Page 9 of Flag On The Play
Telling me she didn’t want my money like it was gospel. Like she meant it with every ounce of her soul.
It stung.
Then she turned on her heel like she was walking out of a movie scene.
And fuck, she looked good doing it.
Better than I remembered.
And damn if it didn’t make me want to chase her all over again.
I watched her walking away, sharp, fierce, perfect, and I couldn’t help myself.
I called after her, wanting her to hear something real from me, anything that might break the tension between us.
Instead of just telling her it was good to see her, I had to add that last dig in. I had to take it to the next level.
Yeah. That was petty. I know it.
I just can’t help myself when it comes to her. Never could.
She flipped me off without even looking back. Cold. Unbothered. Classic Nova.
And now I’m here. Awake. Restless. Thinking about her curves, her fire, the way she looked at me like I was the scumbeneath her stilettos, and wondering why the hell I liked it so much.
Why she still gets to me.
Why I want her to.
The sun’s barely up and the field’s already buzzing.
Whistles, cleats on turf, the heavy thud of pads slamming during drills. It’s our soundtrack. A familiar rhythm. One that usually clears my head.
“Let’s go, Reed!” Coach Sterling hollers. “Snap and read!”
Robert Sterling is a legend. He’s not only played the game, but he’s also been a beloved coach who has been a mentor to so many. Myself included. He’s tough, he’s demanding, and he loves the fucking game.
I line up, fingers grazing the laces, breath steady. My eyes sweep the field. Jace “Diesel” Dalton on my left, already bouncing on his feet, cocky as hell and ready to explode. He lives for this. That adrenaline-junkie swagger is baked into every step he takes, and no one breaks through a line like he does. Pure chaos on legs.
To my right is Theo Bennett, our number one wide receiver and the most graceful son of a bitch I’ve ever seen on a football field. He doesn’t run routes, he glides through them, smooth and calculated like he’s got gravity on his side. Sleek, stylish, and way too composed for how deadly he is with the ball.
Behind me is Malik Brooks, aka Tank. Built like a brick wall and twice as hard to get past. He’s our fullback and a literal freight train when he blocks. He doesn’t just protect me, he dares defenders to try him. The man clears space like it’s his religion.
And then there’s Knox Reyes, our tight end, who’s all power and grit. He’s the guy who never takes a play off. Hands like glue, eyes like a hawk, and a loyalty that runs deeper than most blood. He’s not loud, but when he speaks, you listen. And when he hits? You feel it.
Even Calton Gray, the backup QB, is sharp as hell. Quiet, observant, always soaking everything in. The kid’s hungry. If I go down, I don’t doubt he’d step up. He’s young, but he’s not stupid. He learns fast, which means I have to keep playing faster.
The ball snaps and I grab it, dropping back three steps, feeling the pressure, and scanning the field. Theo breaks free, slant route sharp and clean. I fire.
Perfect catch. First down.
“Hell yeah!” Jace yells, slapping Theo’s helmet.
I reset. Another snap, this time a fake handoff to Diesel, who sells the run so hard the defense eats it up. Tank’s in with a crushing block, Knox breaks left, and I hit him with a bullet across the middle. He barrels through two defenders like they’re made of paper.
Play after play, it clicks.
We’re building something real here. Not just wins, but chemistry. Every guy on this field adds something. Every route, every block, every hit. It’s all part of the bigger machine. And I’m the one running it.
