Playing The Field (The Toronto Tigers #1)

Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Graham

I run a hand over my face, inhaling sharply before pushing through the doors leading into the post-game press conference. The room is already buzzing with energy—cameras flashing, reporters murmuring, waiting to see what kind of mess I’m going to make out of this.

Perfect.

This is exactly the kind of attention I didn’t want.

We just pulled off a gritty, hard-fought win against the second-ranked team in the conference, and instead of talking about the players who busted their asses out there, the headline tomorrow is going to be about me.

Not the win.

Not the momentum shift in our season.

Not how the team has completely turned itself around since Novak’s departure.

No, the story will be about how their damn owner stormed onto the field like an unhinged maniac and tried to put a Seattle player through the turf.

All because I saw Anastasia go down and lost my fucking mind.

Brady and Coach Brandt are already seated at the long table, their expressions carefully neutral as I step onto the platform and lower myself into the chair next to him. Dominic sits to my right, arms crossed, jaw tight, ready to throw himself in front of any bullet fired my way.

The moment I take my seat, a wave of flashes goes off, the bright light only making my headache worse.

The media is frothing at the mouth for this one.

A PR rep from our comms team steps up to the microphone, clearing her throat. “General Manager Brady Manson, Coach Nicholas Brandt, and Team Owner Graham Callahan are ready to take questions.”

I brace myself.

A reporter from The Toronto Star is the first to fire.

“Mr. Callahan, can you explain what happened in the final moments after the game? You were seen engaging in a physical altercation with Seattle’s number four, leading to multiple players and staff having to break things up.”

I flex my fingers under the table, forcing my jaw to stay unclenched. “It was a heated moment. Tensions were high after a tough game, and things escalated. I regret my involvement and take full responsibility for it.”

There. Clean. Controlled.

Next question.

A reporter from TSN raises his hand. “Mr. Callahan, you’ve been in the owner’s seat for just a few weeks, and this is already the second major incident involving you losing your temper. First with Elias Novak’s firing, and now this. Do you think your emotions are getting in the way of your ability to run this team professionally?”

I grip the edge of the table, forcing myself to stay calm.

I should say something polished. Something that puts the attention back on the team. But instead, my irritation rises, my pulse still running hot from everything that happened tonight—on and off the field.

“My emotions aren’t the problem,” I say, voice level. “My job is to ensure the integrity of this team, to create a culture of accountability and respect. That means making tough decisions. As for what happened on the field, I stepped over the line. I know that. But let’s not lose sight of what’s actually important—this team just took down one of the best squads in the league. Let’s talk about that.”

Brady nods beside me, backing me up. “The focus should be on how our players handled themselves tonight. They fought for this win, and that’s what matters.”

Another reporter jumps in.

“Mr. Callahan, can you clarify what triggered your reaction on the field? Was it something the Seattle player said to you?”

I exhale slowly.

Because what can I say?

That I lost my mind because a guy knocked into Anastasia? That I didn’t care about the game, the cameras, or the fact that I own this damn team—all I cared about at that moment was that she was on the ground and I wasn’t there fast enough?

No. I can’t say that.

I keep my voice even. “I didn’t like the way things played out, and I reacted poorly. That’s on me.”

A new voice rings out from the back of the room.

“Mr. Callahan, have you spoken to Dr. Bellows since the incident?”

I don’t blink, don’t react. But internally? That question hits me harder than any tackle I took in high school football.

No, I haven’t spoken to her since the tunnel. Since I kissed her like I had a right to.

Since she kissed me back before pulling away like she regretted every second of it.

“No comment,” I say smoothly because there’s no fucking way I’m answering that in front of the media.

The questions keep coming, but I don’t really hear them.

Because the only thing I can think about is how I have way bigger problems than the press.

I have to face Anastasia again.

And this time, I don’t think I can keep my hands off her.

By the time the press conference is over, I’m ready to put my fist through a wall.

Not because of the media. I knew what they’d ask before I even sat down. Knew they’d twist the story however they wanted. Knew they’d ignore the biggest damn win this team has had all season in favor of a headline that makes me look like an out-of-control billionaire with no business running a rugby team.

No, none of that gets to me.

What gets to me?

The fact that Anastasia hasn’t looked at me once since we walked off the field.

The fact that the last time she did, her eyes were blazing with anger, her breath uneven, her lips still swollen from my mouth on hers.

And now?

She’s avoiding me.

I know exactly where she is—the medical room at the far end of the hallway, probably working through her reports, checking stats on player recoveries, pretending like tonight didn’t just crack something wide open between us.

I don’t think. I move.

Brady starts to say something as I leave the press room, but I wave him off. Dominic is watching me too, probably knowing exactly where I’m going, but I don’t stop.

The medical room door is slightly ajar.

I push it open without knocking.

Anastasia is standing by the counter, her back to me, sorting through paperwork with tight, clipped movements. Her white lab coat is still on, but she’s rolled up the sleeves, and the tension in her shoulders is so sharp it might as well be a warning.

She knows I’m here.

She just doesn’t want to deal with me.

Too bad.

I step inside and shut the door behind me.

She stiffens. “You know, barging into the medical room isn’t exactly professional.”

I exhale through my nose. “Neither is pretending I don’t exist after you kissed me back.”

That does it.

She turns around, her green eyes flashing. “Are you serious?” she hisses. “You think that’s the issue here?” She throws her pen down onto the counter, crossing her arms like she’s physically restraining herself from throwing something at me.

I step closer, slow, deliberate. “You’re damn right it’s an issue. You kissed me back, Anastasia. Don’t act like it didn’t happen.”

She lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, it happened. And you know what else happened? You lost your temper on the field like a—” She stops herself, pressing her fingers to her temples. When she looks back at me, her expression is tired, frustrated, and something else she doesn’t want me to see.

I close the distance between us. Just enough that I can see her breathing change. Just enough that I know she still feels this too.

“You don’t get to do that,” she whispers, her voice thinner now. “You don’t get to throw punches and storm onto the field every time something happens to me.”

I should step back.

I should let her finish.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t regret it.

Not one goddamn second of it.

My voice drops. “You think I had a choice?”

Her breath catches. “Graham?—”

“No,” I cut her off, my voice lower now. Rougher. “I saw you go down, Anastasia, and I moved. I didn’t think. I didn’t care who was watching. I just knew that you were on the ground, and I wasn’t there fast enough.”

Something flickers in her eyes. “You can’t?—”

I reach for her, one hand brushing her hip, the other sliding up to cup her jaw, tilting her face up to mine. “I can’t what?”

She swallows. “You can’t look at me like that.”

Like I want to ruin every reason she’s given me to stay away?

Like I want to taste her again until she forgets why she’s even mad?

“Too bad,” I murmur, my thumb tracing over her cheekbone. “Because I can’t stop.”

Her breath shudders against my lips.

And then she breaks.

Her hands grip my shirt, pulling me closer just as I crush my mouth against hers.

The kiss is nothing like the first one.

It’s hotter, angrier, and desperate in a way that feels inevitable.

Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling into the fabric like she can’t stand the space between us.

I press her back against the counter, my hands gripping her waist, thumbs sliding under the hem of her coat, feeling the warmth of her skin through her shirt.

She moans softly into my mouth, and the sound damn near wrecks me.

I deepen the kiss, my fingers skimming up her spine, feeling her shudder against me.

She tastes like adrenaline and frustration and something so fucking addictive I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.

Then she makes a noise in the back of her throat—something caught between surrender and restraint—and suddenly she’s pulling away, pressing her palms flat against my chest.

I don’t move at first, breathing hard as my forehead rests against hers.

Then, finally, her hands tighten into fists against my shirt, and she exhales shakily.

“This is a mistake,” she whispers.

My hands slide to her waist, my grip firm, my heart still hammering against my ribs.

“No,” I murmur. “This is the only thing that’s felt real since you walked back into my life.”

She closes her eyes, inhaling sharply.

But we both know there’s no walking away now.

I watch her try to work through every excuse in real-time. The way her fingers tighten around her arms, the way her throat moves when she swallows, the way she refuses to meet my eyes for longer than a few seconds.

She’s stalling.

Looking for an out that doesn’t exist anymore.

“It’s against the rules, Graham,” she says, but this time, her voice isn’t sharp—it’s strained.

She’s fighting something, something we both know she’s losing.

I step closer, eating up the last bit of space between us. “Then I’ll change the rules.”

Her head snaps up, eyes wide. “You can’t just?—”

“I can,” I cut in, voice steady. “And I will.”

Her hands drop to her sides, her shoulders stiff as she shakes her head. “That’s not the point.”

“No?” I challenge. “Then what is?”

She exhales hard, blinking rapidly like she’s searching for the right words. But I already know what she wants to say.

She wants to tell me that this is wrong. That there are lines that shouldn’t be crossed.

But the problem?

We already crossed them. The second we saw each other again, the second I looked at her in that conference room and felt the past come roaring back, the second she kissed me like she was trying to bury every excuse she had left.

And now, she’s trying to shove everything back into a neat little box that doesn’t exist anymore.

I don’t let her.

“Come to my place,” I say, watching her reaction carefully.

She freezes. “What?”

“My penthouse,” I clarify. “Tonight. We need to talk. Figure this out.”

She lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking her head. “You don’t really think talking is what’s going to happen, do you?”

I hold her gaze, dead serious. “Yes.”

Her breath catches. Just barely.

She knows me well enough to know that I wouldn’t say something I didn’t mean. That if I’m asking her to come over, it’s because I’m done playing games.

She shifts on her feet, the internal war still raging behind her eyes.

I watch her throat bob as she inhales slowly, then lets out a long, controlled breath.

I wait.

Because I already know what her answer is going to be.

She shakes her head once, like she can’t believe she’s even considering it, then exhales sharply.

“Fine,” she mutters. “But I mean it, Graham. Just talking.”

I almost smile. Because we both know that’s a lie.

But I nod. “Just talking.”

Her gaze narrows slightly, not missing the way my voice dips lower, the way I don’t sound entirely convinced.

I don’t blame her.

Because I’m not.

I let the moment stretch, watching the way her fingers flex, the way she shifts her weight like she’s resisting the pull between us.

Finally, she turns on her heel, walking away without looking back.

I don’t stop her this time.

Because she’s coming to me tonight.

And when she does?

We’re finally going to stop pretending.

I watch her walk away, her shoulders squared like she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will. Like she’s convincing herself this is just another conversation, just another problem to solve.

But it’s not.

We both know it.

And as I stand there, hands clenched at my sides, jaw still tight from everything that just happened, I can already feel the night closing in on us.

Because when she walks into my penthouse tonight?

This thing between us—the one we’ve been pretending we can bury under rules and consequences and professional ethics?

It’s going to explode.

I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders back, trying to shake the leftover tension in my body, but it’s useless.

I’m still wired from the fight. From the press conference. From her.

Always her.

I can still feel her fingers twisted in my shirt. Still taste her on my lips. Still hear the way her breath hitched right before she pulled away.

And now, all I can think about is how much more of her I want.

I run a hand over my jaw, dragging my fingers through my hair as I start toward the exit, knowing there’s no way I’m staying here another second.

I need a cold shower. A stiff drink. Anything to get my head on straight before I see her again.

But deep down, I already know the truth.

There’s no getting my head on straight when it comes to Anastasia Bellows.

Because the second she steps through my door tonight?

I’m going to want everything.

And this time?

I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself from taking it.

I don’t pace. I don’t fidget.

I’ve built an entire life on control, on keeping my emotions locked down, on making sure that no one ever sees more of me than I want them to.

But right now?

Right now, I’m on edge, and I fucking hate it.

I sit on the edge of the couch, one foot planted on the floor, my hands clasped in front of me as I watch the city lights flicker through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Toronto stretches out before me, a sea of movement and energy, but I don’t see any of it.

Because I’m waiting for her.

The whiskey tumbler on the coffee table is barely touched, the ice melting into a pool at the bottom. I should drink it. Should let the burn settle in my chest, smooth the edges of whatever the hell is clawing at me from the inside out.

But I don’t.

Because the second I do?

She’ll walk through the door, and I don’t want my judgment blurred when that happens.

I want to remember every second of tonight.

I drag a hand through my hair, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the restless energy coiling in my muscles.

It doesn’t help.

She’ll be here soon.

And when she gets here, we’re supposed to talk.

That’s what she said. That’s what she thinks is going to happen.

But I know better.

We don’t talk. We argue. We fight. We collide.

And the last time we tried to talk, I ended up kissing the breath out of her.

Now?

Now I’m waiting for the woman I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since the second I left Cape Town.

And I know, without a doubt, that once she walks through that door?

Nothing between us will ever be the same again.