Playing The Field (The Toronto Tigers #1)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Graham

M id-February and the view from my penthouse is nothing short of cinematic. Toronto sprawls out below, blanketed in snow, the streets glimmering under the streetlights. I sip my scotch, its warmth contrasting the frigid air outside, but it does nothing to dull the memory that has been replaying in my head for weeks.

The woman I met in Cape Town and haven’t been able to forget since.

I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, staring at it like it holds the answers. “You’re quiet tonight,” my dad says, his fork scraping against the plate. He’s seated across from me at the dining table, the weight of his gaze heavy.

“Just thinking,” I say casually, though casual hasn’t been my strong suit lately.

“About your latest acquisition?” he asks, raising a skeptical brow. “A rugby team, Graham? I know you’re still grieving your mom’s death, but a fucking rugby team? What the fuck do you know about rugby?”

For all his talk about public image, behind closed doors, Dad swears like a sailor. It amuses me to no end.

The corner of my mouth lifts. “Not much,” I admit, setting my glass down. “But I figured, why not? I was bored, and the opportunity presented itself.”

Dad leans back in his chair, incredulous. “You’re bored, so you buy a rugby team? That’s your answer?”

“It’s better than a midlife crisis Porsche,” I deadpan, earning a snort from him.

He waves his fork in my direction. “That’s not saying much. A rugby team, Graham. Do you even know what a ruck is?”

“I’m assuming it’s not a typo of ‘ruckus,’ but beyond that, no clue.”

Dad groans, shaking his head. “You don’t just throw money at something because you’re bored.”

“Sure you do,” I counter, smirking. “That’s the whole point of having money.”

His blue eyes narrow, the same shade as mine but twice as piercing. “This isn’t like one of your tech startups. You can’t just sell it off when you lose interest.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad,” I say, my tone lighter than I feel. “I’ll figure it out.”

He sighs, running a hand through his silver hair. “You better. Because this isn’t just about you anymore. This is about a city, a fan base, a legacy.”

I raise my glass in a mock salute. “To legacies, then.”

But as I drink, my thoughts drift back to Anastasia. To her green eyes and the way she had challenged me with every word. She wouldn’t have let me get away with a stunt like this without ripping into me first. The thought makes me smile, even as it twists something in my chest.

“You’re a damn fool, you know that?” Dad mutters, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice quieter now. “I know.”

I don’t tell him the real reason I bought the team.

It’s not about rugby. It’s about trying to chase the kind of reckless, unfiltered something I felt that night in Cape Town. The kind that made me feel alive for the first time in years.

The contracts for the Toronto Tigers sit in front of me, their pristine pages glinting under the bedside lamp like a dare. I’ve read through them a thousand times by now, including all the fine print. I lean back against the headboard of my oversized bed, feeling the weight of the decision I’ve just made settle into my chest. The ink is barely dry on my latest and most questionable acquisition, and my insomnia, ever faithful, is already at my side, whispering doubts.

Rugby.

A sport I know as much about as I do quantum physics. Yet here I am, buying a team, because boredom is a dangerous motivator and the chance to own something so…unexpected seemed like the perfect distraction. The team hasn't been doing so well lately, and while I might not be a doctor like Ana, I guess part of me likes to fix things too.

I flip to the next page of the contract, scanning through the clauses and stipulations my lawyer already explained in excruciating detail. It’s not like I’m actually reading. I just need something to occupy my hands. My mind, however, is elsewhere—on green eyes and an unapologetic laugh that still haunts my thoughts like a ghost I invited in.

It’s been weeks since Cape Town. Weeks of waking up and falling asleep replaying the way her lips tilted when she teased me, the flash of amusement in her eyes when I tried to keep up with her razor-sharp wit. I promised myself I wouldn’t look her up again. I failed that promise three times already, and the frustration of not knowing her last name, her number, or where she might be now eats at me like acid. I could have asked. Hell, I should have asked. But we’d both agreed—no last names, no attachments. Just one night.

One perfect, maddeningly unforgettable night.

I finish the last page of the contract and drop it onto the growing pile at my side. For a moment, I stare at the ceiling, willing the ache of regret to ease. It doesn’t. It only sharpens, forcing me to grab my phone and open the search bar. Her name—is Anastasia. It’s all I have, and even that feels insufficient. Green eyes, dark brown hair, brilliant smile—if I close my eyes, I can still feel the way her laughter curled inside my chest, warming places I’d long since let grow cold.

I type her name again, “Anastasia, doctor.”

A fruitless search I’ve tried before. Nothing. Not a trace of her.

I toss the phone onto the nightstand harder than necessary, the clatter echoing in the quiet room. “Idiot,” I mutter to myself, scrubbing a hand over my face. I should have asked. Should have ignored whatever pride—or fear—kept me from making her more than a conquest. More than a night of wild sex.

But I didn’t, and now here I am, chasing shadows.

Tomorrow , I remind myself. Tomorrow, I’ll have plenty to distract me.

I’ve bought a rugby team. That should be enough to keep my hands and mind busy, even if my heart feels frustratingly aimless.

The Tigers’ training facility is every bit as impressive as the sales pitch promised. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls let in an abundance of natural light, highlighting the pristine gym equipment lined up like soldiers in formation. The scent of freshly cleaned floors mingles with faint notes of sweat and determination.

Brady Manson, the team’s General Manager, walks briskly ahead of me, clipboard in hand. He’s doing his best to exude confidence, but I can feel his nervous energy radiating in waves. I don’t blame him—most new owners sweep in and start cleaning house. He doesn’t know yet that I’ve already decided to keep the entire staff employed.

“This facility is state-of-the-art,” Brady says, glancing back at me. “The previous owner spared no expense when he renovated last year. Cryotherapy chambers, hydrotherapy pools, high-altitude training rooms…you name it.”

“It shows,” I reply, running a hand along the edge of a sleek weight rack as we pass through the main gym. “No wonder the place looks like a luxury hotel. I take it the players appreciate the upgrades?”

“They do,” Brady says with a tight smile. “Unfortunately, the performance on the field hasn’t reflected the investment. We’re sitting fourth in the league standings this season. Injuries, inconsistent play, and, frankly, a lack of chemistry have been holding us back.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Lack of chemistry? Is that corporate speak for ‘nobody gets along’?”

Brady chuckles awkwardly. “Let’s just say there’s room for improvement.”

We turn a corner, stepping into a hallway lined with team photos and championship memorabilia. It’s the kind of display that screams legacy, though some of the frames are visibly outdated. Brady gestures toward a large double door at the end of the hall.

“This leads to the locker room,” he says. “I won’t take you through there today—players are mid-workout—but suffice it to say, it’s as high-end as the rest of the facility.”

I glance at the frosted glass windows inset in the doors, catching a glimpse of movement inside. “Good. I don’t need to see it today. Let’s head up to the office.”

The climb to the executive floor is quick, and soon we’re standing in what will be my new workspace.

“This was Mr. Harrison’s office,” Brady says, watching my reaction carefully. “If you’d like, we can have it remodeled to suit your preferences.”

The office is a blend of old-world charm and modern utility, designed with an understated elegance that doesn’t scream wealth but whispers it in every detail. The centerpiece is a massive oak desk, its surface polished to a high sheen and free of clutter, save for a leather blotter and a brass desk lamp with a green glass shade. Behind it, a high-backed chair upholstered in supple black leather dominates the space, flanked by two matching visitor chairs with subtly curved arms.

A large window stretches across one wall, offering a panoramic view of the training fields below. Sunlight streams through, casting long streaks of light onto the dark hardwood floors. To the left of the desk, a sleek built-in bookshelf holds a mix of leather-bound books, rugby memorabilia, and framed photos from the team’s history, including a few of championship celebrations and past owners.

On the right, a display case spans half the wall, showcasing team trophies, signed rugby balls, and neatly framed jerseys—symbols of the legacy I’ve just inherited. A flat-screen television is mounted discreetly above the case, likely for reviewing game footage or catching live matches.

In the far corner, a small seating area with a low glass coffee table and two minimalist armchairs offers a space for casual meetings or private conversations. A splash of greenery—a potted fiddle-leaf fig—softens the otherwise functional feel of the room, and a textured area rug anchors the furniture in the center. The space feels more like a museum exhibit than a workspace, a silent reminder of the team’s history and the responsibility I’ve signed up for.

“It’s fine,” I reply, my voice clipped as I walk to the desk. “I don’t need a remodel. It’s functional, and that’s what matters.”

A knock at the door draws my attention, and an older woman enters, carrying a stack of thick folders. Her hair is neatly pinned back, and her expression is calm but no-nonsense.

“Mr. Callahan,” she says, her tone polite but efficient. “I’m Betty, Mr. Harrison’s administrative assistant. I’ve been with the Tigers for over a decade, and I’ll be assisting you now if you’ll have me.”

“Nice to meet you, Betty,” I say, offering her a firm nod. “I’ve already decided to keep all the existing staff on board, so it looks like we’ll be working together.”

Betty’s eyes soften with something resembling gratitude, though she keeps her expression professional. “Thank you, sir. That’s reassuring to hear.” She sets the folders down on the desk with a solid thunk. “These are the player profiles. Names, positions, stats, and performance notes for everyone on the roster. It’s a lot to take in, but it should help you get up to speed.”

“Appreciated.” I glance at the stack of folders, already feeling the weight of the task ahead.

“If you need anything, just let me know,” Betty says, nodding once before exiting the room.

The office feels quieter once she’s gone, but the air is charged with expectation. I take a moment to sit in the leather chair behind the desk, the panoramic view of the training field stretching out before me. It’s a lot to take in—the team, the facility, the determination to make this work.

But this is mine now, and for better or worse, I intend to make something of it.

With a sigh, I open the first folder and dive in.

Time to start learning.

The first page greets me with a player’s headshot—tight-lipped, sweaty, and far too serious for what looks like a team media day. Beneath the photo, his stats are laid out: height, weight, position, recent injuries. My eyes skim over phrases like “out of form” and “recovery timeline uncertain.” Not exactly a glowing introduction.

I lean back in the leather chair and glance at the stack of folders Betty left on my desk. There are at least thirty of these. Thirty players. Thirty sets of problems, potential, and, hopefully, solutions.

Betty had said, “You’ll get the hang of it.” God, I hope she’s right.

A knock at the door breaks my concentration. Brady pops his head in, clipboard still in hand. “How’s it going?”

“Enlightening,” I say, setting the folder aside. “Though I’m starting to think the late Mr. Harrison—no disrespect— started treating this like it was a hobby, not because he wanted to win.”

Brady smirks but doesn’t deny it. “He had his reasons. Loved the sport, loved the culture. But yeah, winning hasn’t been the Tigers’ strong suit lately.”

“Understatement of the century,” I mutter, glancing back at the dismal stats. “How bad is the morale?”

“Mixed,” Brady admits, stepping further into the office. “Some of the veterans are frustrated. They’ve been here through the worst seasons. The younger guys? They’re just trying to prove themselves. But everyone’s feeling the pressure.”

“Pressure I now inherit.”

“Exactly.”

I press my palms flat against the desk and look at Brady. “You’ve been with this team for how long?”

“Seven years,” he says. “Started as an assistant coach before moving into management.”

“So you’ve seen it all.”

He nods, his expression unreadable. “I’ve seen the highs and the lows. Mostly lows, if I’m being honest.”

I tap a pen against the desk, considering my next words. “You’ve been straight with me so far. Be straight with me now: Can this team be saved?”

Brady doesn’t answer immediately, which is more telling than anything he could say. “It’s going to take work,” he says finally. “But the talent is there. The infrastructure is there. The right leadership could make all the difference.”

I catch the subtle emphasis on “leadership.”

“Guess I better make sure I’m that guy.”

“You’ve got a good start,” he says, nodding toward the pile of folders. “Betty included everything you’ll need to understand the roster.”

As if summoned, Betty reappears, another folder in hand. She doesn’t bother knocking—just strides in with the quiet confidence of someone who’s been doing this job longer than I’ve been making deals.

“Forgot this one,” she says, placing it on top of the stack. “Our scrum-half. Figured you’d want to start with him.”

I glance at the label: Elias Novak. Scrum-half.

“Thanks, Betty.”

She nods, already halfway out the door. “Dinner’s at seven in the cafeteria if you want to see where the players eat. Might be worth a visit.”

Once she’s gone, I look back at Brady. “Is she always this efficient?”

“She’s the glue that holds this place together.”

“No pressure for me, then,” I mutter, flipping open Elias Novak’s folder.

Mid-20s, dark-haired, sharp-jawed, with an expression that screams trouble. Beneath the photo, his stats jump off the page. His skill level is undeniable—speed, precision, and the ability to read the game like a savant. But alongside the glowing performance metrics are several concerning notes: disciplinary actions, fines, and media scandals.

“Tell me about Novak,” I say to Brady, already sensing this will be a headache.

“He’s our most talented player, no question,” Brady begins, but his tone is wary. “When he’s on the field and focused, he’s a game-changer. The problem is keeping him focused.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Off the field?”

Brady exhales heavily and sits on the edge of the desk. “Let’s just say Novak doesn’t exactly embrace the quiet life. Late-night parties, tabloid appearances, a few too many bar brawls. He’s got a temper, and he doesn’t know how to pick his battles. It spills over onto the field sometimes—cheap shots, unnecessary penalties.”

“So he’s a liability,” I say flatly.

“He’s a double-edged sword,” Brady counters. “He’s also a fan favorite. The guy sells tickets, jerseys, and headlines. People come to see him play, even if it’s a gamble on which Novak shows up that day.”

I close the folder and lean back in my chair. “Why hasn’t he been benched for his behavior?”

Brady’s lips press into a thin line. “Because when he’s on, he’s the best chance we’ve got. And because no one’s figured out how to manage him. He respects talent, but he’s not a team player. Doesn’t take orders well. If you can rein him in, though…”

“That’s a big if,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair.

Brady shrugs. “It is. But if anyone can, it’s you. You’re not his coach. You’re the owner. That carries a different kind of weight.”

I glance at the stack of folders again, Elias Novak’s at the top. A problematic star player, a losing record, and a city expecting results.

This isn’t going to be easy.

But then again, nothing worth doing ever is.