voice cuts in, asking about the game, his performance, the road to the championship. He answers steady and composed, but there’s no fire in his tone. And then it happens.

Another reporter leans forward, a smirk in his voice.

"Finlay, there’s been a lot of talk about the article that came out last week. About you and a dancer from Heaven’s Edge. Care to comment? Is she your girlfriend? Was this just a fling?"

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t laugh it off like I expected. He leans toward the mic, his eyes deadly serious.

"Her name is Nova," he says, voice firm. "And if anyone in this room thinks they can talk about her like she’s some cheap headline, you can find another press conference to attend."

The room falls silent. He lets it sit there, heavy, before continuing.

"She’s not just a dancer. She’s the woman I—" he pauses, his jaw tightening, "—love. She’s smart, strong, and she’s been through hell because of the lies people spread. And if you think I’m going to sit here and let you reduce her to that trash article, you’re wrong."

The camera catches the flicker of something in his expression. Pain, regret, maybe both, and it’s like a fist around my heart.

"So yeah," he finishes, "we’re going to the Victory Bowl. But none of it means anything if it comes at the cost of her. She didn’t chase me. I chased her. She’s the love of my life and a damn talented dancer.

I’m proud to have her on my arm, but I’m not so sure she’s proud to have me anymore.

That article, all the memes, they’ve destroyed the only thing I love more than football.

So, just a heads up, if you’re thinking about printing her name again with lies attached to it, be prepared because it’s me you’ll be dealing with. "

The moderator cuts in, moving on to the next question, but I don’t hear it. My hand is covering my mouth, my chest tight. Tears are rolling down my cheeks before I even realize it.

Because for the first time since that night, I see a man who would burn down his own world if it meant defending me.

And I don’t know what to do with it.