Page 7 of Flag On The Play
“That’s actually not a terrible idea. But I’d prefer to avoid jail, so I’m going to toss it at him figuratively instead.”
She walks into the kitchen, hitting the coffee maker like it owes her money. “Suit yourself. But just so you know, if it ends in arson, I’ll testify you were provoked.”
I grin, grabbing a mug for myself. “I appreciate your loyalty.”
She leans against the counter, sipping slowly. “So, what’s the plan?”
“I’m going to his game tomorrow.”
She arches a brow. “To return the money?”
“To throw it in his smug, perfect face.”
I’ve never been to a football game before. Never had a reason to.
But standing here now, walking through the gates of Empire Stadium with a ticket I bought solely to tell off a man who thinks he’s better than me, I’m not going to lie. It’s impressive.
Massive. Loud. Alive.
Fans in jerseys pour through the entrance, faces painted, beers in hand, shouting about plays and players and rival teams like they’re part of some sacred religion. The energy is thick, buzzing, electric. I don’t know what I expected, maybe sweaty dudes and overdone hot dogs? This feels like another world.
And then I see it.
A mural the size of my car stretches across one of the interior walls. Finlay Reed. Mid-throw. Fierce eyes. Determined jaw. That same cocky smirk just barely tugging at the edge of his mouth.
“Jesus,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.
Of course, the golden boy has a fucking monument. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a damn statue somewhere.
Still, I make my way to my seat, lower level, just off the fifty-yard line. A perk of buying a last-minute ticket from someone desperate to offload it. I sit down, arms folded tightly, eyes scanning the field like I’m not here just to throw money at a quarterback’s face.
Then he walks onto the field.
Helmet tucked under one arm. Eyes laser-focused. Broad shoulders, chest out like he’s ready for battle. The crowd loses their minds as he jogs toward the sideline, and even from here, I can see the way the team falls in behind him.
He’s different out here.
All that cockiness is still there, sure, but now it’s wrapped in control, leadership, command. He doesn’t just play the game. He runs it. He calls plays, redirects guys mid-motion, shouts over the roar of the crowd without blinking. And when the ball leaves his hand?
Perfect spiral. Straight into the receiver’s chest. Every time.
Damn it.
He’s good.
I hate that I notice. Hate that for a while, I stop thinking about why I’m here and just watch. The game pulls me in. He pulls me in. I find myself holding my breath during a long throw, my heart actually pounding when he rushes for a first down.
It's impressive.
It’s infuriating.
By the time the final whistle blows and the crowd roars again, I almost forget why I came.
But, as Finlay and the players run off the field, I see his smug smile and quickly remember why.
I follow the crowd out of the stadium and lean against the building to wait.
Outside the stadium, the night air is cool, and my nerves start creeping in. I shift from one foot to the other, arms crossed tight again, the envelope like a brick in my purse.
