Page 55 of Flag On The Play
I take her to my favorite little Italian spot. Quiet. Candlelit. The kind of place where the pasta is homemade and the wine list makes my wallet cry. But she’s worth every damn penny.
We’re led to a corner booth with dim lighting and flickering candles, tucked away from the rest of the crowd. Perfect. Or at least it would’ve been if the hostess hadn’t been undressing me with her eyes the whole walk over.
She places the menus down with a little extra sway in her hips, her voice syrupy as she tells me to enjoy the meal. Nova arches a brow, tracking every move.
In the past, I might’ve let her follow me into the bathroom.
But not anymore.
Not when the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen is already sitting across from me.
“She needs her eyes checked.”
I glance up from the menu, confused. “What?”
Nova lifts a brow and leans back, like her confidence doesn’t have sharp edges. “Clearly she didn’t see me.”
A grin stretches across my face as I reach across the table and grab her hand. “Nova Wilde, are you jealous?”
She rolls her eyes and snatches her hand back, but there’s a glint in her eyes I can’t ignore. “I don’t get jealous, QB. My job doesn’t allow for it.”
“Good,” I say, leaning closer. “Because no one else could possibly get my attention.”
She doesn’t answer, just picks up her menu with a smug little smirk, and fuck if that doesn’t do something to me. I order us a bottle of red, the same one we had that night in my penthouse that we never drank, and we settle into conversation like we’ve been doing this for years.
But I can feel it.
She’s fidgeting. Not in the obvious way. Nova doesn’t squirm. But she’s quiet. Distracted. Her shoulders are a little too tight for someone this goddamn stunning in a dress that’s supposed to be illegal in public.
I slide my hand under the table and rest it on her knee.
“You okay?”
Her whole body softens, like my touch flipped a switch. She exhales, finally meeting my eyes.
“I tend to overthink things,” she says quietly. “And I’m trying hard not to do that.”
I squeeze her knee. “You? Overthinking?”
She laughs, really laughs, and the knot in my chest loosens. That laugh could gut me. Or heal me. I’m not sure which.
We talk more while we eat. She tells me about a guy at the club who tried to tip her with Monopoly money, and I tell her about a rookie on the team who thinks TikTok dances are part of warm-ups. She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. Relaxing.
We talk. We laugh. She steals my calamari and drinks from my glass even though she has her own. Her foot brushes mine under the table, and the tension coils tight all over again.
But it’s not just physical.
It’s her laugh. Her wit. The way she looks at me like I’m more than just a guy in a jersey.
And when the dessert menu comes, I pull the little velvet box from my jacket pocket and slide it across the table.
“What’s this?”
I shrug, suddenly more nervous than I ever get before a game. “Something I saw and couldn’t stop picturing on your wrist.”
She opens the box slowly, and her mouth parts when she sees the silver charm bracelet inside. A tiny football. A little lightning bolt. A star. And one blank charm for room to grow.
“Finlay.”
