Page 3 of Flag On The Play (Gridiron Warriors #5)

NOVA

“ H e just handed this to you?”

Finlay. Fucking. Reed.

Of course he did. What a presumptuous asshole.

“Yep,” Candy says, calmly applying another coat of mascara like she didn’t just drop a nuclear bomb in my dressing room. “Told me to give it to you. No note. No message.”

Of course not. He thinks his money is the message.

I glance at the envelope. Two thousand dollars.

Does this prick think he’s Richard Gere and I’m Julia Roberts ? Does he think I’m going to wait for him to come riding up in a limo and make all my dreams come true? Does he really think I’m going to be grateful for this? That I’d feel anything other than insulted and cheap, like a hooker.

Granted, I’d have to fuck him for it to technically qualify as hooking but that’s not the goddamn point.

The point is, he still thinks he’s better than me.

And I’ve had enough of that to last a lifetime.

“I don’t need or want his money,” I mutter.

Candy looks over at me through the mirror with a soft smile. “Kinda sweet he did that, don’t you think?”

I swing my eyes to her like she just suggested I marry him.

“Sweet? Candy, no. That man is anything but sweet. Condescending. Arrogant. Cocky. Self-righteous. Pig-headed. All better words to describe Finlay Reed.”

I slap the envelope down on the vanity and start changing out of my club clothes. I came in for an hour today because they were short a girl. I normally don’t work the early afternoon shifts. Not enough crowd or money.

“He did this because he wants to prove something. Like, look at me, big shot quarterback handing out pity cash to the poor stripper. Like I need saving. Like I’m some damsel in distress who needs his hero complex.” I scoff. “I’d rather ride a rubber dick in Times Square than take a dime from him.”

Candy’s eyes go wide, but she’s trying not to laugh.

I’m yelling now. I don’t even care. Because that’s what Finlay does to me. He gets under my skin and lights a match. He’s been doing it since I was seventeen. And even after all these years, he still knows how to piss me off like no one else on the planet.

“Okay, so what’s the story with him?” Candy asks, twisting the cap back on her mascara. “There’s obviously some unresolved sexual tension or a torrid love affair.”

A dry, humorless laugh escapes me as I yank my sweatshirt over my head.

“No torrid love affair. We went to high school together. He asked me out once, and I turned him down. You would’ve thought I punched his grandma.

The guy acted like I committed a crime against humanity.

Couldn’t handle the fact that someone said no to him.

I wasn’t interested then, and I’m sure as hell not interested now. ”

I grab the envelope, shove it into my purse, and sling it over my shoulder.

“Thanks for giving it to me, and good luck tonight.”

Candy grins. “You’re lucky to have the night off.”

She gives me that mischievous glint in her eye. “So, are you going to keep the money?”

I smirk and pull her into a quick hug. “Hell no. I’ll be returning to sender.”

I storm out of Heaven’s Edge, the cold air smacking me in the face like a slap from reality. My blood is still boiling as I head toward my car. Before I even slide behind the wheel, I pull out my phone and call the only person who can help me properly channel this rage.

Roxy.

She’s a bartender at Heaven’s Edge, a tattoo artist-in-training, and the best bad decision I’ve ever made in the form of a best friend.

The line clicks, and her groggy voice answers, “This better be good so early.”

“It’s good,” I bite out. “I’m on my way over. You’re not going to believe what happened.”

“It’s only noon, Nova. What could you have possibly done before coffee?”

“Be there in five.”

When I pull up, I don’t bother knocking. Roxy and I stopped that whole polite friend routine months ago. We’re walk-right-in close. Bleed-on-my-floor close.

“Roxy?”

She steps out of her bedroom, all wild hair and flawless eyeliner. Always looks like she’s either going to seduce someone or destroy their life, probably both.

“What the hell is going on?” she asks, noticing the fire in my eyes.

I toss the envelope on the coffee table and cross my arms.

“Remember that guy from high school? The one I told you about when we were trashed last month?”

She narrows her eyes, piecing it together. “Quarterback. Nighthawks. Finlay Reed?”

“Bingo.”

I pace the living room, full of restless energy. “He came into Heaven’s Edge last night. Sat in the crowd. Watched me dance. Then gave Candy an envelope full of cash to pass along to me.”

Roxy snatches it off the table and peeks inside. Her brows shoot up. “There’s at least two grand in here. Why?”

“Because he’s a self-righteous dickbag,” I snap. “This is his version of closure or redemption or some twisted power move. ‘Here, poor Nova, take my guilt money and go buy yourself some respectability.’ Like fuck off, Finlay.”

Roxy smirks, tossing the envelope down again. “What a cocky prick. You should light it on fire and throw it at him. See how good the golden boy can really catch.”

I bark out a laugh, for the first time feeling like I’m not spiraling.

“That’s actually not a terrible idea. But I’d prefer to avoid jail, so I’m going to toss it at him figuratively instead.”

She walks into the kitchen, hitting the coffee maker like it owes her money. “Suit yourself. But just so you know, if it ends in arson, I’ll testify you were provoked.”

I grin, grabbing a mug for myself. “I appreciate your loyalty.”

She leans against the counter, sipping slowly. “So, what’s the plan?”

“I’m going to his game tomorrow.”

She arches a brow. “To return the money?”

“To throw it in his smug, perfect face.”

I’ve never been to a football game before. Never had a reason to.

But standing here now, walking through the gates of Empire Stadium with a ticket I bought solely to tell off a man who thinks he’s better than me, I’m not going to lie. It’s impressive.

Massive. Loud. Alive.

Fans in jerseys pour through the entrance, faces painted, beers in hand, shouting about plays and players and rival teams like they’re part of some sacred religion.

The energy is thick, buzzing, electric. I don’t know what I expected, maybe sweaty dudes and overdone hot dogs? This feels like another world.

And then I see it.

A mural the size of my car stretches across one of the interior walls. Finlay Reed. Mid-throw. Fierce eyes. Determined jaw. That same cocky smirk just barely tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Jesus,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

Of course, the golden boy has a fucking monument. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a damn statue somewhere.

Still, I make my way to my seat, lower level, just off the fifty-yard line. A perk of buying a last-minute ticket from someone desperate to offload it. I sit down, arms folded tightly, eyes scanning the field like I’m not here just to throw money at a quarterback’s face.

Then he walks onto the field.

Helmet tucked under one arm. Eyes laser-focused. Broad shoulders, chest out like he’s ready for battle. The crowd loses their minds as he jogs toward the sideline, and even from here, I can see the way the team falls in behind him.

He’s different out here.

All that cockiness is still there, sure, but now it’s wrapped in control, leadership, command. He doesn’t just play the game. He runs it. He calls plays, redirects guys mid-motion, shouts over the roar of the crowd without blinking. And when the ball leaves his hand?

Perfect spiral. Straight into the receiver’s chest. Every time.

Damn it.

He’s good.

I hate that I notice. Hate that for a while, I stop thinking about why I’m here and just watch. The game pulls me in. He pulls me in. I find myself holding my breath during a long throw, my heart actually pounding when he rushes for a first down.

It's impressive.

It’s infuriating.

By the time the final whistle blows and the crowd roars again, I almost forget why I came.

But, as Finlay and the players run off the field, I see his smug smile and quickly remember why.

I follow the crowd out of the stadium and lean against the building to wait.

Outside the stadium, the night air is cool, and my nerves start creeping in. I shift from one foot to the other, arms crossed tight again, the envelope like a brick in my purse.

He's probably got a dozen secret exits. He’s probably already gone. Maybe this is stupid.

I check my phone, thinking about just going home.

Then the door opens.

And there he is.

Fresh out of the locker room, damp hair, warm-up hoodie clinging to his chest, duffle bag slung over one shoulder like a damn Nike ad come to life.

He doesn’t see me right away, but when I step forward, he stops.

A slow, knowing smile spreads across his stupidly gorgeous face.

“ Lux ,” he says smoothly.

“Only in Heaven.” I slap the envelope against his chest, hard enough that it makes a sound.

“I don’t need or want your fucking money.”

He catches it before it falls, fingers closing around the envelope as I turn to leave. I don’t look back. I don’t give him the satisfaction.

But of course, he can’t let it end there.

“Nova,” he calls after me, his voice smooth and irritatingly familiar. “It was good to see you.”

I almost stop, but then he continues.

“Although I didn’t think I’d see quite so much.”

My entire body tenses with rage. I raise one hand in the air, middle finger extended proudly as I keep walking.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back. He doesn’t deserve it.

And he sure as hell doesn’t deserve to see the way my hands are shaking.