Playing The Field (The Toronto Tigers #1)

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Graham

T he locker room is dead silent, save for the occasional shuffle of cleats against the tile floor, the rhythmic drip of a shower still running somewhere in the background. The weight of expectation, of proving that we belong in this league as more than just fourth-place contenders, sits heavy in the air.

I let the silence stretch. Let them sit in it. Let them feel the weight of it the way I do every time I step onto this field, the way I have since I took over this team.

Then I clear my throat and step forward, eyes sweeping over the group of men in front of me. “Look, I don’t need to tell you what this game means,” I start, my voice low but firm. “You already know. You’ve been hearing the same damn things I have. That the Tigers are struggling. That we’re not a real threat. That this is just another stepping stone game for Seattle to widen the gap between us and them.”

I take a breath, my jaw tightening. “But you know what I see? I see a team that’s sharper. More cohesive. A team that’s fought through the bullshit and come out stronger. I see a team that has every reason to walk out there tonight and play like they have something to prove—because we do.”

My gaze flickers to Dominic, who gives a subtle nod, his expression unreadable but his posture screaming readiness. Good. They need to be ready.

“We don’t have the luxury of being overlooked anymore,” I continue. “Not with the way you’ve been playing. Not with the shift in this team’s culture. We’re done with the toxicity, the excuses, the dead weight. We’re here to win. And that starts now.”

A murmur of agreement runs through the team, a few sharp nods, the clench of fists. It’s enough.

I nod once. “Go out there and remind them who the hell we are.”

With that, I step back, giving Coach Brandt room to run through the final logistics before we head out.

I’ve been on the field for every game since I took over. Couldn’t imagine sitting in the owner’s box, separated by a thick layer of glass and distance. If I’m going to turn this team around, I need to be in it—feeling it, breathing it, knowing every damn thing that’s happening at ground level.

As I walk onto the sideline, the energy of the stadium crackles around me, a deafening roar of thousands of voices blending into one. The stadium lights are blinding, the air thick with the scent of fresh-cut grass and adrenaline.

Brady steps up beside me, arms crossed as he watches the team take the field. “They’re locked in,” he says, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the noise.

“They need to be,” I reply. “Seattle’s not going to make this easy.”

“Never do,” he says with a grunt. Then, with a glance at me, “You catching any of the pregame commentary?”

I let out a sharp exhale through my nose. “Same shit, different week.”

Ever since I took over, the sports world hasn’t shut the hell up about it. The billionaire businessman with no professional rugby background, throwing himself into a sport he barely understands. They don’t care that I’ve spent every waking moment since February trying to learn everything there is to know about this team, this league, this game.

Doesn’t matter. They’ll write their narratives.

But I’ll write mine, too. And it starts with turning this team into a contender.

Brady doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just watches the players warming up, the way they move, the sharper pace, the cleaner execution. “They’re playing better,” he finally says. “Morale’s better, too.”

He doesn’t say since Novak left , but he doesn’t have to.

“Coach Brandt has been pushing them extra hard,” I remark, watching as the coach in question talks to some of the players. He’s a hard man, but he’s respected by the team and the staff and that’s all I really care about.

I glance toward the sideline, where Dominic is standing, deep in conversation with Anastasia.

And just like that, my breath is gone.

She’s dressed in dark skinny jeans and white tennis shoes, her team lab coat buttoned neatly over her frame. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, the loose strands catching the light when she tilts her head, listening intently to whatever Dom is saying.

She looks effortlessly professional and focused.

And completely unaffected by me.

Which is exactly what I told myself I wanted.

I force my attention back to the field, but it doesn’t stick. My gaze keeps dragging itself back to her, to the sharp line of her jaw, the way she absently tucks her hair behind her ear as she nods at whatever Dominic is saying. She’s mostly makeup- free, her skin clear and smooth, her lips set in that neutral, unreadable expression I’ve come to know too well over the past twenty-four hours.

For the past week, I’ve been giving her space. Letting her settle in, and get her bearings. But standing here, watching her like this, the distance feels unbearable.

Brady clears his throat, and I tear my eyes away.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that,” he mutters, not bothering to look at me.

I clench my jaw. “See what?”

His lips twitch. “Exactly.”

The crowd roars as the final warmups wrap up, the energy in the stadium reaching a fever pitch. Players are clapping each other on the back, shaking out their limbs, and readying for kickoff.

And still, I can’t shake the feeling that the biggest battle I’ll face tonight isn’t against Seattle.

It’s the one happening right now.

Right here.

Inside me.

The stadium is a beast, restless and vibrating with energy. The anthems have been sung, the players are on the field, and kickoff is minutes away. But even with the deafening roar of the crowd, the weight of expectation pressing down, and the sharp focus that comes before a game—my attention is fixed on one thing.

Or rather, one person.

She’s standing near the bench, arms crossed over her chest, her white team coat crisp and clean against the dark jeans hugging her legs. She looks steady and composed. Every inch the professional she’s supposed to be. But there’s tension in the set of her jaw, the way her fingers flex against her biceps like she’s holding something back.

Like maybe she feels the same storm raging inside me.

I don’t hesitate. If I let myself think about it, I’ll talk myself out of it. Again.

Brady barely notices when I step away. The focus is on the field, where the players are in position, and the anticipation is so thick it’s almost tangible.

I close the distance between us, and she must sense me before she sees me because her shoulders straighten slightly, her spine going rigid like she’s bracing for impact.

When she finally turns, our eyes meet.

Jesus.

It’s been a day—just a day—since I last spoke to her, and yet standing here now, with nothing but a few inches between us, it feels like I’ve been starving for this moment.

I clear my throat. “Can we talk?”

Her expression doesn’t change. If anything, it cools. “We’re talking now.”

The corner of my mouth tugs up because, of course, she’d make this difficult. “After the game,” I clarify, my voice steady despite the way my pulse slams harder than it should.

Her green eyes flicker with something unreadable before she exhales sharply. “Is that an order, Mr. Callahan ?”

There it is. The challenge. The edge in her tone sharp enough to slice.

I should take the out. Let her brush me off and focus on what matters. But I don’t.

Because what matters is standing right in front of me, pretending like she isn’t affected by this any more than I am.

“Would it help if I said please?” My voice is low and rough, a direct contradiction to the chaos in the stadium.

Her lips part slightly, but she presses them together before she can say something sharp. I don’t miss the flicker of hesitation in her eyes, the way her throat works as she swallows.

I step closer, just enough to make it deliberate. Enough that the fabric of her coat nearly brushes against the front of my suit jacket. “Ana.”

She inhales sharply at the sound of her name. My name for her. A name I haven’t used since Cape Town, since before I had to shove her into the part of my mind where she doesn’t belong.

For a moment, I think she’s going to walk away. Shut me down entirely.

But then she meets my gaze again, and something shifts.

Fine cracks in her armor. Subtle. Fleeting. But there.

Her lips part, and for a second, I’m convinced she’s going to tell me to go to hell.

Instead, she exhales, her voice barely above the noise of the crowd. “Fine. After the game.”

Relief surges through me, but I don’t let it show. I nod once. “I’ll find you.”

She holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary before turning and walking away with a smooth, purposeful stride. But not before I see it.

The slight tremor in her fingers.

The tension in her shoulders.

The proof that maybe—just maybe—I’m not the only one feeling this pull.

As I watch her disappear down the sideline, my body is still coiled tight, my breath shallow.

The game is about to start.

But for the first time since taking over this team, I know my biggest battle isn’t happening on the field tonight.

It’s happening the second I’m alone with Anastasia Bellows.

And God help me, I don’t know if I want to win or lose.

The stadium is alive. The kind of electric, pulse-pounding energy that makes every breath feel charged with static. The kind that reminds you you’re standing in an arena built for battle. The anthems have been sung. The players are in position. The ref gives one final check before blowing the whistle, signaling kickoff. The ball launches high into the night sky, spinning like a bullet as it arcs toward our territory. Zane Holloway, our fullback, tracks it the whole way, his body steady despite the roar of the crowd. He adjusts his footing at the last second and catches cleanly, tucking the ball tight to his chest as the Seattle Seawolves’ defensive line comes crashing down on him like a freight train. The first hit is brutal. Their inside center, a bruiser of a player, slams into Zane with full force. But Zane’s built for this—he absorbs the impact, twists his body just enough to stay on his feet, and keeps driving forward. A second Seattle player—one of their flankers—dives low, wrapping around his thighs in a textbook tackle. Zane goes down hard, the ball popping free for a split second before Dominic is there. He dives in, securing possession as a ruck forms instantly. Bodies slam together. The low, guttural grunts of impact mix with the sharp commands from the ref. The Seawolves are pushing hard, trying to counter-ruck, but Callum O’Reilly and Luka Petrovic plant themselves like immovable forces, holding their ground while Benji Armstrong and Declan Hayes drive forward, forcing Seattle to retreat.

“Use it!” the ref barks.

Finn Gallagher, our scrum-half, reacts instantly. He digs the ball out with quick hands, scanning the field for the best option. Seattle’s defensive line is tight, but Toby Keane is already calling for it. Finn fires a sharp, spinning pass straight to Toby, who barely hesitates before sending it wide to Nico Vasquez at inside center. He sees the gap before it fully forms. He steps hard off his left foot, slipping between two defenders with a powerful burst of acceleration. The Seawolves scramble, their outside center lunging for him, but Nico anticipates it, twisting mid-stride and flicking a perfect offload to Elliot just before he’s tackled. Elliot catches mid-stride and takes off like a shot. The crowd erupts. He burns down the field, twenty meters, thirty meters, eating up space with long, powerful strides. The Seawolves’ fullback angles in, trying to cut him off before the try line, but Elliot reads it perfectly, shifting the ball to his outside hand and firing a no-look pass to Leo Matthisen on the wing. He doesn’t hesitate. He snatches the ball mid-stride and accelerates, his explosive pace turning the corner before the fullback can react. The gap is tight, the sideline inches away, but Leo stays in bounds, pumping his legs like a thoroughbred, nothing but open grass ahead. Five meters out.

The fullback is closing fast, but it’s too late. Leo dives over the line, the ball secured against his chest as he touches down. The ref blows his whistle.

TRY!

The stadium explodes. Our sideline erupts. Players leap to their feet, fists pumping, adrenaline spiking like a live wire. On the field, Leo pushes himself up, roaring toward the stands, his teammates swarming him, slapping his back, ruffling his hair. Toby steps up for the conversion. He’s calm. Focused. This is where he thrives. He places the ball on the kicking tee, takes his measured steps back, and breathes deep. The crowd noise fades, drowned out by pure, unwavering concentration.

One step.

Two.

He strikes through cleanly, the ball soaring through the posts.

7-0, Tigers.

A slow exhale leaves my chest. It’s the kind of start we needed—fast, aggressive, decisive. But I know better than to relax.

Seattle won’t take this lightly.

They’ll adjust. They always do.

But for now?

For now, this game is ours to control.

The moment the ball is placed back at center field, Seattle’s body language shifts. They aren’t rattled, but they sure as hell aren’t happy about giving up the first try either. They’re an experienced squad, second in the conference for a reason. I can already see their fly-half barking orders, adjusting their attacking shape before the ref blows the whistle for the restart. Seattle’s number ten sends a deep kickoff into our half, the ball spinning high under the stadium lights. Zane is already tracking it, his positioning perfect as he settles under the ball. He catches cleanly, but Seattle’s chase is relentless—two of their flankers come in hot, and this time, Zane has no room to counter. Dominic is there first. He charges in like a wrecking ball, clearing out the first Seattle player and making enough space for Finn to dig for the ball. He snatches it up, quick as ever, and fires a short pass to Toby at fly-half, who has options. He can kick, but Seattle’s back three are already dropping into coverage.

Instead, he sells a dummy pass to Nico before slicing a grubber kick straight through the defensive line. The ball bounces unpredictably, skipping past Seattle’s scrambling defenders. Leo is already sprinting onto it. His acceleration is lethal. He kicks it forward once, twice, keeping the ball in control with perfectly timed touches before scooping it up at full speed. The Seawolves’ fullback is closing in, but Leo’s one step ahead, chipping the ball delicately over him before gathering it and diving for the try line.

TRY!

The ref points to the spot, and the stadium erupts again.

Seattle’s captain is already in the ref’s ear, demanding a knock-on review, but the replay on the big screen shows it clearly—clean touches all the way. Toby lines up the conversion, this time from the right side of the field. The wind is picking up, making the angle trickier, but Toby’s as cool as ever. He takes his steps back, breathes deep, and strikes through.

14-0, Tigers.

I glance at Brady, and he just nods. This is exactly what we wanted—a fast start, full control. But Seattle is too experienced to let this get away from them easily.

And just like that, they adjust. Seattle regroups and starts dominating possession. Their pack is physical, slowing our breakdowns, and their backs move the ball through quick hands, stretching our defense. Their first breakthrough comes in the 27th minute, when their inside center crashes through a half-gap between Nico and Elliot, offloading to their winger at the last second.

The guy is fast—too fast to stop. He burns down the sideline, stepping past Zane before grounding the ball.

Conversion is good. 14-7.

Their second try is even worse.

After a prolonged attack inside our 22-meter line, Seattle keeps battering at our defense. Callum and Luka make crucial tackles, keeping them from crossing, but our line is stretched too thin.

Finally, their fly-half sees an opportunity, sending a perfectly weighted cross-field kick to their right wing, who catches it uncontested and touches down.

Conversion? Good.

14-14.

Just like that, the lead is gone, and the last minutes of the half are a war.

Seattle is pressing hard, but we manage to push them back to midfield after a huge turnover from Malik Dembélé, who steals the ball at the breakdown. We go on the attack, moving the ball fast, but Seattle’s defense is holding firm. Toby spots a slight opening, drops back, and goes for a drop goal from 35 meters out.

The strike is clean. The ball sails toward the posts, hanging in the air for a split second before it drops over the crossbar.

Drop goal!

17-14, Tigers.

The ref blows the whistle, signaling halftime.

The players jog off, breaths heavy, sweat pouring down their faces. Some look frustrated, others focused. This isn’t a comfortable lead—not even close.

Seattle has momentum, but we have fight. I exchange a look with Coach Brandt as we walk toward the huddle. “They’re making us work for it,” he mutters.

“No one said this was gonna be easy,” I reply. As the team gathers, I scan the sideline. Trainers are already working on rehydrating the players, checking for signs of fatigue or minor injuries. And then, my eyes find her.

Anastasia is standing near the medical staff, clipboard in hand, watching the team. She looks focused, but there’s something in the way she bites the inside of her cheek, the way her fingers tighten slightly around her pen, that tells me her mind isn’t just on player assessments.

It’s on me.

And for the first time in 24 hours, I know exactly what I’m going to say to her when we finally talk. Because if this game has reminded me of anything, it’s that you don’t win by playing it safe.

And I’m done playing it safe with Anastasia Bellows.