Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Graham
F uck.
I watch her storm off, her hair whipping over her shoulder, her back rigid with frustration, and every instinct in my body screams at me to stop her.
So I do.
Before I can think better of it, I move. Quick strides closing the distance between us, my fingers wrapping gently but firmly around her wrist just before she reaches the door.
“Ana—”
She spins on me, eyes flashing, voice sharp. “Don’t.”
I tighten my grip just slightly, enough to keep her from running, but not enough to make her feel trapped. “Are we really doing this?”
Her lips part, breath coming hard and fast, her chest rising and falling. “We already did this.”
“No.” I shake my head, my jaw tight. “We had a miscommunication, and now you’re acting like I?—”
“Like what, Graham?” she demands, yanking her arm free. “Like you don’t know how to let people in? Like you push and pull and expect me to just be here whenever you decide you can handle whatever the hell this is between us?”
I stare at her, my pulse hammering. “You think I don’t want you?”
Her laugh is sharp, bitter. “Wanting me isn’t the fucking problem, Graham. It’s what happens after.”
The words land deep, and I exhale hard through my nose, running a hand through my hair. “You’re twisting this into something it’s not.”
She scoffs. “Am I?”
I step forward, closing the space between us, and lowering my voice. “You’re pissed that I didn’t text you all night, and I’m pissed that you’re pissed. This is fucking ridiculous.”
Her breath catches, her body still, eyes locked on mine.
I press on, voice rough. “I wanted to ask. I wanted to check in. But you told me you had plans, and I wasn’t going to be the asshole who acted like you needed my permission to have a life outside of me.”
Her throat bobs, her lips parting slightly, but she doesn’t speak.
I shake my head, frustration bleeding through. “And now you’re mad that I did show up? What the hell was I supposed to do, Ana?”
She exhales sharply, eyes darting to the side like she’s looking for an escape route. “You weren’t supposed to do anything, Graham. That’s the whole fucking point.”
My teeth clench. “You’re making this harder than it has to be.”
Her eyes snap back to mine, and for a second, I think she might back down.
But instead, she squares her shoulders, lifting her chin, voice cold. “And you’re making this mean less than it does.”
Something cracks in my chest, deep and unwelcome.
Because she’s right.
And she knows she’s right.
I could tell her she was wrong. I could tell her that she’s twisting this into something bigger, something messier than it needs to be.
But I don’t.
Because the truth?
I’m scared of what it does mean.
I’m scared of what she means.
And she sees it.
She sees it.
Her breath shudders slightly, and she shakes her head, stepping back. “That’s what I thought.”
I move toward her, but she lifts a hand. “Don’t.”
I freeze.
She inhales, then exhales, steadying herself, before looking up at me one last time. “Go home, Graham.”
And then she turns.
And this time?
I let her go.
I don’t move.
Not at first.
I stand there, jaw locked, hands curled into fists, watching her disappear into the crowd.
Go home, Graham.
The words echo in my head, reverberating like a fucking punch to the ribs.
I should go.
I should let her walk away, and give her the space she clearly wants.
But I don’t want to.
I drag a hand over my jaw, exhaling hard, willing myself to turn around, to be rational, to not follow her back inside and make a bigger scene than we already have.
But fuck if that isn’t exactly what I want to do.
My pulse is still hammering, my head still clouded with frustration—at her, at myself, at this entire situation I let get too far out of my hands.
I run my tongue over my teeth, staring at the door she just walked through.
I could fix this.
I could walk back in there, pull her aside, make her listen—make her understand that this thing between us is not something I take lightly.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Because if I do that, if I tell her what I really feel—what I really want—then I have to admit that this isn’t just something casual.
I have to admit that I’m in too deep.
That I was in too deep the second I saw her in that bar in Cape Town.
I shake my head, huffing out a breath, and turn toward the street instead.
Space.
That’s what she wants.
Fine.
She’ll get it.
But that doesn’t mean I’m letting this go.
Not even fucking close.
Two days.
That’s how long Anastasia has been avoiding me.
Not just the kind of avoidance where she happens to be busy. No, this is intentional. Calculated.
She’s been in meetings when I’ve been in the office. Too focused on game prep to acknowledge me in the training facility. Always walking in the opposite direction when I’m near.
I let it slide the first day. Gave her space. Let her sit with her anger, let myself sit with mine.
But by the second day, it’s starting to piss me off.
We have a job to do. We have a job to do. And she’s acting like I don’t exist.
Which is why, when I saw the rooming list for the away trip to Utah, I might have… made an adjustment.
It wasn’t intentional at first.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
The team was already splitting into separate hotel blocks, coaching staff in one section, and team medical staff in another. The natural solution would have been to put Anastasia with the other medical staff. But a small tweak—one tiny request—meant that her room just so happened to be next to mine.
Interconnected by a single door.
The perfect way to get her to talk to me.
It’s not exactly manipulation.
I just… created the right opportunity.
If she wants to yell at me, she can. If she wants to slam the door in my face, she’s free to do that too.
But ignoring me?
That’s no longer an option.
By the time the team lands in Utah, the tension in my body is a dull, familiar hum.
The game against the Warriors is a big one. They’re right behind us in the standings, and if we slip up, they’ll take our spot.
But I’m not just tense because of the game.
I’m tense because I know exactly what’s coming when Anastasia realizes what I’ve done.
And I don’t have to wait long.
I’m in my room, pulling my duffel onto the bed when I hear the sound.
A loud, angry knock.
Followed by?—
“What the hell, Graham?”
I smirk.
Right on time.
I take my time walking to the connecting door, unlocking it, and swinging it open to find Anastasia standing there, eyes blazing, her bag still slung over her shoulder.
“I swear to God,” she hisses, “if you had anything to do with this?—”
“Had anything to do with what, exactly?” I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms.
Her nostrils flare. “The rooms, Callahan. This door. Why is my room connected to yours?”
I give her an innocent look. “Must’ve been a mix-up.”
She lets out a sharp laugh. “Bullshit.”
I shrug, knowing full well that my calm is only going to make her angrier. “Seems efficient, doesn’t it? You’re part of the staff. I’m the owner. If I need something?—”
“If you need something?” she cuts in, voice rising. “Graham, do you even hear yourself?”
I push off the doorframe, stepping closer. “I needed to talk to you. But you’ve spent the last two days acting like I don’t exist, so I had to get creative.”
Her mouth opens, then closes, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.
“You don’t get to control everything,” she bites out.
I nod slowly. “You’re right.”
Her brows furrow, thrown off by my agreement.
“But you don’t get to ignore me, either,” I continue, my voice lower now. Calm. “Not after that fight. Not after what we said. We work together, Anastasia. You can be mad at me all you want, but this?” I gesture between us. “This shit doesn’t work if we can’t even be in the same room.”
She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “This shit doesn’t work at all, Graham. Don’t you see that?”
Something inside me tenses. “That what you really think?”
She hesitates.
It’s brief. A split second.
But I catch it.
Her jaw sets again. “I think I need space.”
I nod, jaw tight. “Fine.”
She blinks, thrown off by my quick agreement. “Fine?”
I step back, gripping the edge of the door. “Fine,” I repeat. “You want space? You’ve got it.”
Then I shut the door between us.
I lock it.
And I wait to see if she knocks again.
She doesn’t.
And fuck if that doesn’t make me hate myself just a little bit more.
Graham
I don’t sleep well.
Not because I’m overthinking the argument—because I refuse to.
Not because I keep waiting for Anastasia to knock on that damn door—because I’m not.
It’s because I’m running plays in my head. Because tomorrow’s game matters. Because if we don’t win, the Warriors leapfrog us in the standings, and all the progress we’ve made this season takes a fucking hit.
That’s why I don’t sleep.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
But when morning rolls around, and I wake up feeling like I barely closed my eyes, I know that’s not entirely true.
The real reason I don’t sleep?
She’s on the other side of that damn door.
And I fucking hate it.
By the time we arrive at the stadium, my head is exactly where it needs to be—on the game.
The guys are dialed in, warming up on the field, stretching out tension, keeping their movements sharp. The energy is good. Focused. Determined.
I can’t afford to be distracted.
So I’m not.
Anastasia walks past me on the sidelines, clipboard in hand, her expression cool and unreadable. She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t look at me.
And I ignore the way that irritates the hell out of me.
I ignore the way everyone else notices it too.
Brandt side-eyes me after I snap at Dominic during pre-game drills. “Jesus, Callahan. You want to rip the kid’s head off, do it after he wins us a game.”
I exhale sharply. “Just keep them sharp, Brandt.”
He watches me for a beat too long, like he’s about to say something else, but then he just shakes his head and mutters under his breath before heading back toward the team.
Even Betty, who rarely travels for away games but made an exception for this one, catches on. She hands me a pre-game report and gives me a long, knowing look over her glasses.
“You’re in a mood today.”
“I’m fine,” I grit out, scanning the report.
She doesn’t buy it for a second. “No, you’re not,” she says dryly. “And if you don’t want me to start making bets on why, I’d suggest you fix it before someone else does.”
I glance at her, brow arching. “Making bets?”
She smirks. “Brandt thinks it’s the pressure of the standings. Dominic thinks it’s because the media is still running that ‘Can Callahan Lead?’ narrative. But me?” She pats my arm, lowering her voice. “I think it’s got nothing to do with rugby.”
My jaw tightens.
I don’t respond.
Mostly because she’s right.
And I fucking hate that she knows it.
So I do what I do best.
I focus.
I push the frustration down. Push her down.
The only thing that matters today is winning this goddamn game.
By the time kickoff rolls around, the stadium is packed, the energy electric.
Utah is hungry. Desperate to move up the standings.
But so are we.
I stand on the sidelines, arms crossed, watching as Dominic leads the team onto the field, the roar of the crowd vibrating through the air.
This is it.
The fight for second place.
I should be thinking about strategy, about execution, about how the Tigers need to keep the pressure on Utah’s weak outside defense.
Instead, my eyes flicker—just once—to where Anastasia stands a few yards away, completely focused on the players.
And just like that, my frustration spikes again.
Because she’s still acting like I don’t exist.
And that?
That’s more distracting than I want to admit.
Graham
From the moment the whistle blows, something feels off.
I can see it in the way the team moves, the split-second hesitation in their reactions, and the slight breakdowns in communication that weren’t there last week.
Utah comes out hard, crashing into contact with relentless energy, their forward pack setting a bruising pace in the opening minutes. The Warriors’ scrum-half is quick—faster than our defense is reacting to—and their fly-half is controlling the tempo, pinning us deep in our own half with pinpoint kicks.
Meanwhile, we’re scrambling.
Passes aren’t connecting. The breakdown is messy. The cohesion we had last week against Seattle? Gone.
I stand on the sideline, arms crossed, jaw tight, watching the first ten minutes unfold like a slow-moving disaster.
Then, it happens.
A turnover in midfield.
Their scrum-half pounces on a loose ball, flicking it wide before our defense has a chance to reset. Their outside center breaks the line, stepping past Carter, leaving our fullback, Zane, scrambling to cover the space.
It’s too late.
Their winger gets the ball in stride and sprints, nothing but open field ahead of him.
The crowd roars as he dives over the line.
Try.
Utah leads 5-0 after the conversion attempt goes wide.
I press my fingers against my temple, my pulse pounding.
Not the end of the world. We can come back from this. But I need to see something—a reaction, an adjustment.
Instead, the restart is sloppy.
Dominic boots the ball deep, but Utah recovers easily, their forwards setting another quick platform. We’re struggling to slow them down at the ruck, and it’s giving their halfbacks too much time to set the attack.
I shift my weight, tension coiling in my chest.
Next phase—another big carry from their number eight, barreling through our line, dragging two defenders with him before he’s finally brought to the ground.
Then their scrum-half plays it fast, catching us on the back foot again.
Another break.
Another desperate tackle from Zane, stopping them just outside our twenty-two.
“Where the hell is the urgency?” I snap, half to myself, half to Brandt, who’s standing a few feet away.
Brandt exhales sharply. “They’re flat. No energy. No edge.”
He’s right.
Something is missing.
And Utah can smell it.
They keep hammering away, controlling possession, making us chase them across the field. Our defense is bending under the pressure, and it’s only a matter of time before it breaks again.
Five minutes later, it does.
A perfectly timed offload splits our defensive line, their inside center slicing through untouched.
He scores under the posts.
The conversion is good.
12-0, Utah.
The stadium erupts.
I clench my jaw so hard it aches.
Brandt curses under his breath.
“We’re getting beaten at the breakdown,” he mutters. “They’re setting the tempo, and we’re playing catch-up.”
I know.
I fucking know.
The players jog back to halfway for the restart, their body language tense, and frustrated.
I glance toward Carter. His expression is tight, focused—but there’s a flicker of doubt there too.
And I hate it.
This isn’t who we are. This isn’t how we play.
But right now?
We look like a team that doesn’t belong in the top half of the table.
A team that’s about to let second place slip away.
And that?
That is not going to happen.
I step toward the sideline, my voice sharp and commanding.
“Wake the fuck up, boys.”
Carter hears me. So does the rest of the team.
But the question is—will they respond?
Halftime couldn’t come fast enough.
The team jogs off the field, shoulders tense, heads low, frustration written across every damn face. Brandt follows behind, muttering a curse under his breath as we head toward the locker room.
I don’t say a word until we’re inside.
Until the door slams shut.
Until every single player is looking at me, their jerseys damp with sweat, their breathing heavy, waiting.
Then, I let loose.
“What the fuck was that?” My voice is sharp, cutting through the tense silence. “You want to let them run all over us? You want to hand them the fucking game?”
Carter rolls his shoulders, shaking his head. “We’re trying, Graham, but?—”
“No.” I cut him off. “Trying isn’t enough. You know that. We’re reacting instead of setting the pace. We’re letting them dictate everything.” I drag a hand down my face, exhaling sharply before turning to Brandt. “What do you see?”
Brandt leans forward, arms crossed. “We’re losing the breakdown battle. Slow to reset on defense. And we’re playing too deep in attack—our scrum-half isn’t challenging the defensive line, which means they aren’t committing enough bodies to the ruck.” He looks at Carter. “We need quicker ball. Shorter carries. Stop trying to outmuscle them and start playing smart rugby.”
Carter nods, his jaw tight. “Got it.”
I scan the room, my gaze locking on each player. “We’ve come too fucking far to let this slip now. This game is ours. But you need to believe that. You need to want it more than them.” I look to Zane, our fullback. “I need you sharper on the counterattack. If they kick to us, we punish them for it.”
He nods. “I’m on it.”
“Dominic.” My voice steadies. “Lead them. Get their heads back in the game.”
Carter exhales, nodding once before looking around at the rest of the team. “We wake up this half. We don’t let them walk over us again.”
I see it then.
The shift.
The flicker of fight that wasn’t there before.
It’s not about screaming or breaking shit. It’s about making them believe they can still win this.
And when we step back onto the field, I see it in their body language.
They believe.
The second half starts, and immediately, I know we’re different.
Utah comes out just as aggressive, just as sharp, but this time—we match them.
Better yet?
We beat them to the punch.
It starts with Carter. He takes control at the breakdown, marshaling the forwards to clean up possession quicker, barking orders with the kind of authority that reminds me why he wears the armband.
Then Callum makes a play.
Utah sends a deep kick into our half, thinking they’ll pin us back again, but Hale reads it perfectly, catching it cleanly and immediately attacking the space.
He steps around the first defender.
Breaks through the second.
Suddenly, we’re inside their twenty-two, and Utah’s scrambling to reset.
Our scrum-half, clearly feeling the pressure, finally challenges the defensive line. Instead of just shoveling the ball out, he snipes through the smallest of gaps, drawing in two defenders before offloading to our inside center.
Boom.
Breakthrough.
Carter’s already there, running a hard line, taking the final pass, and powering over the try line.
The ref blows the whistle.
12-5.
The momentum shifts.
Utah feels it. We feel it.
And we don’t stop there.
Ten minutes later, we score again.
This time, it’s our forwards who step up, hammering at the try line after a series of brutal carries. The ref raises his arm, signaling advantage for an offside call, but we don’t need it—our loosehead prop crashes over the whitewash, slamming the ball down with authority.
Toby converts.
12-12.
Game tied.
The stadium erupts.
I feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears, my hands tightening into fists as I watch from the sideline.
But Utah isn’t done.
They come back just as hard, pushing into our half with relentless pressure. For ten straight minutes, we defend like our lives depend on it, repelling phase after phase, scrambling, tackling, holding the fucking line.
Then, a turnover.
Carter rips the ball in the ruck, and our fly-half boots it downfield, forcing Utah to retreat.
Time is slipping away.
With two minutes left, we win a penalty just inside their half.
Brandt steps up beside me, exhaling sharply. “It’s out of range.”
I nod. “Unless Carter thinks otherwise.”
Dominic glances at the posts, then at the clock. The smart play is to kick for touch, set up a lineout, and try to grind out a final score.
But instead?
He points at the posts.
The crowd roars.
I clench my jaw, but I don’t say a word.
He lines it up.
Steps back.
Breathes.
And then he strikes it clean.
The ball sails through the uprights.
The ref blows the whistle.
15-12, Tigers.
The final horn sounds and the stadium erupts.
We did it.
Barely.
The players celebrate, bodies slamming together in exhaustion and adrenaline, but I stay still, watching them, breathing it in.
Brandt lets out a low chuckle beside me. “That was too close.”
I huff out a breath, shaking my head. “A win’s a win.”
He nods. “And Carter?”
I exhale, watching our captain stand in the middle of it all, eyes fierce, chest heaving, taking it all in.
“He’s exactly who we need him to be.”
And as the team leaves the field, as the adrenaline fades, I feel it creep back in.
The other fight.
The one off the field.
The one waiting for me in the team hotel.
Anastasia.
Because this war between us
It’s far from over.