Page 6 of Flag On The Play (Gridiron Warriors #5)

FINLAY

I t’s game day. The stadium is vibrating with noise, fans roaring from every level of the stands, and the pounding bass of “I’m a Beast” by T. Powell echoes through Empire Stadium like a battle cry.

We’re all pumped, all laser-focused. My heart is pounding so hard I feel it in my fingertips. Nothing else matters in these moments. Not the press. Not the noise. Not even her.

This is about the team. The win. The pride.

Coach paces in front of us like a general before war, his voice sharp and commanding. “No fuck-ups tonight! Last season, we lost to the Portland Settlers. That will not happen again. You hear me?”

“We hear you, Coach!” Jace yells, already bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s got his game face on, cocky as hell, just the way we need him. Tank lets out a growl beside him, and Knox pounds his chest with that unshakable calm that always unnerves opponents.

I roll my neck slowly, stretching out the tension, centering my focus.

“You ready?” Theo asks, slapping my shoulder pads with a grin that says he’s already mentally dancing in the end zone.

“Always,” I tell him.

We line up in the tunnel, waiting. The lights dim, and the intro hits, the moment every athlete lives for. The anticipation. The adrenaline. The undeniable rush of knowing you're about to step into battle in front of tens of thousands of screaming fans.

This is the high. The purest, cleanest drug I’ve ever tasted.

And then we run.

Bursts of smoke shoot up around us, lights flash, and the crowd explodes as we burst onto the field like lightning.

My cleats dig into the turf, and the energy hits me like a damn freight train.

I look up at the massive banner draped across the stands that reads, Protect the Empire , and I swear I feel that empire in my bones.

The first snap comes quick. The Settlers’ defense is good, tight coverage, fast reads, but I’m sharper. My first throw hits Theo mid-stride, and he rockets down the field for a gain of fifteen. The crowd erupts. We’re rolling.

Each throw is fluid, calculated, and perfect. The ball leaves my hand and lands exactly where I want it. Over the shoulder, low in the pocket, across the middle where only my guy can catch it. I’m not just playing the game. I am the game tonight.

We score the first touchdown on a quick handoff to Knox, who barrels through a defender like he’s made of concrete. The crowd goes wild. I lift my arms to the sky, heart pounding like a war drum.

Every touchdown is another boost to my pride. Another notch in my confidence. Another reminder to every damn person watching, especially her, that I’m not just the high school quarterback she shut down.

I’m Finlay Reed, and I own this field.

By halftime, we’re up by ten. Sweat’s dripping down my back, and my lungs are working overtime, but I feel unstoppable. Like every decision I make tonight is the right one. Like every throw is laced with precision and power.

We come out of halftime with fire in our veins. The Settlers are down, and they are coming out determined. They know we’ve got the momentum, and they’re scrambling to steal it back.

I line up behind center, eyes scanning the defense, reading their setup.

I grab the snap and drop back, ready to launch the ball downfield, and that’s when I see Nova.

In the third row, just past the 40-yard line. Hair pulled back, face flushed from yelling, body angled forward like she’s in this with us. With me .

My brain stutters.

What the hell is she doing here?

She told me to stop showing up at Heaven like I was trespassing in her world, but now she’s in mine.

That hesitation, that half-second pause, is all it takes.

The Settlers’ linebacker barrels through my right side, and I don’t even have time to dodge.

I hit the turf hard, shoulder first, breath knocked straight from my lungs. The crowd gasps, then quiets. My helmet scrapes the ground, and I grit my teeth, not in pain, but embarrassment. That sack was on me.

I let her get in my head.

Jace reaches down and yanks me up. “The hell was that, QB?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, brushing turf off my gloves. “Let’s go again.”

No more distractions. No more stolen glances.

The next drive is textbook. I hit Theo deep for a gain of thirty. Knox bulldozes through two defenders for a first down. Tank takes a screen pass and drags three guys into the red zone.

I finish it off with a perfect pass to Jace in the corner of the end zone.

Touchdown.

The roar is deafening. Empire Stadium explodes. I pump my fist in the air and let the adrenaline wash over me. This is what I live for.

As the clock winds down and victory is sealed, I take a breath. The kind that settles in your chest like satisfaction and sparks.

I look up again.

She’s still there.

And this time, I really see her.

Nova’s on her feet, arms raised, jumping up and down like she actually gives a damn. Her smile is wide, lit with excitement, and for a second, just a split moment, it almost looks like pride in her eyes.

My pulse spikes again, but this time it’s not from the game.

What the hell is she doing to me?

She’s confusing. Complicated. Sharp as hell and twice as dangerous.

She tells me not to come to her club, but shows up to watch me win.

She's tempting in a way that feels like a challenge. And I’ve never been one to back down.

On Friday night, yeah, I’ll be at Heaven’s Edge.

But this time, I’m not showing up for the show.

This time, I’m asking for a VIP.

Because Nova Wilde makes me want to know how far it can go before she throws a flag on the play.

Friday night seems to take forever to get here.

Practice. Scrimmages. Film study. Meetings. Ice baths. Repeat. There's not a lot of free time during the season, but every second that is free this week has been leading to one thing.

Tonight.

I turned down Theo’s invite to the bar. Declined Knox’s rooftop party. Told Jace I had other plans.

Because I do.

I'm going to Heaven.

And I’m requesting Lux for The Backstage.

Yeah, she’s going to be pissed. Probably so pissed she’ll throw something at me. She might even threaten bodily harm. But this time, she can’t just walk away or slap money against my chest and disappear into the crowd.

Tonight, she’s going to face me.

And once I’ve paid for time in The Backstage? There’s not much she can do about it.

Well, okay, she could scream for security. Or kick me in the balls.

But I don’t think she will.

Not after the way she looked at me last Sunday.

That wasn’t hate in her eyes. That wasn’t disgust.

That was excitement. That was pride.

And I want to know what the hell it means.

I step into Heaven’s Edge, the bass thumping through the floor like a second heartbeat. Neon lights flicker and dancers move like they own the room. It smells like perfume, whiskey, and temptation.

Max, the manager, spots me right away. Big guy in a tight shirt with a Bluetooth earpiece and the kind of permanent scowl that screams “I’m not fucking around.” He raises a brow and makes his way over.

“Well, well. The golden boy returns.” He crosses his arms. “Didn’t think we’d see you back so soon.”

“I like to keep people on their toes,” I say, handing him a thick stack of cash. “I want time in The Backstage. One-on-one.”

His expression doesn’t change. “You got a girl in mind?”

“Lux.”

His lips twitch. “You requesting her, or hoping she’s in the mood?”

“Requesting,” I reply. “And paying enough to make sure she shows.”

Max chuckles, tucking the money away. “You’re brave, Reed. Or stupid. That one’s a firecracker.”

I flash a grin. “I play with fire every Sunday.”

He smirks and jerks his chin toward the back hallway. “Room three. She’ll be with you in ten.”

The Backstage is dark, lit by sultry reds and shadows, designed to make anyone feel like they’re about to commit a sin.

I enter room three and sit on the velvet couch, legs spread wide, relaxed on the outside, but inside, I’m wired like I’m waiting for a snap.

The door finally opens.

And there she is.

Wrapped in black lace and confidence, every curve of her body perfectly framed. She walks in slow, measured, like a lioness entering a cage she owns. Her eyes land on me, and for a heartbeat, they widen. Then narrow.

“Well,” she says, voice like honey and gasoline. “Guess I should’ve known you’d be the kind of guy who doesn’t take a hint.”

I grin, tilting my head. “You never struck me as someone who gives them clearly.”

She crosses her arms. “Let me guess, big win last weekend, and now you’re out celebrating by irritating me?”

I shrug. “I prefer to call it reconnecting.”

“You call this reconnecting?” she asks, stepping closer. “Trapping me in a room with you after requesting me like I’m an order of wings at a bar?”

“You’re not wings,” I say, eyes trailing her body. “You’re the whole damn main course.”

She sneers, shaking her head. “God, you’re still full of it.”

“And you’re still pretending you don’t like it.”

Her jaw tightens, but I see the twitch at the corner of her mouth. The part of her that wants to laugh. The part that doesn’t want to admit she’s enjoying this.

“I could walk out,” she says coolly.

“You could,” I say, leaning forward. “But you won’t.”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Electric.

She takes a breath, steadying herself.

“Fine,” she says. “You want a dance? You’ll get one. But fair warning, quarterback. I’m not the same girl who walked past you in high school like you didn’t exist.”

“And I’m not the same guy who let that girl get under his skin,” I lie.

Because she’s definitely still under it.