Page 22 of Flag On The Play
I roll my eyes so hard it reminds me how drunk I really am. “Please stop.”
“Come on,” he says, tone suddenly softer. “Just one dance. I won’t even touch you.”
That makes me laugh. Maybe it’s the tequila, or maybe it’s the pure absurdity of this night. Either way, I stand. “Alright, QB. One dance. You keep your hands to yourself, though, or I’ll make good on that throat punch.”
He raises both hands like he’s at gunpoint. “Scout’s honor.”
We move onto the dance floor, and the beat hits hard and fast. It doesn’t take long before we’re moving together. Our bodies in sync like they’ve done this a hundred times.
He watches me dance for a moment, heat in his eyes, jaw tight like he’s clenching every dirty thought behind his teeth.
“Fuck it,” I say, grabbing his hands and placing them on my hips. “You can touch me, but only while we dance.”
That’s all the permission he needs.
His fingers grip tighter, and the way he pulls me against him sends a jolt through my stomach. We move together like the tension between us is driving it. Grinding, teasing, daring. His hands never stray, but it’s enough to make my blood boil and my thighs tighten.
Then the song shifts.
A slower beat. A deeper rhythm. A song made for danger and closeness and feelings I’m not ready to name.
He doesn’t even ask, just slides his hand around my waist and pulls me in. Close enough to feel every inch of him. Close enough that my heart starts beating in time with his.
“Will I see you in the stands tomorrow?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
I swallow. “I don’t know, QB. Do you want to see me?”
His eyes meet mine. Serious. Intense. “More than I should.”
Shit.
I lean back just enough to breathe. Because this is getting too real. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. This was supposed to be a laugh, a taunt, a power move.
But I can feel something shifting in my chest, and that scares the shit out of me.
I can’t go to the game tomorrow.
Not if he’s hoping for it.
Not if I’m wanting it.
CHAPTER 8
FINLAY
She 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.
