Page 77 of Flag On The Play
Perfect spiral.
Jace catches it on the run and dives over the goal line just before the clock hits zero.
Touchdown.
The crowd goes insane.
We’re going to the Victory Bowl. I should be elated.
But I feel nothing.
I jog off the field, stone-faced as my teammates try to celebrate. Someone smacks my helmet, someone else yells my name.
The coach is on me the second I hit the tunnel.
“Reed! What the hell was that out there? That first half was an embarrassment. You want to tell me what’s going on in that thick head of yours because we’re going to the Victory Bowl and I need to make sure you aren’t going to fuck that up.”
I open my mouth. Close it and shake my head.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He scoffs. “Like hell you are, but you better get fine because I won’t be embarrassed again.”
In the locker room, the guys start crowding me.
“You okay, man?”
“Your head ain’t in the game.”
“Is this about that Nova?”
My blood runs cold.
Someone pulls out their phone to show an article, a meme, a headline that stabs like a knife.
I rip the towel off my shoulder and chuck it into his locker.
“Drop it,” I growl, voice low and lethal.
But they don’t. They never do.
The press is already outside the doors, shouting my name.
“Finlay! Can we ask you about the stripper?”
“Do you think the distraction affected your game?”
I shove through the tunnel, past security, through the media, and straight into the parking garage, not stopping until I’m climbing on the bus.
My hands tremble as I sit on the couch, and I slam it once, twice.
I could’ve fought harder. I should’ve fought harder.
I didn’t just lose my head during the game.
I might have just lost the girl I never wanted to live without.
New York feels different now.
