Playing The Field (The Toronto Tigers #1)

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Graham

“ E lias Novak is becoming a public relations nightmare,” Brooke says, her voice laced with frustration as she paces my office. The thick folder she’s clutching slaps rhythmically against her thigh with every step, a testament to her irritation. She knows this team better than I do and has been the Public Relations Manager for almost four years. Her track record is impeccable, which is why I kept her.

I lean back in my chair, the weight of the situation pressing down like a ton of bricks. Elias Novak, one of the Tigers’ most talented players, has found himself at the center of yet another scandal—and this time, it’s not something that can be dismissed as youthful recklessness or bad judgment.

“This isn’t just another ‘he said, she said’ situation,” Brooke continues, turning to face me with a tight jaw. “The woman involved, Amber Clark, has gone on record. She’s alleging that Elias groped her at Club Vibe last weekend after he’d been drinking heavily. There are multiple witness accounts, and while none of them confirm the assault outright, they paint a picture of him being belligerent and out of control.”

I rub my temple, feeling a headache brewing. “And the fight? How does that play into this?”

Brooke sighs, tossing the folder onto the desk with a dramatic thud. “Elias reportedly got into a heated argument with another patron—some guy Amber was with. Words escalated, and before anyone could step in, Elias threw the first punch. The bouncers kicked him out, but not before half the club had their phones out recording the whole scene.”

The file is bursting with printouts of articles, screenshots of social media posts, and grainy videos of Elias being escorted out of the club, his shirt wrinkled, his hair a mess, and his expression one of smug defiance.

“This isn’t just bad optics, Graham,” Brooke says, her tone sharpening. “This is a disaster. The sexual assault allegations alone could tank his career—and ours if we’re not careful. Add the fight into the mix, and you’ve got a cocktail of public outrage brewing.”

I lean forward, steepling my fingers. “What’s the current media narrative?”

Brooke grimaces. “It’s bad. Sports outlets are running with headlines like ‘Tigers’ Elias Novak: Off the Field and Out of Control,’ while mainstream media is focusing on Amber’s allegations. Social media is a dumpster fire. The hashtags #NovakOut and #BelieveAmber are trending.”

“Damage control,” I say, my voice clipped. “What’s the plan?”

Brooke doesn’t hesitate. This is her arena, and she knows how to play the game. “First, Elias is going dark on social media—no posts, no comments, no cryptic tweets that could add fuel to the fire. Second, we’re crafting a public apology. He’ll take responsibility for the fight and acknowledge his behavior was inappropriate. We’ll frame it as a lapse in judgment due to stress and alcohol, but he’ll make it clear there’s no excuse for violence.”

“And the assault allegations?” I ask, my tone hardening.

Brooke’s jaw tightens. “That’s trickier. Amber has hired a lawyer, which means she’s serious. We’ve got our legal team reviewing her claims and gathering witness statements. If there’s even a shred of evidence that Elias is guilty?—”

“There won’t be a next step,” I cut in coldly. “If he’s guilty, he’s done. I won’t have this team associated with a predator.”

Brooke nods, a flicker of approval in her eyes. “Agreed. But until we know for sure, we’re preparing for a public defense. That means emphasizing Elias’s contributions to the team and his clean record up until now. We’ll also highlight the mandatory team training on respect and conduct, to show we take these issues seriously.”

I exhale slowly, the knot in my chest tightening. “And the fight footage?”

“Already flagged for copyright claims and takedowns where we can, but it’s out there. No putting that genie back in the bottle. We spin it—‘Elias Novak, targeted by hecklers, acted in self-defense but regrets his actions.’ It’s not perfect, but it shifts the focus.”

Before I can respond, there’s a sharp knock on the door, followed by Betty stepping inside.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says, her voice calm but purposeful. “The new team doctor has arrived. Brady’s waiting in the conference room for introductions.”

I glance at Brooke, who gives a tight nod, already gathering her things. “We’ll circle back,” she says, her tone all business. “I’ll prep Elias for the apology and loop in legal for an update.”

“Good,” I say, rising to follow Betty. “Let’s hope this new doctor isn’t another PR disaster waiting to happen.”

By the time Betty leads me to the conference room, I’ve managed to smooth my expression into something neutral, if not entirely composed. But when I step inside and see her— her — every ounce of calm I thought I’d mustered shatters like a cheap glass hitting the floor.

She stands there, hands clasped in front of her, wearing tailored navy slacks and an off-white blouse. Her long brown hair is swept back into an efficient knot, but it’s those green eyes that catch me—sharp and clear, narrowing slightly when they land on me.

It’s like the air gets sucked out of the room. For a second, I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Memories of Cape Town slam into me: her laughter, the taste of her lips, the way her green eyes softened when I told her I wasn’t ready for anything more than a single night. And now, here she is, standing in my facility, looking every bit as composed as I am unraveling.

Brady’s oblivious voice breaks the silence. “Graham, this is Dr. Anastasia Bellows, the new team doctor I mentioned. Anastasia, meet Graham Callahan, the new team owner.”

Her lips part slightly, and for a fraction of a second, I see the flicker of recognition in her eyes. A hint of warmth. But then my silence stretches a beat too long, and that flicker dims, replaced by something colder, more guarded.

She recovers before I do, extending her hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Callahan,” she says evenly. Her tone is polite, and professional, with just enough distance to drive home the point: I’m her boss now.

I open my mouth to respond, but the words tangle in my throat. “I—uh—welcome to the team,” I manage, my voice awkwardly tight. I clear my throat, scrambling to grab hold of some semblance of composure. “We’re… lucky to have you.”

Brady grins like he’s just solved world hunger. “Anastasia comes highly recommended. Top of her class, multiple certifications in sports medicine, and her references couldn’t stop singing her praises. I’m telling you, Graham, she’s a game-changer for the Tigers.”

“Great,” I say, the word too clipped. “That’s… great.”

Anastasia watches me carefully, her hand still outstretched. Right—her hand. I shake it quickly, ignoring the jolt that shoots up my arm the second our skin touches. Her grip is firm, professional, as steady as I am absolutely not.

“Dr. Bellows,” I say, testing the words. They feel foreign. Wrong. But there’s no other way to address her now. “Betty will help you get settled. If there’s anything you need, let her know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Callahan,” she replies, her expression unreadable. She withdraws her hand, folding it neatly over the other in front of her.

Brady, ever the chatty one, fills the awkward silence. “I was just telling Anastasia about the team facilities. I thought she’d like to see the hydrotherapy pools before her first day. Maybe you could join us, Graham?”

“No.” The word comes out too fast, too sharp. Both Anastasia and Brady look at me. “I mean, I’ve got… other things to handle. You’ve got this, Brady.”

I take a step back toward the door, needing to escape the sudden claustrophobia pressing against my chest. “It was nice meeting you, Dr. Bellows. Welcome to the Tigers.”

Her green eyes linger on me for a beat longer than necessary, searching for something—maybe an acknowledgment, an apology, anything. But I’m a coward, and I give her nothing. Instead, I nod briskly and all but flee the room, the weight of Betty’s suspicious gaze following me out.

My chest feels like a drum being pounded by a novice—offbeat, too loud, and completely out of rhythm. Betty is waiting for me in the hallway, her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised with surgical precision.

“Well, that was something,” she says, her voice dry as a desert.

I ignore the comment and keep walking, my strides long and purposeful. Betty falls into step beside me, her short heels clicking against the polished floor. I can feel her eyes boring into the side of my head, and I know she’s not going to let this slide.

“Do I need to ask?” she starts, her tone laced with that signature mix of maternal concern and pure, undiluted nosiness. “Or are you going to save us both some time and tell me why you acted like you’d seen a ghost back there?”

“Nothing to tell,” I mutter, avoiding her gaze.

“Really?” Betty’s voice pitches upward, disbelieving. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like you’d swallowed your tongue the second you saw Dr. Bellows. And for a man who’s usually so polished, you stumbled through that introduction like a college kid at his first internship.”

I nailed my first post-grad internship, that’s neither here nor there. I concede Betty’s point because I did fall over my words in a way I typically manage to avoid.

Fuck.

“I’m fine,” I say through clenched teeth, rounding the corner to my office.

“Fine?” she echoes, not missing a beat. “Sure you are. That’s why you bolted out of there like the building was on fire.”

I stop abruptly and turn to face her. “Betty, drop it.”

Her expression softens, but the knowing glint in her eyes remains. She leans slightly forward, lowering her voice. “You don’t have to tell me everything, Graham, but if there’s something I need to know—something that could impact the team—it’s better if I’m in the loop.”

“It’s personal,” I admit grudgingly, rubbing the back of my neck. The tension there feels like it’s made of steel cords, pulling tighter with every second.

“Personal?” she repeats, arching an eyebrow. “You mean… her?”

I glare at her, but she doesn’t flinch. Damn it. Betty can already read me better than anyone, and right now, that’s the last thing I need.

“It’s complicated,” I say finally. It’s not much of an answer, but it’s all I’m willing to give. As if our age difference weren’t already a complication, now she works for me. My team.

Betty regards me for a moment, then nods slowly. “Fair enough. Just remember, complicated has a way of unraveling if you don’t handle it right.”

With that, she steps back, smoothing her blouse as if to signify the conversation is over. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a new doctor to settle in. You’ve got Novak’s mess to clean up, and I’d suggest focusing on that instead of whatever’s making you act like you’ve forgotten how to be a human being.”

I watch her walk away, her words lingering long after she disappears around the corner.

Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Back in my office, I close the door and sink into my chair. My head falls into my hands as I replay the meeting in my mind. The moment our eyes met, the way her smile faltered when she realized I wasn’t going to acknowledge what we shared. The way I panicked, like some teenage idiot seeing his ex for the first time after a bad breakup.

“Jesus, Graham,” I mutter under my breath. “Get a grip.”

But the truth is, I don’t have a grip. Not even close. Having Anastasia here, in my world, as part of my team, feels like a cruel twist of fate. And the worst part? The more I think about it, the more I realize there’s no escaping her—not now, not with her embedded in my everyday reality.

I grab the folder Brooke left on my desk, flipping through the contents without really seeing the words. Novak’s scandal feels almost like a relief—a distraction I desperately need.

But even as I try to throw myself into the chaos of managing Elias Novak’s mess, one thought keeps circling back, unrelenting.

Anastasia isn’t just part of my past anymore.

She’s my present.

And a complication I couldn’t have seen coming.

The click of the door opening barely registers over the flood of thoughts racing through my mind. I don’t bother looking up until Dominic Carter, our team captain and one of our most reliable players, steps inside, his expression grim. His broad shoulders seem even heavier than usual, as though he’s carrying the weight of something unpleasant.

“Dominic,” I say, setting the Novak file down. “What’s going on?”

Dominic crosses the room with deliberate strides, the door clicking shut behind him. He folds his arms, his jaw tight, and I know this isn’t going to be good.

“It’s about Novak,” he starts, his voice low and steady. “You need to know what happened when Anastasia came through the locker room earlier.”

My stomach twists at her name. “Go on.”

“She came in for introductions,” Dominic explains. “Brady brought her through, and everyone was respectful—shook her hand, welcomed her to the team. Except for Novak.”

The tightness in Dominic’s voice tells me where this is headed. I grip the edge of my desk, bracing myself.

“What did he say?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intended.

Dominic hesitates, glancing at the floor before meeting my gaze. “He made a comment about her being ‘too hot’ and ‘too young’ to be a doctor. Told her he’d be happy to give her something else to examine if she wanted.”

Every muscle in my body locks up. My vision blurs momentarily as white-hot anger courses through me. I rise from my chair so abruptly that it nearly tips backward.

“He said that to her face?” My voice is low and dangerous, and Dominic takes a step back, his hands raised in a calming gesture.

“Graham,” he says cautiously, “I get it. I was ready to knock him out myself. But you’ve gotta keep your head here.”

I don’t respond. I don’t need to. My fists are already clenched as I push past him and head for the hallway.

“Graham!” Dominic calls after me, but I don’t stop.

I find Novak near the weight room, laughing with a couple of other players like he hasn’t a care in the world. The sight of him, so smug and unbothered, makes my blood boil. I stride toward him, the anger radiating off me like heat.

“Elias!” I bark, my voice cutting through the chatter.

He turns, and his grin falters when he sees my face. “What’s up, boss?”

“Walk with me,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument.

His smirk returns, but he shrugs and follows me down the hall, away from prying eyes. Once we’re out of earshot, I stop and round on him, stepping into his space.

“You think it’s appropriate to speak to the new team doctor the way you did?” My voice is low but lethal, the words laced with controlled fury.

Novak’s smirk twists into something more defiant. “What? She couldn’t handle a compliment? Relax, Callahan. It was a joke.”

“A joke?” I echo, my voice rising. “You disrespected her, demeaned her, and made it clear you don’t belong on this team.”

His cocky facade cracks. “Don’t belong? I’m one of your best players, Callahan. You need me.”

“Not anymore,” I snap. “You’re off the team. Effective immediately.”

Novak’s face hardens, his jaw tightening. “You’re overreacting. You can’t just?—”

“Yes, I can,” I cut him off. “You’ve crossed too many lines, and this is the last straw. I don’t care how talented you are. Your behavior is toxic, and I won’t have it poisoning this team.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but I’m already signaling for security. Two burly guards appear, flanking him.

“Escort Mr. Novak off the premises,” I instruct, my voice cold. “Now.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Elias snaps, his voice dripping with venom as the guards grab his arms. “You’re gonna regret this, Callahan. You can’t just replace me!”

I step closer, lowering my voice so only he can hear. “Watch me.”

As security drags him down the hall, his protests echo behind him, but I don’t look back. My chest heaves, adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

I turn, ready to head back to my office, and freeze.

Anastasia is standing a few feet away, her arms crossed, her green eyes locked on me. I hadn’t noticed her there. From the expression on her face, she saw the entire confrontation.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The hallway feels too small, the silence stretching uncomfortably. I swallow hard, struggling to find the right words.

“How much of that did you see?” I ask finally, my voice quieter than I’d intended.

“Enough,” she says evenly. Her tone doesn’t give away much, but her gaze is piercing, searching my face for something.

I rub the back of my neck, feeling suddenly exposed. “Look, I?—”

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” she interrupts, her voice softer now. “But… thank you.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I nod, unable to meet her eyes. “It wasn’t just for you. Novak’s been a problem for a while. This was overdue.”

She takes a step closer, her expression softening. “Still. It means something.”

Her words linger in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. I can’t tell if it’s gratitude, admiration, or something else entirely, but it twists something deep inside me. I force myself to hold her gaze this time, even though it feels like she’s seeing more of me than I’m comfortable showing.

“Anastasia,” I start, but whatever I’m about to say gets lost in the intensity of her stare.

“It’s Dr. Bellows,” she corrects, her lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smile. Then she turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, the weight of her presence still pressing against my chest.

For the second time today, she’s left me completely off balance.

And I hate how much I like it.