Playing The Field (The Toronto Tigers #1)

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Anastasia

T he second half starts at a breakneck pace, the stadium buzzing with anticipation. The air is thick with sweat, adrenaline, and the sharp scent of freshly churned turf. I adjust the strap of my medical kit, standing near the sideline with the rest of the team staff, my eyes locked on the field as the teams charge forward.

I knew this game was going to be intense, but seeing it unfold this close? Feeling the impact of every hit reverberate through the ground beneath my feet? It’s something else entirely.

Seattle kicks off, sending the ball high into the air, and Dominic is already tracking it. He takes it cleanly, his massive frame absorbing the impact as Seattle’s forwards slam into him like wrecking balls. He holds strong, securing the ball as a ruck forms over him, bodies piling in like a train wreck in slow motion.

“Push!” Finn Gallagher yells, his voice hoarse as he hovers over the breakdown. His hands are lightning-quick, digging for the ball and flinging it out to Toby, who wastes no time shifting play wide.

Toby’s a playmaker in the truest sense, always scanning, always reading ahead. He sends a sharp pass to Nico Vasquez, who hits the line at full speed, drawing in two defenders before popping the ball to Elliot at outside center.

Seattle’s defense is pressing hard, but Elliot’s footwork is pure magic, dodging one, two defenders before he’s finally dragged down near midfield.

The crowd is on edge, the tension thick as the ruck forms again.

Seattle counters fast.

Their flanker charges into the breakdown, and in an instant, the ball is turned over. My stomach clenches as Seattle’s scrum-half snatches it and fires a looping pass wide, their winger already at full speed down the sideline.

Leo Matthisen is the last line of defense.

He’s fast—explosive even—but Seattle’s player has a head start. The crowd holds its breath as Leo dives, fingertips grazing the winger’s jersey—but it’s not enough.

The player dives over the try line, grounding the ball as the referee signals.

Seattle scores.

My heart pounds as I watch the ref step back toward the posts, raising his arm. The conversion is good.

21-17, Seattle.

The stadium’s roar is deafening. The Tigers regroup under the posts, breathing heavy, chests heaving, their frustration thick in the air.

They need to answer. Fast.

Toby doesn’t panic. The second the ball is back in play, he’s already plotting. We kick deep, forcing Seattle to play out from inside their 22-meter line, and the defensive pressure is immediate.

The Tigers are relentless in the breakdown, hitting hard, forcing mistakes. Malik Dembélé is everywhere, a menace at the ruck, hunting for another turnover.

Then it happens.

Seattle’s scrum-half hesitates for a fraction of a second too long, and Finn seizes the opportunity, charging in and stripping the ball right out of his hands.

The crowd erupts.

Finn spins and fires the ball straight to Toby, who spots a gap in the defense and wastes no time. He sells a dummy pass, shifts his weight, and bolts through the gap, leaving two Seattle defenders grasping at air.

I suck in a sharp breath as he tears up the field.

Seattle’s fullback closes in fast, but Toby is already popping the ball wide to Max Dupont on the left wing.

Max catches in stride and accelerates, every muscle in his body propelling him forward as Seattle’s cover defense scrambles.

Go, go, go.

He chips the ball over the last defender, sprints past him, and with a perfectly timed dive, plants it in the try zone.

The stadium erupts.

TRY!

I swear I feel the ground shake.

Toby steps up for the conversion, still breathing hard. The wind has picked up, and he takes his time, eyes locked on the posts.

He strikes. The ball curves beautifully, sailing straight through the uprights.

24-21, Tigers.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

The sideline is electric. The momentum has swung back in our favor.

Seattle throws everything they have at us in the final minutes.

Their forwards hammer the gain line, testing our defense. Every tackle is a bone-rattling collision.

Callum O’Reilly and Luka Petrovic are absolute beasts, taking hit after hit, refusing to break. Dominic Carter rallies them, shouting commands, leading the charge.

Seattle works their way inside our 22.

The tension is suffocating.

One final surge.

Seattle’s number eight picks and drives, barreling forward.

Dominic meets him head-on.

The impact is thunderous.

Bodies crash, boots scrape, and then?—

The ball spills loose.

Malik Dembélé dives on it.

The ref blows his whistle.

Full time.

Tigers win. 24-21. The players collapse where they stand. Some raise their fists to the sky. Others drop to their knees, sucking in gulps of air, sweat dripping onto the turf.

The noise is unreal. Pure, unfiltered euphoria.

I exhale, pressing a hand against my chest to calm my racing heart.

This is what I live for.

And yet, as the players begin shaking hands, as the adrenaline begins to fade, I feel it creeping back in—the weight of something unfinished.

Because somewhere on this field, Graham is waiting for me.

And now, there’s no avoiding what comes next.

The final whistle still echoes through the stadium when I see it—the slow build of tension, the kind that always leads to something breaking.

Seattle is pissed. They lost a game they thought they’d win, and frustration is boiling over on the field. It starts small—a shove here, a few choice words there. But I know what’s coming before it fully ignites.

I move fast, stepping away from the medical staff and toward the middle of the field where Dominic and Seattle’s number six, Jason Maddox, are chest to chest, their voices sharp over the din of the crowd.

Maddox is in Dominic’s face, hands clenched into fists, his mouth twisted into something ugly. “Bullshit calls all game, Carter. You know it.”

Dominic doesn’t back down.

“You lost. Own it.” His voice is calm, lethal.

Maddox lunges first.

His hands go straight for Dominic’s jersey, but before I can blink, Callum is there, shoving Maddox back. That’s all it takes. Chaos erupts.

Players swarm in, shoving, shouting. The refs are blowing their whistles, but no one’s listening. Seattle is angry, and my guys are not about to let them throw punches unchecked.

I rush forward, trying to get to the center before it gets worse. My job is to deal with injuries, not break up fights, but right now, those two things might go hand in hand.

Then it happens.

Out of nowhere, a Seattle forward barrels sideways, completely oblivious to where I am. His massive shoulder slams into my back, sending me stumbling forward.

Pain explodes in my ribs as I hit the ground hard.

For a second, I can’t breathe. The world tilts, the roar of the crowd distant compared to the ringing in my ears.

Then I hear it.

A furious roar, deeper than anything else happening on the field.

Graham.

I barely get to my hands and knees before I see him storming across the field, zeroed in on the player who hit me.

The moment Graham reaches him, he grabs the guy by the jersey and yanks him back so hard I hear fabric tear.

The Seattle player barely gets a word out before Graham’s fist is cocked, shoulders tight, pure fury rolling off him in waves.

And then all hell really breaks loose.

Players are diving in to separate them, but Graham is past the point of reason. His face is pure, unfiltered rage. His jaw is clenched, his knuckles white against the Seattle player’s jersey.

He’s not letting go.

Seattle’s players are yelling. The refs are blowing their whistles. Dominic is suddenly there, gripping Graham by the arms, trying to pull him off.

But Graham doesn’t move.

“You knocked her over, you reckless piece of?—”

I push to my feet, ignoring the sharp throb in my ribs. I don’t care that my shoulder is aching. I don’t care that my entire body is screaming at me to sit down.

Because I need to get this under control before Graham does something that’ll get him ejected from his own damn team.

I shove through the bodies, heading straight for the injured player still on the ground. It’s Max Dupont, our left wing, He’s clutching his knee, his face twisted in pain. My hands move automatically, checking for damage, assessing the injury even as chaos explodes around me.

In my peripheral vision, I see Dominic yank Graham back, his muscles straining, his voice sharp.

“Graham, let go! Let go!”

I grit my teeth and focus on the real problem—the guy in front of me.

“Where does it hurt?” I ask, voice steady.

“My knee,” Max groans, wincing as I press gently around the joint. No swelling yet, but it’s stiff. Likely hyperextended. Painful, but not a break.

I hear another furious snarl behind me, and when I glance up, Graham and Dominic are still locked in a battle of wills.

“Graham, walk away, now!”

Graham is breathing hard, his entire body locked up like he’s one word away from swinging again. But Dominic doesn’t let him go.

I turn my attention back to Max, blocking out the madness.

But my hands aren’t steady.

Because I felt it—the instant Graham saw me go down, something inside him snapped.

And that knowledge does something to me that I can’t afford to analyze right now.

Because once the fight is over, once Graham cools off—I have to face him.

And I have no idea what the hell I’m going to say.

I storm through the tunnel, my sneakers slamming against the concrete, my pulse pounding harder than it had during the game. Every inch of me is wired, furious, still shaking from the adrenaline dump of the last five minutes.

And the man responsible for it?

He had better be?—

He’s standing just outside the locker room, hands still curled into fists, his shoulders rigid, his chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled breaths. He hasn’t even taken off his damn suit jacket. He looks just as ready to fight now as he did on the field.

I don’t stop. I don’t think. I just go for him.

“What the hell was that, Graham?”

He turns slowly, and the moment his icy blue gaze locks onto mine, my rage ignites all over again.

“I handled it,” he says, voice rough, still thick with adrenaline.

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, you handled it? By what—trying to knock out one of their players on live television?” I shove my hands through my ponytail, then cross my arms over my chest to keep from doing something reckless—like shaking him. “You’re the owner of this team, Graham! Not an enforcer! What the hell were you thinking?”

His jaw ticks, his fists clenching at his sides. “I was thinking about the fact that I watched you go down and no one on that field gave a damn.”

The words hit me like a punch to the ribs.

I suck in a sharp breath, but I refuse to let him see how much it rattles me.

Because if I let it—if I let myself feel it—I’ll have to acknowledge the truth:

Graham didn’t just react. He lost his mind the second I hit the ground.

And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

I lift my chin, pressing my lips together to keep them from trembling with something dangerously close to emotion. “You don’t get to do that,” I snap. “You don’t get to—lose it—because of me.”

He takes a step forward. Close enough that I feel his body heat despite the space between us. Close enough that I feel my resolve waver for the first time all night.

“You think I had a choice?” His voice is lower now, rougher, like he’s barely keeping himself in check. “You think I could stand there and watch that happen and just do nothing?”

I clench my jaw, refusing to let my body react the way it wants to. Because my body remembers.

Remembers what it felt like when he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Remembers how it felt to be touched by him, to be wanted by him.

And right now?

That same energy is crackling between us.

“I can take care of myself,” I bite out, lifting my chin. “I don’t need you stepping in like I’m?—”

“Like you’re what?” He takes another step forward, eyes locked on mine, voice just above a growl. “Like you’re someone I give a damn about?”

I stop breathing.

Because this isn’t about the fight anymore.

It never was.

This is about Cape Town.

This is about everything we never said.

And now, standing here, with his chest still rising and falling like he’s just come out of a battle, with the heat of his body practically licking against my skin, I realize something dangerous.

I’m still just as weak for him as I was the night he kissed me like he never wanted to stop.

And from the way his eyes drop to my mouth, the way his breath hitches just slightly, I know he feels it too.

But then?—

A voice cuts through the tension, shattering it.

“Everything good here?”

I snap my head toward the tunnel entrance. Dominic. His tone is neutral, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s assessing a situation that isn’t quite adding up. His gaze flicks between us, sharp, knowing. Suspicion written all over his face.

I force myself to step back. Put distance between me and the one man I shouldn’t be standing this close to.

Graham?

He doesn’t move.

His jaw is still tight, his hands still curled into fists, but his eyes?—

His eyes haven’t left mine.

And I know, without a doubt, that this?

This is far from over.

Dominic’s voice slices through the tension like a blade, snapping me back into reality. I take a step back, my pulse still hammering in my ears, my body still coiled tight from the fight—both the one on the field and the one that’s been brewing between me and Graham since the second I walked back into his life.

I nod quickly, forcing my voice to sound steady. “Fine.”

Graham doesn’t respond.

I don’t look at him as I turn and head down the tunnel, my hands balled into fists at my sides, my breath coming too fast. I don’t stop walking until I reach the hallway outside the medical room, where the noise from the stadium fades into something dull and distant.

Then I lean against the wall and close my eyes, dragging in a slow, shaky breath.

I should have left it at that. Should have put as much space between us as possible and let this whole thing die in the chaos of the game.

But I don’t.

Because the moment I hear the deliberate, measured footsteps behind me, something inside me tightens all over again.

I know it’s him before I even turn around.

Graham stops a few feet away, his hands on his hips, his chest still rising and falling like he’s trying to calm himself down. His suit jacket is gone, his tie loosened, and his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. The raw energy from the fight is still vibrating off of him, but his expression is different now.

It’s not just anger anymore.

It’s something deeper.

Something that makes it impossible to breathe properly.

“You can’t do that,” I say, my voice lower than I want it to be.

His jaw clenches. “Do what?”

“Lose control every time something happens to me.”

His eyes darken, and he steps closer. “I don’t lose control.”

I let out a sharp laugh, but it’s breathless. “What do you call what happened out there?”

His gaze flicks down to my mouth for a fraction of a second, and my stomach clenches so hard I have to press my hands against my thighs to keep from doing something reckless.

“I call it reacting,” he says, his voice lower now, rougher. “Because the second I saw you go down, Anastasia, I didn’t think. I just moved.”

I swallow, but it doesn’t make the tightness in my throat go away.

“You don’t get to do that anymore,” I whisper. “Whatever this is, whatever it was—it doesn’t exist here. I work for you now.”

Something flickers across his face. “That’s what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

He shakes his head, slow, deliberate. Then he steps even closer, and I should back away, should put space between us, but I don’t. I can’t.

His fingers brush against my arm, just barely, but it’s enough to send a bolt of electricity straight through me.

“This is still real,” he says, voice barely above a murmur. “No matter how much you pretend it’s not.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because I can’t pretend.

Not when his scent is everywhere, clean and sharp, with just the faintest trace of sweat and cologne. Not when I can feel the heat radiating off his body, the tension in his muscles, the barely restrained force of whatever the hell is still between us.

My breath shudders as I finally manage words. “This is a bad idea.”

His hand moves, slowly, fingers brushing the side of my face, his thumb grazing the edge of my jaw.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice like gravel. “It really is.”

Then he kisses me.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful.

It’s everything he’s been holding back, everything I’ve been trying to ignore.

His mouth crashes against mine, hands gripping my waist like he’s anchoring himself, like letting go isn’t an option. I should push him away, should remind him of all the reasons this is impossible, but my hands have other plans.

I grip the front of his dress shirt and pull him closer, gasping against his lips when his fingers slide up my back, spreading across my ribs.

He groans into my mouth like he’s been waiting for this just as much as I have, like the tension between us was always going to snap in the worst way possible.

And then—a sharp voice echoes down the hall.

I jolt back, breathless, my heart slamming against my ribs as I realize where we are, and what we just did.

Graham doesn’t move at first. His forehead stays pressed against mine, his breath warm against my lips, his hands still wrapped around me like he’s not ready to let go.

I’m not ready either.

But we don’t have a choice.

I step back. His hands fall away.

My pulse is still hammering as I force myself to meet his eyes, knowing nothing between us is the same anymore.

“We can’t do this,” I whisper.

Graham just watches me for a long moment. Then his jaw tightens, and he nods once.

But we both know it’s a lie.

Because that kiss?

That was just the beginning.