Page 74 of Flag On The Play
I open Roxy’s first.
Babe. You need to see this.
Attached: Link to an article
FLAG ON THE PLAY: Quarterback’s New Plaything?
I tap the link. The headline hits me like a punch to the gut.
FLAG ON THE PLAY: Talented, Popular Quarterback of the New York Nighthawks Is Slumming It with a Stripper. We Call Foul.
My heart stops.
Right there, splashed across the page in bright, bold letters, and below it, a photo. Me siitting on Finlay’s lap at the club after the game. My head resting on his shoulder. His arm around me. We look happy.
And apparently, that’s unacceptable.
The words blur, but phrases stick out like poison-tipped daggers.
“He could have anyone, so why her?”
“Seduction at it’s finest .”
“It’s not love. It’s lust in the limelight.”
“Reputation suicide for a man with a clean image.”
“Nova Wilde is Lux. A stripper or a hooker?”
I can’t breathe.
My fingers tremble around the phone as shame and rage coil together in my chest. The heat rises in my face, fury burning behind my eyes.
They called me a whore.
They made me a punchline. A stain on his career.
I don’t stop to think. I don’t call Delaney or Roxy. I grab my keys and leave.
I barely remember the drive to Finlay’s penthouse. Everything is buzzing in my head like a fire alarm I can’t shut off. My emotions are pinging in every direction. Rage, humiliation, heartbreak.
By the time I’m banging on his door, I’m shaking.
He opens it fast, his face lighting up when he sees me, until he sees the storm in my eyes.
“Nova?”
I shove the phone into his chest. “Read it.”
His eyes flicker down to the screen. His jaw tightens.
He scrolls. Silent.
I wait for the anger. The disbelief. The protectiveness.
But instead, all I get is a heavy sigh.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I guess I’m just surprised it took this long.”
