Playing The Field (The Toronto Tigers #1)

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Anastasia

I turn on my heel and walk away before Graham can say anything else, my pulse roaring in my ears. Each step feels heavier than the last, but I don’t look back. I can’t. Not after the way he looked through me like I was nothing more than another cog in his well-oiled machine.

Not after the way he pretended not to know me.

When Brady ushered me into the locker room earlier, I’d told myself I was ready for this. Ready to step into a new role, meet the team, and earn their respect. But seeing him again? I wasn’t prepared for that. I wasn’t prepared for the ice in his voice, the complete lack of recognition in his eyes.

But it’s fine. It has to be.

I push open the door to my new office and let it click shut behind me. My bag drops to the desk with a thud, and I grip the edge of the chair, breathing through the sting of rejection. He didn’t even blink. Just introduced himself like I’m a stranger. Like we didn’t share one unforgettable night in Cape Town.

“Get it together, Ana,” I mutter to myself, shaking out my hands like I can physically rid myself of the frustration crawling under my skin. “He’s your boss now. That’s it. That’s all this is.”

But the tightness in my chest doesn’t ease.

I don’t have long to wallow. A commotion erupts in the hallway, sharp voices echoing off the polished floors. I push my chair back, curiosity pulling me toward the door. The muffled argument grows louder as I step out of the office, and what I see stops me in my tracks.

Graham is standing toe-to-toe with Elias Novak, his shoulders taut and his expression carved from stone. Novak looks smug, his arms crossed, but the glint in his eyes is pure arrogance. Even from where I’m standing, I can see Graham’s jaw clench, the barely restrained fury rippling through him.

“You’re off the team,” Graham says, his voice low but lethal. “Effective immediately.”

I blink, unsure I’ve heard him correctly. Novak’s smirk falters, his posture stiffening. “You can’t be serious.” His posture falters. “You’re gonna regret this, Callahan. You can’t just replace me!”

“Watch me,” Graham bites out, stepping closer, his voice a dangerous growl. “You crossed the line, Novak. You’ve been crossing it for months, and this was the last straw. I don’t care how talented you are. Your behavior is toxic, and I won’t have it poisoning this team.”

Novak’s face twists in anger, his mouth opening to argue, but Graham cuts him off with a sharp motion toward the security guards waiting nearby. “Escort Mr. Novak off the premises. Now.”

The guards close in, and Novak spits out a string of curses as he’s led away.

The hallway falls silent, the air heavy with the weight of what just happened. I’m rooted to the spot, staring at Graham as he rubs a hand over his face, his shoulders slumping slightly.

I didn’t expect this.

The Graham I knew—briefly, intimately—was guarded but careful, deliberate in every word and action. The man I just saw was fire and steel, unrelenting in his authority. And though it shouldn’t matter, the way he stood up for me, the way he refused to tolerate Novak’s behavior—it makes something inside me soften.

Before I can think better of it, I step forward. My shoes click against the floor, and his head snaps up, his blue eyes locking onto mine. For the first time today, there’s something real in his expression. Tension, maybe. Guilt. I can’t quite tell.

“How much of that did you see?”

“Enough,” I reply, my tone even.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I?—”

“I didn’t need you to do that for me,” I say quietly, my voice steadier than I feel. “But…thank you.”

He exhales sharply, his hand dropping to his side. “It wasn’t just for you. Novak’s been a problem for a while. This was overdue.”

I step closer, softening my expression, studying him. “Still. It means something.”

There’s more he’s not saying, but I don’t push. Instead, I take a step back, offering a small, professional smile.

“Anastasia,” he starts, but whatever he’s about to say doesn’t come out when I level him with a stare.

“It’s Dr. Bellows,” I correct, fighting the insane urge to smile at him.

He doesn’t reply, just watches as I turn and walk away, the weight of his gaze following me down the hall.

The door to my office shuts behind me with a soft click, but the sound feels deafening in the quiet room. My heartbeat is a chaotic drumbeat in my ears as I sink into the chair behind the desk, staring blankly at the folders and laptop in front of me. The professional world of the Toronto Tigers sprawls out in neat, organized files, and I’m supposed to dive into it like nothing happened.

Like I didn’t just watch Graham Callahan—my boss—set fire to his reputation as the man with an ironclad demeanor and rip a player’s career apart in the span of a heartbeat.

Like I didn’t just see the flicker of something raw in his eyes when he looked at me.

I press my palms against the desk, trying to ground myself, but the storm of emotions swirling inside me doesn’t settle. Instead, it churns harder, dragging up memories I’ve been trying to bury since the moment I walked into that conference room and saw him walk into the room.

It wasn’t just the shock of seeing him here, of all places, that knocked me off balance. It was the way he looked at me—like I was just another name on the payroll. No flicker of recognition, no acknowledgment of the night we shared. The night that, apparently, meant a hell of a lot more to me than it did to him.

Focus, Ana. Focus.

I open the top folder, the one marked “Player Medical Histories,” and force myself to read. The words blur together, black lines on white paper, as my mind drifts back to the hallway.

I didn’t know Graham could be like that. Ruthless, commanding, his voice sharp enough to slice through steel. The way he stood up for me—not that he’ll ever admit it—was something I didn’t expect. It made me feel seen in a way that’s almost painful to admit.

And yet… there’s a bitterness that refuses to fade.

It’s not like I expected him to greet me with open arms or gush about how our paths have crossed again. But pretending not to know me? Acting like I’m just some stranger he has to tolerate? That’s a level of cold I wasn’t prepared for.

I glance down at my hand, my fingers brushing against the edge of the desk. The skin still tingles from where I shook his hand earlier. Professional, polite, and distant—like I’m someone to be managed, not someone who once unraveled in his arms.

I hate that I care.

I hate that I keep replaying that night in Cape Town, the way his laugh sounded against my skin, the way his hands felt on my body. I should be better than this. I should be focusing on the opportunity in front of me, not the man who’s suddenly become a complication I can’t afford.

My phone buzzes on the desk, pulling me out of my thoughts. It’s Veronica, my roommate, and self-appointed life coach.

How’s the first day, Doc? Are any rugby players throwing themselves at your feet yet?

The corners of my mouth twitch despite myself. I type a quick response.

No rugby players. But a boss who might be the death of me.

Her reply is immediate.

Spill.

I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. How do I even begin to explain this? That the man who just fired a player in a blazing show of authority is the same man who kissed me like the world was ending? The same man who left me feeling like maybe, just maybe, I could believe in connection again.

The same man who acted like none of it mattered.

It’s complicated.

I stare at the screen, willing her not to push, but Veronica is nothing if not persistent.

Complicated how? You’re being vague, and I hate it

.

I groan, leaning back in my chair. She won’t let it go until I give her something.

You remember the guy from Cape Town? The one-night-stand guy?

…NO WAY.

Way.

You’re kidding.

I’m not.

There’s a long pause before her next message comes through, and I can practically hear her screaming through the phone.

ANA. WHAT THE HELL???

He’s my boss.

WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL?! Tell me everything. Right now.

I don’t reply. Not because I don’t want to. But because I don’t know where to start.

Instead, I set my phone down and stare at the folders in front of me, willing myself to focus. Whatever history Graham and I share, whatever hurt I’m carrying from the way he brushed me aside—it doesn’t matter. This job is a chance to rebuild. To focus on the future.

And if Graham Callahan wants to pretend we’re nothing more than professional acquaintances, fine. I can play that game too.

But as I pick up the first file and try to immerse myself in the details of the players’ medical records, one thought refuses to leave my mind.

If he can pretend Cape Town didn’t happen, why can’t I?

The locker room smells like sweat, deep heat, and the kind of focus that turns ordinary men into warriors. It’s a scent I’m used to, one that, oddly, soothes my nerves rather than winds them tighter. But today, my heart is hammering against my ribs, my brain a swirl of exhaustion, exhilaration, and something I really don’t want to name. It’s been twenty-four hours since he looked me in the eye and pretended I didn’t exist. Since he shook my hand like I was nothing more than a business acquaintance instead of a woman he’d once held like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. So far, I’ve managed to avoid him for most of the day. It helps that I’ve been drowning in medical files, assessments, and a barrage of questions from trainers who—thankfully—care more about the players’ physical well-being than office gossip.

But the evening game means I won’t be able to avoid him forever.

It also means I get to witness something incredible.

I take my first real break of the day just as the team finishes up warmups. A fresh rush of excitement crackles down my spine when I step into the stadium and take in the sight of the field. The grass is impossibly green under the stadium lights, the players a blur of movement as they pass, tackle, and sprint like they were born to do this.

Because they were.

For a moment, I forget everything else.

The weight of the past, the sting of Graham’s indifference, the overwhelming uncertainty of what it means to be here—all of it vanishes under the sheer joy of watching professional rugby players in their element.

I grew up watching this sport, analyzing it, breaking it down into its most intricate parts. And now? I get to be part of it. A real part of it.

A grin tugs at my lips, and before I can stop myself, I let out a quiet, breathless laugh.

This is my dream.

“Didn’t peg you for a rugby fan, Doc.”

I startle slightly, glancing over my shoulder to find Dominic Carter, the team captain, standing a few feet away, arms crossed, watching me with curiosity.

“I love rugby,” I admit, tucking my hands into the pockets of my team-issued jacket. “Played for a bit growing up. Not full contact, obviously. It would also be weird if I didn’t like it, considering I applied for this job.”

Dominic lets out a low chuckle. “That explains why you’re watching like you’re about to start coaching.”

I flush slightly but don’t deny it. “I can’t help it. Their formation needs tightening. And that inside pass was sloppy. The ref would have given the opposing team a penalty for sure.”

His grin widens. “You are a rugby fan.”

I shrug, but my smile stays. “You have no idea.”

The truth is, I could talk about this game for hours. I could analyze plays, break down strategies, and dive into the biomechanics of every movement. But instead of launching into a full breakdown, I nod toward the field. “How are they looking?”

“Sharp,” he says, but his expression darkens slightly. “No Novak, which is already an improvement.”

A pang of satisfaction flickers through me at the reminder of Graham throwing him off the team. It’s quickly followed by something more complicated.

Because no matter how satisfying it was to watch Novak escorted out of the building, it didn’t change the fact that Graham had done it while acting like I was a stranger.

Dominic’s gaze lingers on me a beat too long, like he’s trying to read my mind. And maybe he is because his next words are careful. “You settling in okay?”

I force a casual smile. “So far, so good.”

He doesn’t push, but there’s something knowing in his expression before he nods toward the tunnel. “Game’s in a few hours. You ready for the chaos?”

“Absolutely,” I say, and for the first time all day, I actually believe it.

By the time I step onto the sidelines, the stadium is alive in a way that sends a thrill straight through my bloodstream. This is what I’ve worked for. This is what I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. And yet, my stomach is a knot of nerves that has nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the man I’ve spent all day avoiding.

The hum of the crowd is constant, swelling in volume with every new movement on the field. The energy is a living thing, pulsing, electric, wrapping around me as I take it all in. The bright glare of the stadium lights turns the freshly cut grass into a brilliant green, almost too perfect under the artificial glow. Players move across the field in smooth, powerful strides, their warm-ups a mix of speed, precision, and raw force.

From my spot on the sideline, I can feel the impact of every drill—the sharp thud of bodies colliding in contact warm-ups, the snap of the ball as it moves from hand to hand, the occasional curse muttered when a pass goes wide. The team trainers move efficiently around me, setting up supplies, and chatting in low tones, but I barely register them.

Because for the first time today, I feel it.

Not just the weight of my new role. Not just the pride of being here.

But the sheer, unfiltered joy of it.

A slow smile tugs at my lips as I watch the team shift into their final pregame drills, my gaze following the fluidity of their movements, and the way their bodies work together in perfect synchronization. It’s mesmerizing. I’m here. I made it. And nothing—not my past, not my insecurities, not even Graham Callahan—can take this moment away from me.

“Doc, you good?”

I blink, pulling myself out of my thoughts as Marco, one of the younger trainers, nudges my elbow. He’s got the easy confidence of someone who’s been around athletes long enough to know exactly how to handle them.

“Yeah,” I say, rolling my shoulders back like I can shake off the lingering tension. “Just taking it all in.”

He grins. “It’s something, huh? Wait until kickoff. The place will be vibrating.”

I don’t doubt it. Even now, the energy is building, the stadium packed with thousands of people who have been waiting all week for this moment. The players are locked in, their focus sharpened to a fine edge, their movements precise but laced with the barely contained aggression that makes rugby what it is.

I shift on my feet, pressing my hands into my jacket pockets, grounding myself in the familiarity of it all. This is what I trained for. This is where I belong.

And then I see him.

Graham.

He’s standing at the edge of the field, near the coaching staff, arms crossed over his chest, his sharp blue gaze locked on the team. He looks like he’s carved from stone—expression unreadable, posture rigid, the weight of his authority settling around him like a storm cloud about to break.

My breath catches, an unwelcome hitch in my chest because it doesn’t matter how much I’ve tried to push him out of my mind today.

The second I see him, everything tightens.

Everything rushes back.

But I refuse to let it show.

Straightening my spine, I turn back to the field, forcing my focus onto the game. Because if Graham Callahan can pretend I don’t exist, then I can damn well return the favor.