Page 8 of Flag On The Play (Gridiron Warriors #5)

FINLAY

S he didn’t come.

I can’t believe she didn’t fucking come.

We’re sitting on a win. A big one. The guys are pumped, Coach is grinning ear to ear, and reporters are lined up, waiting to shove microphones in my face. I should be on cloud nine, throwing on a fresh shirt and heading to the tunnel with the rest of them. I should be proud. Focused.

But I’m not.

I’m sitting on a bench in the locker room with my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor like it holds answers to questions I shouldn’t even be asking.

Why didn’t she come?

“Great game, Reed,” Knox says, slapping my shoulder as he walks by, towel around his neck.

“You too, man,” I reply, even though the words feel hollow.

“Finlay! Let’s go!” Jace calls, dragging a shirt over his head as he jogs past. His energy is high, as always, buzzing from the win.

I glance up, brow furrowing. “Go where?”

He laughs, dropping onto the bench to tie his sneakers. “Roxy’s working at Heaven’s Edge tonight, and Delaney’s meeting us there. Theo’s already in the damn car.”

I blink. “Seriously? You guys are hanging out with Nova’s friends? At the club?”

Am I pissed? Maybe.

Jealous? Absolutely.

It’s one thing to keep running into her by accident. But now my friends are actively hanging around her inner circle? That feels like a new level of mind-fuck.

Nova’s pressing every damn button I have, and now I have to worry about Jace getting handsy with Roxy while Theo sweet-talks Delaney?

No. Fuck that.

“You guys go,” I mutter. “I’ve got shit to do.”

Jace shoots me a look. “Come on, man. You and Nova looked real close last night.”

Yeah. I thought so too.

I felt it. The way her body moved with mine. How she let me touch her. How her breathing hitched when my hand slid down her waist. The way her eyes locked on mine and held, like maybe, she was feeling the same pull I was.

But I guess the ice queen still reigns.

“Nah,” I say, grabbing my hoodie. “That was nothing. Just a lap dance. You know how it is.”

Jace is standing now, arms crossed. “You sure? Looked like something.”

“Go have fun,” I mutter. “I’ll see you both at practice.”

I don’t wait for more questions. I toss my gear into my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and walk out.

Because if I don’t, I’ll cave. I’ll end up right back at Heaven like some obsessed asshole, hoping for a glimpse of the girl who couldn’t even bother to show up today.

The drive home is a blur. By the time I step into my penthouse, the weight in my chest hasn’t lifted. I drop my bag by the door and walk straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city glows beneath me. Bright, buzzing, alive. But from up here, it looks small. Tame. Quiet.

I used to love that. The sense of control. The peace.

Tonight, I feel none of it.

I head into the kitchen, grab a bottle of water, and sink into the leather couch without even turning on the TV. The screen stares back at me like a reflection of everything I’ve been trying to avoid.

Eight goddamn years. Eight years of living in the same city, never crossing paths with Nova. And now she’s everywhere. In my head. Under my skin. Driving me absolutely insane.

I should let her go. Let the memories die and move the fuck on. But I can’t.

Because it’s not just about the past, it’s not just that high school rejection or the shit I said after. It’s her. It’s always been her.

Her fire. Her mouth. That impossible attitude.

And yeah, her body. Her confidence. The way she walks like the world owes her something and she’s gonna take it.

I’ve had women. Plenty. But I don’t remember them. I don’t dream about them. I sure as hell don’t feel like my world tilts when they walk into a room.

Only Nova has that power.

And I hate it.

My phone rings. I grab it, more than happy for the distraction.

“Hello?”

“Finlay, it’s Mom.”

The name hits me in the chest like a freight train. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

We haven’t spoken in years. Not since I told them I was going pro instead of going pre-med. They didn’t understand. Especially not my dad. Football was a waste of a brilliant mind, he said. We’d barely exchanged two words since.

So a phone call now? Can’t be good.

“Your father died,” she says. Her voice breaks. “Cancer. He’s been sick for the last two years.”

The world stops.

And yet I’m not surprised. I knew that’s what she was going to say.

“Shit, Mom. I’m sorry.”

I close my eyes and press the heel of my hand to them, trying to push back the pressure building there.

“No, Finlay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry it took something this horrible for me to call. We’ve wasted too much time. Time we won’t get back. Please, come home. Be with the family.”

“When?”

“Now.”

I’m already moving. Heading toward my bedroom as I say, “I’ll be there soon.”

We hang up, and a tear slides down my cheek before I can stop it. I swipe it away and start throwing clothes into a bag.

She’s right. Time has been wasted. And now it’s too fucking late to make it right.

I call Coach and let him know I’m leaving for a few days. I’ll be back for Sunday’s game, but right now, I have to go home. To the house I haven’t seen since freshman year of college. To the memories I left behind.

I shoot a quick text to Jace and Theo.

Me: Hey, heading out of town. My dad passed. I’ll be back by Sunday.

I’m about to toss my phone in my duffel when it buzzes again.

Unknown: I’m so sorry, Finlay. Your dad was amazing.

I stare at the message.

Me: Who’s this?

No reply.

No name. No clue.

But something tells me I already know who it is.

And somehow, that hurts even more.

The drive feels longer than it is.

Every stretch of highway, every faded sign, every familiar exit brings with it a rush of memories I haven’t let myself think about in years. Not because they hurt, though they do, but because they belong to a part of me I locked away the moment I chose football over family.

When I pull up in front of the house, it’s like time hasn’t moved.

Same white shutters. Same cracked driveway. Same wind chimes Mom swore would bring good energy, even though they drove Dad insane. He never took them down.

I park and just sit there for a minute, hands gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing holding me together.

Then I get out.

The front door opens before I reach it. My mom stands in the doorway, small and tired, but still strong.

Her hair’s gone gray at the roots, and the laugh lines around her mouth are deeper, but she’s still the woman who used to kiss my forehead before every game in high school, no matter how much I rolled my eyes.

“Hi, Mom.”

She doesn’t speak. Just opens her arms and pulls me in like I’m still her little boy coming home after practice.

And I let her.

I let the grief come. Let the weight of eight years fall between us as we hold each other on the front porch like we’re the only two people in the world.

“I missed you,” she whispers, her voice trembling.

“I missed you too,” I say, and this time, I mean it with everything I have.

Inside, the house smells like lemon polish and old books. The furniture hasn’t changed. The photos still line the hallway. Me in my youth football jersey, my parents at some banquet, a framed college acceptance letter my dad was proud of before I tore that dream away.

There’s even a picture of me in my rookie year, buried beneath a stack of mail.

Mom makes tea like it’s a routine. I sit at the kitchen table, elbows on the scratched wood, staring out the window at the backyard I used to throw passes in with my dad.

He was a hard man. Tough love, little praise. But he was present. Always.

He watched every game, even when we were fighting. Even when we hadn’t spoken in months. I know he watched.

“Was he in pain?” I ask as my mom sets a mug in front of me.

She nods, taking the seat across from me. “Not at first. But the last few weeks were rough.”

I stare down into the tea I’m not going to drink.

“I should’ve come sooner.”

“We should’ve called you sooner. He wanted to, you know. I think he didn’t know how.”

We sit in silence for a while, as I watch her sipping tea and not saying all the things we probably should’ve said years ago.

Then I finally ask the question that’s been buzzing in the back of my mind since I got that text.

“Did anyone reach out to you? About him?”

“You mean Nova?”

I look up sharply. “It was her.”

Mom gives me a sad little smile. “She came by when your dad was first diagnosed. Said she’d heard from someone at the clinic. They were our neighbors once, remember? Her mom used to bring over those ridiculous cupcakes.”

“Yeah,” I say, the memory tugging something loose in my chest. “With the neon frosting.”

“She left a card for your dad. He kept it in his desk drawer. Wouldn’t let me throw it out.”

Something squeezes my heart tight. “Did he ever talk about her?”

Mom shrugs, but her eyes are soft. “He asked about her once. Said you were different after she turned you down. Said he’d never seen you take a loss that hard.”

I huff out a bitter laugh. “I was a cocky asshole back then.”

“You were seventeen. And you were in love, even if you didn’t know it.”

I look away, swallowing hard. “She hates me now.”

“Maybe. But hate’s not the opposite of love, Finlay. Indifference is. And from what I saw when she came by? She’s not indifferent.”

I sit back in my chair, heart pounding harder than it did after tonight’s win. My mind keeps replaying that lap dance. The club. Her face in the crowd. Her smile. Her anger. The pride that flickered in her eyes after the game. The kiss that almost happened but didn’t.

And now this.

She visited my dad.

She didn’t have to, but she did.

“I don’t know what to do with her,” I finally say, voice low. “She makes me crazy.”

Mom smirks. “Then maybe she’s the only one who can make you sane.”

I don’t sleep much that night. My old bedroom is too quiet. The shadows feel heavier. My mind won’t shut off.

But when I close my eyes, I see her.

Still the girl I can’t stop chasing.

The church is quiet.

Too quiet for how loud my mind is.

I sit in the front pew, stiff in a black suit that feels more like armor than clothing. The scent of lilies is too strong. The organ plays some soft, somber hymn that doesn’t touch me the way it probably should.

The casket is closed. That was my mom’s decision.

“He wouldn’t want people remembering him like that,” she said.

The place is full. Neighbors, extended family, doctors my dad used to work with. A few coaches from my high school days. And behind me, I can feel the presence of my team.

Jace, Theo, Knox, and Tank are here, sitting in a row like we’re lining up for the national anthem. Calton came, too. Even Coach is here, stoic in a dark gray suit, arms crossed over his chest like this is another fourth-quarter stand.

It’s weird having them here. These guys have been to a hundred games with me. Fought beside me on the field. Bled with me in practice. But this is different.

This is real life.

This is the final whistle.

When the pastor steps up and begins the service, his voice is gentle. Warm. He speaks about my dad like he really knew him, and maybe he did. But I only hear pieces of it.

All I can think is I didn’t get to say goodbye.

I never got the final conversation.

The apology.

The peace.

And now I never will.

When they ask if anyone wants to come up and speak, I don’t move at first. I can feel my teammates’ eyes on me, waiting. My mom’s hand squeezes mine.

“Only if you want to,” she whispers.

So I stand and I walk up to the podium with legs that feel like they’re made of stone.

I clear my throat and stare out at the crowd. The words don’t come right away.

“I wasn’t here,” I start. “When he got sick. When it got bad. I wasn’t here.”

My voice cracks a little, but I power through it.

“My dad wanted me to be a doctor. I wanted to be a quarterback. That disagreement cost us years. Too many. But he was the kind of man who showed up for you even when he was mad at you. He’d record every game, cut clips, talk to me about critiques even if I didn’t want to hear it.”

A few people chuckle softly.

I look down, jaw tightening. “He was tough. He didn’t give compliments easily. But he was proud of me. I know that now. And I hope, wherever he is, he knows I’m proud of him, too.”

I walk off before I break. My mom’s crying silently. Jace gives me a subtle nod.

I go to sit down and try to breathe, and that’s when I see her.

She’s standing in the back, dressed in black, hair down, minimal makeup, holding a small bouquet of white roses in her hand. Her eyes find mine instantly, and for a second, the entire room fades out.

I didn’t tell her. She didn’t ask.

But she’s here anyway.

And something about that makes me feel like I can finally take a real breath.

After the service, I shake hands. Hug a few people. My teammates give me space, but they don’t leave. Knox claps a hand on my shoulder. Tank offers a quiet, “Sorry, man.” Coach gives me one of those stiff, awkward hugs that somehow mean more than words.

I glance back toward the door, wondering if she left.

She didn’t.

Nova’s still here, standing off to the side, quietly waiting while the crowd trickles out. My mom sees her and walks over, giving her a soft smile, a hug, and a whispered thank you.

Her eyes stay locked on me as I walk toward her.

“Didn’t expect to see you,” I say, stopping in front of her.

“I wasn’t sure I should come,” she replies, voice quiet, a little unsure.

“But you did.”

“I wanted to pay my respects. He was a good man.”

I nod. “He remembered you, you know. My mom told me. Said he kept a card you gave him.”

Something flickers in her expression, maybe pain. Maybe regret.

“You okay?” she asks.

I laugh without humor. “Not even a little.”

She steps closer, like instinct is pulling her forward.

“I’m sorry, Finlay.”

The way she says my name, soft, sincere, and free of sarcasm, nearly undoes me. I haven’t heard it like that in a long time. Maybe ever.

“Thanks for coming,” I murmur.

“I won’t stay long,” she says, glancing around like she’s worried about overstepping. “I just wanted you to know I was thinking of you.”

I look at her. I really look.

And even though this day is heavy with grief and what-ifs and lost time, there’s something about seeing her here, uninvited but somehow exactly where I need her, that anchors me.

“Hey, Nova?”

“Yeah?”

I hesitate.

“Stay. Just a little longer.”

Her lips press into a thin line, like she’s debating it. But then she nods.

“Okay.”

And somehow in the middle of death, regret, and heartache, I feel something shift.

Like maybe this isn’t an ending.

Maybe it’s the start of something I didn’t know I still had hope for.