Playing The Field (The Toronto Tigers #1)

Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Anastasia

I stare at my phone, my fingers tightening around it like it might physically pull me back to him if I let it.

You free tonight?

Graham’s text is simple. Direct. A handful of words that should be easy to answer.

And I did answer.

Can’t. I have plans.

I should feel relieved—that I kept my distance, that I didn’t immediately fold at the first opportunity to see him again. But as I toss my phone onto my bed and glance at my reflection in the mirror, all I feel is… conflicted.

Because I want to see him.

And that’s the problem.

What is a guy like him doing with someone like me, anyway? We’re almost twenty years apart in age, and I’m sure Graham would rather date someone who’s, I don't know, more mature, maybe? So what is he doing with the likes of me?

The weight of this morning still lingers in my chest—his hands on my body, his voice in my ear, the way he looked at me when I told him I didn’t regret it.

The way I didn’t regret it.

I shake off the thought and focus on the present.

Tonight isn’t about Graham. It’s about taking a step back, breathing, reminding myself that I have a life that isn’t tangled up in him.

And it starts with a night out with Vee.

I reach for my lip gloss and swipe a thin layer on, giving myself a final once-over in the mirror. Tight black jeans, heeled boots, a cropped silky top in a deep wine-red shade that makes me feel like I have my shit together, even if I don’t. My hair is loose in waves, makeup simple but intentional.

It’s a look that says effortlessly cool, not trying to distract myself from the man currently taking up too much space in my head.

Just as I grab my jacket, Vee pops her head into my room. “Damn. You really went for it tonight.”

I smirk, turning to face my best friend and roommate. “We’re going to the most hyped bar on King Street. If I show up looking like I just crawled out of my third espresso martini of the week, we’ll never get past the velvet rope.”

Vee leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her fitted black dress, amusement flickering in her dark eyes. “Fair point.” A beat passes. Then—“But let’s be real. Are you dressing for them or for a certain billionaire rugby team owner?”

I groan, grabbing my bag as I brush past her. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

She grins, grabbing her keys off the entry table. “Deny all you want, Bellows, but I see you.”

I roll my eyes but don’t argue. Because if I open my mouth, I might just admit that I hate the idea of Graham wondering who I have plans with tonight.

The second we step inside the bar, I understand why this place has been all over my social media feed for the past week.

It’s sleek, modern, and effortlessly cool—the kind of bar that knows exactly what it is and doesn’t try too hard. The lighting is low, a mix of warm golden hues and the soft glow of neon signs casting shadows against the exposed brick walls. A DJ tucked into the corner spins a mix of deep house and R&B, the bass thrumming low beneath the hum of conversation.

The main bar stretches across one side of the room, all polished marble and gold accents, lined with patrons dressed like they walked straight out of an editorial spread. The mixologists behind the counter work with the kind of smooth efficiency that tells me these cocktails are overpriced but worth it.

Vee grabs my wrist, tugging me toward an opening at the bar. “First round’s on me.”

I smirk, arching a brow. “What’s the occasion?”

She grins. “Because I live for a Friday night out, and because my best friend looks hot tonight.”

I laugh, letting her order while I scan the room. The crowd is a mix of Toronto’s finest weekend warriors—finance bros in tailored blazers, fashion girls in slinky dresses, groups of friends dancing near the high-top tables. It’s a scene I’ve been in a hundred times before, and yet…

I don’t feel here.

Not completely.

Because while Vee chats with the bartender, I’m thinking about Graham.

I shouldn’t be. I know I shouldn’t be. But after this morning—after the way he looked at me, the way he felt—it’s impossible to pretend he’s not still under my skin.

And the worst part?

He hasn’t texted me.

Not since I told him I had plans.

It’s stupid. I’m busy. I’m out. I don’t want him to text me.

…Do I?

A martini glass slides into my line of sight, breaking through my spiraling thoughts. “Here,” Vee says, handing me a drink.

I take it, clinking it against hers before taking a slow sip. It’s good. Smooth, slightly tart, with a sugared rim that leaves a sweet contrast on my tongue.

Vee studies me over the rim of her own glass, eyes sharp despite the warm buzz of alcohol that’s already making her more relaxed.

“Alright, spill,” she says. “You’re here, but you’re not here. Who’s in that overactive brain of yours?”

I scoff, taking another sip. “Nobody.”

Her brows lift. “Nobody, huh?”

I stay silent.

Her smirk turns smug. “I swear to God, if you say Graham, I’m going to start charging you a therapist’s fee.”

I groan, pressing my fingers to my temples. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You love me. And you also love torturing yourself.”

I shoot her a glare. “I do not.”

She shrugs, sipping her drink. “Then why haven’t you just texted him?”

My stomach tightens. “Because?—”

Vee cuts me off with a pointed look. “Ana. Babe. You want to text him. So just do it.”

I hesitate, fingers tightening around my glass. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why? Because you’re pretending that whatever this is between you two doesn’t actually mean something?”

I exhale sharply, shifting on my stool. “No, because we work together. And because he’s older than I am. And because I told him I had plans, and he didn’t ask questions. No ‘who with?’ No ‘when will I see you next?’ Just… radio silence.”

Vee considers that, then sets down her drink. “Do you want him to be jealous?”

I shake my head. “No.”

She gives me a look.

“…Maybe?”

Vee grins. “That’s my girl.”

I groan. “This is stupid.”

She rolls her eyes. “Listen. If you want to text him, text him. You don’t owe him details about your night, and you sure as hell don’t need to wait around for him to make the next move. If you want something, you go for it. Period.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek, her words sinking in.

Do I want to text him?

Yes.

Would I regret it if I didn’t?

Probably.

I pull out my phone and stare at the last message in our thread.

Have fun.

I hesitate. Then, before I can overthink it, I type two words.

You up?

Vee sees the message and smirks, raising her glass. “Atta girl.”

The second I hit send, I regret it. Graham must have more important things taking up his time, and right now I feel like a freshman in high school who’s crushing on a teacher, never mind a senior. Granted, being with someone like Graham is better than trying to date someone my own age, but it makes me wonder if our age difference is as obvious to him as it is to me. Or if I'm just in my head about it. Ugh. Overthinking is the pits.

I stare at my phone, my heart thudding a little harder than I’d like to admit. The bar is buzzing around me—music pumping through the speakers, the clink of glasses, the low hum of conversations—but all I can focus on is the three little dots blinking on my screen.

He’s typing.

I can already picture him—probably still at his office, or maybe at home, his phone in one hand, his jaw tight, expression unreadable.

Then, his reply pops up.

Always.

My stomach dips.

Of course he’s up. He’s always up, always working, always thinking three steps ahead. I should let it go, put my phone down, and get back to my night with Vee.

But I don’t.

Instead, I take another sip of my drink, my inhibitions loosened just enough to type something else.

What are you doing?

His reply is almost immediate.

Working.

Of course.

I let out a quiet scoff, shaking my head at myself. What did I expect? For him to say he’s thinking about me? That he’s been waiting for me to text?

I know better than that.

I should leave it at that, but before I can stop myself, I type out another message.

Must be riveting if you didn’t check in on me all night.

I don’t expect a reaction. But I get one.

The dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.

Then—

Didn’t realize I needed to check in.

I narrow my eyes at the screen.

You don’t.

Forget I said anything.

Another pause. This one longer.

Then—

No. You said it. So what’s the problem, Anastasia?

My grip tightens on my phone, and I feel Vee watching me from the side. “Okay, what’s with the face? You look like you’re either about to puke or commit murder.”

I huff out a breath, tossing my phone onto the bar. “Graham is being… Graham.”

Vee smirks. “You did text him first.”

“I know.” I pick up my drink and take a longer sip. “And now I wish I hadn’t.”

Her smirk widens. “Liar.”

I groan, but before I can argue, my phone buzzes again.

Where are you?

Oh, now he asks.

I exhale sharply and type back.

Out.

With who?

My pulse ticks up, frustration curling in my chest.

Does it matter?

I watch the screen, waiting. Waiting for him to say something, to do something.

Finally, his response comes through.

If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be asking.

Something about those words—the casual possessiveness, the assumption that I owe him an answer—sets me off.

I press my lips together, my fingers flying over the keyboard before I can think better of it.

You didn’t ask before. Didn’t seem to care when I said I had plans.

I figured you’d tell me if you wanted me to know.

Maybe I figured you’d ask if you wanted to know.

Another pause. Then?—

Jesus, Ana. Are we really doing this over text?

I grit my teeth.

What exactly are we doing, Graham?

Silence.

No typing bubble. No immediate reply.

Vee watches me, her smirk gone. “Okay. What did he say?”

“Nothing.” I swallow past the knot in my throat, my heart pounding harder than it should. “Absolutely nothing.”

Vee makes a face. “Oof. That’s worse than a bad response.”

I exhale sharply, blinking against the frustration burning behind my eyes. This is stupid. It’s stupid how much this affects me. How much I wanted him to say something that would make me feel like I wasn’t the only one caught up in this mess.

But he didn’t.

And that?

That tells me everything I need to know.

I turn my phone face-down on the bar, grab my drink, and force a smile. “Screw it. We’re having a good night. No more distractions.”

Vee studies me for a second, then nods. “Damn right.”

And just like that, I push Graham Callahan to the back of my mind.

Or at least, I try to.

I’m definitely tipsy.

Not wasted—I’m not sloppy or about to make bad decisions—but there’s enough alcohol in my system that my limbs feel loose, my body moving easily to the heavy bass thumping through the club.

Vee and I are on the dance floor, and for the first time all night, I let myself lean into the music, let it pull me out of my own head. My body sways, hips rolling in time with the beat, my arms lifting above my head as I let out a breath that feels lighter than it has in hours.

I needed this.

Needed the noise, the distraction. Needed the reminder that my life isn’t just tangled up in Graham Callahan.

But just as I start to believe that, the air around me shifts.

A presence behind me.

A familiar presence.

Strong hands settle low on my hips, warm and steady, fingers pressing firmly through the thin material of my top. A solid chest brushes against my back, and a low voice rumbles in my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Having fun?”

I freeze.

No.

No way.

I spin around, my heart slamming against my ribs as I find myself face-to-face with him.

Graham.

Here.

His blue eyes are sharp, hooded, his expression unreadable. But there’s something else there too—something simmering just beneath the surface. Something possessive.

My pulse jumps, a mix of irritation and something else pulsing through me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

His grip on my hips tightens slightly, keeping me close. “You tell me. You’re the one who texted me.”

I blink, my brain lagging. “I did not.”

He lifts a brow, then holds up his phone. And sure enough, there it is. A message from my number.

Me: You were right. I wanted you to ask.

What. The. Fuck.

I snatch my phone out of my pocket, scrolling through my messages—and then I see it.

Sent fifteen minutes ago.

By Vee.

That traitorous little gremlin.

My head snaps toward her, but she just grins, sipping her cocktail from a safe distance. She waves, mouthing, You’re welcome , before spinning back into the music.

I turn back to Graham, my body still pressed against his. “She texted you.”

His lips curve slightly. “I figured as much.”

“And you came?”

His jaw tics, his hands flexing slightly on my hips. “Did you want me to?”

I inhale sharply. The club feels hotter, the air between us thick with something I can’t shake. My heart is hammering against my ribs, but I refuse to let him see how much he affects me.

“I don’t know,” I murmur, eyes locked on his. “Did you want to come?”

His expression darkens.

“Yeah,” he says roughly. “I did.”

My breath catches.

Because despite the back and forth, despite the games we play with each other, that—that right there is real.

And it terrifies me.

I swallow, my fingers gripping his forearms where they rest against my hips. The music pulses around us, but I don’t hear it. All I hear is the silence between us, stretching too long, too deep.

He leans in slightly, his breath warm against my ear. “Come outside with me.”

I should say no.

I should.

But I don’t.

I nod.

The second the cold night air hits my skin, I regret this.

Not because I don’t want answers. Not because I don’t want him.

But because I already know how this is going to go.

The tension between us is thick, coiling like a storm about to break. Graham’s grip on my wrist is firm but not tight—like he’s holding onto control with the same vice grip he has on everything else in his life. He doesn’t say a word as he leads me around the side of the building, away from the music, the flashing lights, and the crowd of people spilling onto King Street.

It’s quieter back here, the noise of the city muffled by brick walls and distance. The streetlamps cast long shadows, the glow of the neon bar sign flickering against the alleyway pavement.

He finally stops, releasing me as he turns to face me.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—they give him away.

Frustration.

Possession.

Something else, something heavier, something I don’t want to name.

I cross my arms, shifting my weight onto one foot. “Alright, Callahan. What the hell are you doing here?”

His jaw tics, his fingers flexing like he’s itching to grab something—me, maybe. “You texted me.”

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You know I didn’t.”

“You didn’t stop me from coming,” he counters, stepping closer. “So what do you want, Anastasia?”

My breath catches, but I don’t let him see it. “Oh, screw you,” I snap, heat rushing to my face. “You were the one who went radio silent the second I told you I had plans. Didn’t ask a single fucking question. Didn’t check in. And now, suddenly, I’m supposed to be grateful that you showed up because Vee decided to play matchmaker?”

His nostrils flare. “You wanted me to ask?”

I throw up my hands. “I don’t know, Graham! Maybe! Maybe I just wanted to know if you actually gave a shit or if I was just another thing you could pick up and put down whenever it was convenient for you!”

His jaw tightens, his whole body going rigid. “That’s what you think?” His voice is quiet, but there’s steel beneath it.

I swallow, my pulse hammering. “What am I supposed to think?”

His eyes flash. “You think I don’t care?”

“I think,” I spit out, voice shaking, “that you don’t know what you want.”

He exhales harshly, raking a hand through his hair. “I want this—” He gestures between us, then shakes his head, expression darkening. “But I can’t—we can’t?—”

I wait, heart pounding.

But he doesn’t finish the sentence.

And that—that right there is the problem.

Because he wants me.

But not enough to figure his shit out.

Not enough to fight for this, whatever it is.

The realization stings, worse than I expect it to.

I square my shoulders, forcing my voice to steady. “You know what, Graham? Fuck you.”

His head jerks back slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that.

I take a step back, wrapping my arms around myself as if that will protect me from the ache blooming in my chest. “You don’t get to show up here and act like I’m the one who needs to explain myself. You don’t get to push and pull and expect me to just wait while you figure out what the hell you want.”

His expression is unreadable, his fists clenched at his sides.

I shake my head. “I’m done with this conversation.”

Then, before I can give myself a chance to change my mind, I turn on my heel and walk away.

I don’t stop.

I don’t look back.

I march straight back inside, through the blur of music and people, searching for Vee.

Because I need to get out of here.