Playing The Field (The Toronto Tigers #1)

Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Graham

S he’s watching me.

I can feel it. The way her eyes track every move I make, curiosity flickering behind those green irises as I set the eggs on the counter and pull the bacon from the fridge. I don’t look at her, but the weight of her gaze is there, a constant presence in the air between us.

I like it.

Christ, I like it too much.

“What?” I ask, grabbing a pan from the hanging rack above the island.

Anastasia smirks against the rim of her coffee mug. “Just didn’t take you for a guy who actually cooks his own breakfast. Thought maybe you had a Michelin-starred chef hiding somewhere in here.”

I snort, cracking eggs into a bowl. “I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself, Bellows.”

“Impressive.”

I smirk at her but before I can fire back, my phone vibrates on the counter. I don’t have to check to know it’s the alert I’ve been waiting for.

One glance confirms it—an email from my scout about Bodhi Donovan, the young scrum-half I’ve had my eye on. Kid’s got quick hands, sharp instincts, and plays with an edge I like. He’s been stuck in a minor league team in British Columbia, but I know talent when I see it. And he’s got it.

I set down the whisk and reach for my phone. “Make yourself useful, Bellows,” I say, already scrolling for Bodhi’s number. “Think you can handle bacon and eggs while I make a call?”

She arches a brow but slides off her stool, taking my place at the stove. “Sure. But if I burn the bacon, you only have yourself to blame.”

I shake my head, pressing the phone to my ear.

The line rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then—

A gruff, vaguely confused voice answers. “Who’s this?”

“Bodhi, this is Graham Callahan.” I lean against the counter, watching Anastasia crack eggs into the bowl I abandoned. “Owner of the Toronto Tigers.”

Silence.

Then—

A snort. “Yeah, okay, and I’m the king of England. Nice try, buddy.”

The line goes dead.

I blink at my phone. Did that little bastard just?—

A sharp laugh bubbles from Anastasia, and I glance up to find her grinning at me, spatula in hand.

“Did he just hang up on you?”

I exhale slowly, shaking my head. “He did.”

She lets out another laugh, turning back to the stove. “I like him already.”

I shake my head, tossing my phone onto the counter and crossing my arms. Either the kid has no idea what kind of opportunity he just threw away, or he’s got a sense of humor as dry as mine.

Three minutes later, my phone vibrates again.

I answer before the first ring finishes.

“…So, uh, yeah, turns out you are Graham Callahan.” Bodhi’s voice is sheepish. “That’s, uh—my bad. Didn’t think team owners just randomly called guys like me.”

“I don’t randomly call anyone, Donovan,” I say evenly. “I call players I want on my team.”

Silence.

Then, a breath. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

Another beat of hesitation before he exhales. “Damn. Alright. I’m listening.”

I walk him through the basics—a potential spot on the team, an invitation to check out the facilities, a conversation about what a real career in pro rugby could look like for him. By the time I finish, I can tell he’s intrigued.

“I’ll set up a meeting with my agent,” he says finally. “See what we’re working with.”

“Good. Come down next week. Meet the team. See if this is the right fit.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” he says, a little breathless. “Sounds good.”

We wrap up the call, and I set my phone down just as the smell of bacon and eggs fills the kitchen.

I turn to find Anastasia plating up two servings of scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and toast.

I lift a brow. “Not bad, Bellows.”

She smirks. “Told you I was useful.”

We sit at the island, side by side, plates in front of us.

And then?—

She sets down her fork.

“Graham,” she says slowly.

I know that tone.

I glance up. “Anastasia.”

Her lips press together like she’s trying not to be thrown off by the way I say her name, but she shakes her head, determined. “We need to talk about this.”

“This?”

Her eyes narrow. “Us.”

I set my fork down, leaning back in my chair. “You think there’s an us?”

Her nostrils flare. “Don’t start, Callahan.”

I smirk, but the weight of what she’s saying settles between us.

She exhales, fingers toying with the edge of her napkin. “We work together now. This—” she gestures vaguely between us “—complicates things.”

I watch her, studying the tension in her shoulders, the way she chews on the inside of her cheek like she’s bracing for a fight. I should tell her we need to stop this. That she’s right. That we need to set boundaries, keep things professional.

Instead—

“I don’t regret it,” I say simply.

She blinks, caught off guard.

Her voice is quieter when she asks, “You don’t?”

“No.” I hold her gaze. “Do you?”

She hesitates.

Then, her shoulders drop, and she exhales.

“No.”

There’s something raw in her voice. Something that makes my chest tighten.

I reach for my coffee, taking a slow sip before setting it down.

“Then let’s not overthink this.”

She gives me a look. “You always overthink things.”

I smirk. “Not about you.”

Her lips part slightly, her fingers still fidgeting with the napkin, like she doesn’t know what to do with my answer.

“Anastasia,” I say, my voice steady. “If you want to stop this—say the word.”

A long silence stretches between us. As much as I want to rush her, I know it won’t be wise. Anatasia is young and to some degree still impulsive. She should be in the prime of her life when it comes to dating, whereas I’ve already been around the block. A few times.

Then, finally, she exhales, shaking her head.

She picks up her fork, scooping a bite of eggs onto it. “I hate you,” she mutters, shoving the bite into her mouth.

I grin. “No, you don’t.”

Anastasia finishes her breakfast like she’s plotting my demise.

She stabs her eggs with unnecessary force, aggressively crunches her toast, and glares at her coffee like it personally offended her. But she doesn’t leave. Not yet.

I take my time finishing my own meal, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She’s already working herself up into another internal debate—I can see it in the way her brows pull together, the way she fidgets with her napkin, twisting it between her fingers like it’s the only thing keeping her from bolting.

I lean back, sip my coffee. Wait her out.

Finally, she exhales sharply, pushing her plate away. “I have to go.”

I raise a brow. “That eager to get away from me?”

She scowls. “I have work, Callahan. Some of us have actual schedules to keep.”

I smirk, unfazed. “And what do you call the meeting I have with Brandt in forty minutes?”

Her scowl deepens. “An ego-boosting excuse to micromanage the team?”

I chuckle, standing as she slides off the stool. “Not quite. More like a necessary evil.”

She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the way her gaze flickers over me when I stretch, my shirt pulling slightly over my abs.

I file that little reaction away for later.

Instead, I nod toward the hall. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

She hesitates, like she’s debating whether to argue with me, but then sighs, grabbing her bag from the counter. “Fine.”

I follow her to the front door, watching as she zips up her coat. Her hair is still slightly damp from the shower, curling at the ends. There’s no makeup on her face, just the natural flush of her skin, the smudge of exhaustion lingering under her eyes.

She looks … soft.

And I don’t like the way that does something to my chest.

She catches me staring and arches a brow. “What?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

She squints at me suspiciously, but then she exhales, pulling open the door. A gust of cold morning air rushes in, making her shiver slightly.

I reach past her, gripping the door frame. “Be careful.”

She blinks up at me. “It’s a five-minute drive, not a cross-country expedition.”

I smirk. “Still.”

For a second, it looks like she’s going to say something else. But then she shakes her head, steps over the threshold. “I’ll see you at work, Mr. Callahan.”

And then she’s gone.

I watch her until she disappears down the hallway, her footsteps fading.

Then, with a sigh, I shut the door.

The warmth of the morning—the coffee, her lingering presence, the feel of her body against mine—is already fading.

The quiet settles in, pressing against me in a way that feels too damn noticeable. I scrub a hand over my jaw, exhaling slowly before turning back toward the kitchen.

Focus, Callahan.

I have forty minutes before I need to be at the facility with Brandt to go over last night’s game. A game we won. A game where, for the first time this season, the Tigers actually played like a team.

I walk back to the counter, picking up my half-finished coffee and taking a slow sip. It’s lukewarm now, but I barely register the taste. My mind is still running through the details of last night’s match against Seattle. The Tigers came in as the underdogs, written off by most analysts before the game even started.

And then?

They shut everyone up.

Dominic Carter was ruthless on the field, leading the charge with the kind of controlled aggression that makes him one of the best captains in the league. The forwards were solid, unyielding, breaking through Seattle’s defense with sheer force. And the backline—despite my concerns—held their own.

It was the kind of win that gets people talking. The kind that sends a message.

But I know better than to get comfortable.

I set my mug down, pulling out my phone and flipping through my messages until I find what I’m looking for.

A confirmation from Bodhi Donovan.

Looking forward to it. See you next week.

Good. That’s one thing checked off my list.

I lean against the counter, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the marble surface. Bodhi’s got potential—raw talent that hasn’t been developed the way it should be. I watched the footage. The kid is fast, unpredictable, and has the kind of instinct you can’t teach. If we can get him here, get him in the right environment, he could be exactly what we need to take this team to the next level.

Now, I just have to get through a meeting with Brandt, who will be tearing apart last night’s game with the same intensity whether we won or lost. That’s why I hired him. He doesn’t settle. He doesn’t get complacent. And neither do I.

But before I deal with Brandt, I need to deal with the other problem sitting at the back of my mind.

Anastasia.

I exhale sharply, running a hand down my face. Even now, I can still feel the warmth of her against me, the press of her body from this morning, the way she looked at me when she said she didn’t regret any of it.

And that should be enough to settle something in me.

But it doesn’t.

Because the problem isn’t that I regret it.

The problem is that I don’t.

And that’s a complication I can’t afford to dwell on right now.

I shake off the thought and push away from the counter, grabbing my keys and jacket as I head for the door.

The Tigers just proved they’re not a team to be underestimated.

And now, it’s my job to make sure they don’t lose that momentum.

By the time I pull into the Tigers’ training facility, my mind is back where it needs to be.

On the team. On the work ahead. On the fact that last night’s win was good—but not good enough.

I step out of my car, scanning the parking lot as I make my way inside. A few of the guys are already here, stretching out or hitting the gym, and I nod to them as I pass. I don’t stop. Not yet.

Brandt is waiting for me.

I find him in the film room, exactly where I expected him to be, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen in front of him. The game footage is paused mid-play, the Tigers’ defensive line caught in motion. He doesn’t look up as I enter, just gestures toward the chair beside him.

“Sit.”

I smirk. “You gonna scold me, Coach?”

His lips twitch, but his focus stays on the screen. “I’ll let you decide.”

I drop into the chair, my elbows resting on my knees. The footage rolls, and for the next twenty minutes, we go over every detail of last night’s game.

The good.

The bad.

The parts that need fixing.

Brandt rewinds a clip, pausing on a moment where our current scrum-half hesitates for half a second too long. That hesitation cost us a clean breakaway.

“That,” Brandt says, pointing at the screen, “is why we’re still not where we need to be.”

I nod, already knowing what he’s going to say next.

“Our attack is solid. Defense is getting stronger. But we need someone who can drive the pace of play. Who sees the openings before they happen. A guy with quick hands, quick feet, and a fucking brain that moves faster than the opposition.”

I smirk. “Sounds like you just described Bodhi Donovan.”

Brandt finally looks at me, interest flickering in his sharp eyes. “You think the kid’s got what it takes?”

“I do.” I lean back, crossing my arms. “I watched his tape. He’s raw, but he’s got instinct. He plays like he’s got something to prove, and I like that.”

Brandt considers that, then nods. “If he can handle the pressure at this level, he could be exactly what we need.”

“He’ll be here next week. We’ll see what he’s made of.”

Another nod. “Good.”

For the next half hour, we work through adjustments—small tweaks to the game plan, things to drill into the guys before our next match. When we’re done, I stand, rolling my shoulders as Brandt shuts down the film.

“Overall,” he says, glancing at me as I head toward the door, “not a bad game.”

I smirk. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise.”

His chuckle follows me out of the room.

I step into the hallway, nodding to a few players as I pass, and check my watch. The day is moving fast. Too fast.

And I still haven’t checked in with Anastasia.

I pull out my phone, staring at the screen for half a second before shaking my head at myself.

We said we wouldn’t overthink this.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see her again.

I tap out a quick text before I can talk myself out of it.

You free tonight?

I slip my phone back into my pocket and head toward my office. It barely vibrates before I pull it out again, the response already there.

Can’t. I have plans.

I stare at the message for a beat longer than I should.

Plans.

It shouldn’t bother me. I don’t own her time. But something about the shortness of her reply sits uneasily in my chest.

I run my tongue over my teeth, debating whether or not to ask.

Screw it.

Work or personal?

There’s a pause before her reply comes through.

Personal.

I exhale slowly, flexing my grip around my phone before tapping out my response.

Have fun.

I pocket my phone and roll my shoulders, shaking off the ridiculous tightness in my chest.

I have more important things to focus on.

Like keeping this team on track.

Like not letting her become a distraction.

But as I step into my office and sit behind my desk, all I can think about is what kind of plans she has—and why the hell it bothers me so much.

I stare at my phone like it has the answers to a question I shouldn’t even be asking.

Personal.

She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t offer anything more. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask.

I shouldn’t care.

We agreed not to overthink this.

But the second I put my phone down, I feel the itch under my skin.

What kind of personal plans?

I drag a hand over my jaw and exhale through my nose, forcing myself to refocus. There are a dozen things demanding my attention—contracts, sponsorships, team logistics—but none of it is what I actually want to be thinking about right now.

I should be reviewing the notes from Brandt, but instead, I’m wondering if she’s out with someone.

The thought settles like a weight in my chest, heavier than I want to admit.

I push back from my desk and stand abruptly, pacing toward the window. Below me, the training field is buzzing with movement—players running drills, coaches shouting instructions—but I barely register it.

Instead, I pull my phone back out and open my texts again, rereading the last few messages like some kind of masochist.

It’s fine.

It’s nothing.

She has a life outside of this, outside of me.

And yet, that single-word answer—personal—is still eating away at me.

My fingers hover over the keyboard for a second too long before I shake my head at myself. Jesus, Callahan, pull it together.

I pocket my phone again, resolve settling in.

She’s doing her thing.

And I have a job to do.

Whatever the hell this thing is between us—it doesn’t change that.

I turn back toward my desk, grab the scouting report for Bodhi Donovan, and force myself to focus. Because I didn’t take over this team to let myself get distracted.

Even if Anastasia Bellows is becoming the hardest distraction I’ve ever had to ignore.