Page 29 of Flag On The Play
“I’m kidding! Sorta.” She takes a sip of her own drink and sets it down. “Look, I get the whole meaningful final words from the dying guy thing, I really do. But don’t get swept up in it, Nova. Grief does weird things to people. Finlay being uncharacteristically sweet at the funeral doesn’t erase the fact that he’s a cocky ass with a hero complex.”
“I know,” I say, trying not to let on how much I wish it did mean something, show on my face. “But it did shake me.”
“Of course it did,” Delaney says gently.
“And he looked good,” I admit, groaning immediately after. “Damn it, he did. All put together in that tailored suit, quiet and strong. There was no smirk, no smartass comment. Just Finlay, raw and human.”
“Oh no,” Roxy mutters dramatically. “You’re catching feelings.”
“I am not!” I snap, a little too quickly.
“You so are,” she grins, victorious. “That’s the only explanation for why you're sitting here defendingFuneralFinlaylike he’s a Disney prince. You think his sad eyes and tragic backstory give him a redemption arc.”
“I know who he is,” I say, my voice firmer this time. “I’ve seen the smirks. The cocky comments. The stupid grin that says I know you want me, Nova. That guy? He hasn’t gone anywhere.”
“And yet…” Delaney says, raising a brow. “You still went to the funeral.”
“I didn’t go for him,” I argue, even though a tiny voice in my head whispers liar. “I went for his father because he was kind. Because he deserved someone to honor him.”
“Sure,” Roxy drawls. “And the sexy, brooding quarterback son was just a bonus.”
I toss a pillow at her, and she laughs, ducking. “I hate you both.”
“You love us,” Delaney grins.
“Fine, I tolerate you,” I mutter, taking another sip of wine. “But I’m not getting sucked into this Finlay vortex. He was grieving. People act weird when they’re sad. It doesn’t mean he’s changed.”
“Okay,” Roxy says with a shrug, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. “But just promise me if he shows up again, you won’t let his sad boy charm trick you into thinking he’s Prince Charming. He’s not.”
I nod, but the truth is, I don’t know what he is anymore.
He’s not the high school quarterback who thought the world belonged to him.
He’s not the cocky player who stormed back into my life with a cocky smirk when he saw me on stage at Heaven’s Edge.
He’s not even the smug bastard from the Backstage booth.
He’s all of those things and none of them.
And that’s the part that scares me most.
Because suddenly, I’m not sure if I want to shove him away or see what happens if I let him in.
It’s been three weeks since the funeral.
The first Sunday after, I told myself I was going to his game just to see how he'd play after such a loss. Strictly observational. No emotional investment. I expected him to fumble, literally. But instead?
He blew me away.
Not a single misstep. No sacks. No off-target throws. Just perfect passes, powerful plays, and that stupid, confident swagger he wears so well. And week after week, it’s been the same. Focused. Sharp. Dominant.
I hate admitting it, but it’s exciting to watch him play.
I hate it even more that I get a little thrill every time I see him walk into Heaven. He always shows up during my set. Never approaches me. Just watches. That smug bastard.
It’s like this silent, seductive stand-off. Equal parts irritating and addictive.
“Lux, you’re being requested to the Backstage,” Max calls out, popping his head into the dressing room.
