Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Anastasia
T he locker room is buzzing.
Energy crackles in the air, thick and electric, as the team moves through their pre-game routines. Some are stretching, some are taping their wrists, others are just sitting quietly—absorbing the weight of the game ahead.
It’s big.
Toronto versus Houston.
The number one team in the league against a team still fighting to prove they deserve to be in the conversation.
I should be reviewing my final medical checks, making sure my supplies are stocked, ensuring I’m fully prepared for whatever the next eighty minutes throw my way.
Instead, I find myself slipping into the hallway outside the locker room, seeking out the one person who’s been occupying too much space in my mind.
Graham.
I find him exactly where I expect—standing alone in the quiet tunnel leading out to the field, his back to me, hands in the pockets of his coat as he watches the empty stands fill with fans.
I exhale softly. “You’re supposed to be inside.”
He doesn’t turn. “So are you.”
I roll my eyes, stepping beside him and looping my arm through his and resting my head against his shoulder. My gaze follows his. “Big night.”
Graham lets out a slow breath. “Yeah.”
He’s calm, controlled—but I know better.
I know that beneath the surface, his mind is running every possible scenario, every potential outcome.
I know because I’m doing the same thing.
I shift my weight, glancing up at him. “You nervous?”
His lips twitch. “I don’t get nervous.”
I arch a brow. “Uh-huh.”
He finally looks at me, blue eyes sharp and assessing. “Are you ?”
I hesitate.
Because the truth is?
I am.
Not about the game—not entirely, at least.
But about what comes next.
For this team.
For us.
I let out a quiet breath. “I don’t know. I think… I think I just want to see what happens when the whistle blows.”
He watches me for a long moment. “Yeah.” His voice is quieter now. “Me too.”
I shift slightly, crossing my arms. “Did you sleep?”
He smirks. “I don’t sleep.”
I sigh. “That’s not healthy.”
“I’m aware.”
I roll my eyes but let it drop. We’ve had this conversation before. It never goes anywhere.
Instead, I exhale, turning back toward the field. “You know, when I took this job, I didn’t expect to feel this… invested.”
Graham tilts his head slightly. “In the team?”
I hesitate.
Then, quietly— “In everything.”
His gaze sharpens. “Everything?”
I swallow, my heart picking up speed. “You know what I mean.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods.
And suddenly, the air feels charged.
Like we’re on the edge of something neither of us knows how to name.
I shift, forcing myself to focus. “You should head inside soon. The guys will be looking for you.”
He doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
A long breath stretches between us, the weight of all the unsaid things lingering in the air.
Then, finally?—
“You know why I bought this team?” he asks.
I blink, caught off guard by the shift in conversation. “Because you’re a billionaire who ran out of hobbies and has more money than sense?”
His lips twitch, but there’s something serious in his expression when he turns fully toward me.
“Because I needed something that mattered,” he says, voice low. “Something that wasn’t just another acquisition. Something I could build.”
Something flickers in my chest.
I nod slowly. “And do you think you found it?”
He watches me carefully. “I think I might have.”
The words settle deep, sending warmth curling through my stomach.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep my voice steady. “Then go prove it.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “And you?”
I inhale slowly.
Then, softly?—
“I’ll be here.”
A beat.
Then he nods, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes before he turns, stepping back toward the locker room.
I stand there for a moment, watching him disappear into the chaos.
The game is about to start.
The storm is about to hit.
The air is thick with tension, the kind that coils tight in your chest and refuses to let go.
The Tigers are fighting.
But it’s not enough.
Not yet.
From my position on the sideline, clipboard in hand, medical bag at my feet, I can feel the weight of every single hit, every tackle, every moment of impact that shakes the field.
The Houston Sabercats aren’t just playing to win.
They’re playing to dominate.
And so far?
They’re doing a damn good job of it.
Toby, our Fly-Half, yells out a play, his voice barely cutting through the roar of the crowd. He shifts on his feet, eyes locked on the defensive line, looking for an opening.
But Houston’s line holds.
Their blindside flanker crashes into him just as he gets the ball away—a crunching hit that makes me flinch even from here.
The ball is loose.
Houston pounces, their scrum-half, Rivera, snatching it up before Finn can react.
He’s fast—too fast.
He dummies past Nico with a quick step, then cuts inside Elliot Zhang, leaving them scrambling.
A blur of yellow and black as Leo Matthisen sprints in from the wing, diving for a last-ditch tackle?—
Misses by an inch.
Rivera offloads at the last second, sending the ball wide to their left wing, who races down the touchline untouched.
The Sabercats score.
The crowd erupts, a mix of cheers and frustrated groans.
I grit my teeth, watching as Dominic Carter gathers the team under the posts, his voice firm but unreadable as he speaks.
They’re struggling.
And they know it.
Half-Time Score: Houston Sabercats 19 – Toronto Tigers 6
The players jog off the field, some limping, some shaking their heads, some too pissed off to say a word.
Dominic’s jaw is tight as he walks past me, sweat dripping down his face. His knee is stiff—I can see it in his gait—but he doesn’t even glance my way.
I make a note to check on him anyway.
Finn stops in front of me, gulping down water. “They’re reading everything we do,” he mutters, shaking his head.
“They’re good,” I admit.
He exhales. “Yeah, well, we need to be better.”
He tosses the bottle aside and disappears into the locker room.
I glance toward the coaching staff, where Graham stands next to Brandt, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
But I know him.
And I know that look.
Graham is furious.
Not because they’re losing.
But because they’re not playing like themselves.
In the second half, the Tigers come out swinging.
It’s Dominic who leads the charge—barreling into Houston’s forward pack, smashing through the gain line with a burst of power.
He gets the ball to Malik, who twists past one tackle, then another, before he’s dragged down just outside the twenty-two.
Finn is there in a flash, ripping the ball from the breakdown and sending it wide.
Straight to Zane.
And Zane?
He knows what to do.
He spots Leo breaking wide, a split-second opening before Houston’s defense can shift?—
And he kicks.
A high, spinning ball that lands perfectly in Leo’s hands.
The right-wing takes off, dodging one defender, then another, his speed carrying him straight toward the try line.
The crowd rises to their feet as he plants the ball down, breathless.
Try.
I exhale hard, my grip tightening around my clipboard.
We’re still in this.
Houston 22, Toronto 18
It’s a war.
Bodies crash into each other, the impact of every hit echoing through the stadium.
Dominic is everywhere, pushing his team forward, dragging them into the fight with him.
But Houston?
They refuse to break.
Their defensive line holds tight, forcing our forwards into brutal contact after brutal contact.
I watch as Callum dives into a ruck, fighting for possession, his fingers clawing for the ball as Houston’s players pile over him.
He gets it out—barely—before he’s flattened under a wave of bodies.
Finn fires the ball back to Toby, who sends it wide to Nico, who sends it even wider to Max.
Max sprints for the corner.
It’s open.
I grip the edge of my jacket, my breath catching?—
And then?—
A bone-crunching tackle from Houston’s fullback sends Max sprawling out of bounds.
The whistle blows.
Final Score: Houston Sabercats 22 – Toronto Tigers 18
The stadium is silent.
For a second, no one moves.
And then, slowly, Houston erupts in celebration.
The Tigers, meanwhile, stand exhausted, bloody, and pissed off, staring at the field like they can’t believe they let this slip away.
I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I turn to see Graham, his expression unreadable.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to.
This loss hurts.
Not just for the players.
But for him.
For all of us.
I swallow hard, my chest tightening as I glance back at the team.
Because they’re not just disappointed.
They’re hungry.
And I know?—
This isn’t over.
The locker room is dead silent.
The only sound is the dull dripping of the showers, the occasional exhale of breath, the shuffling of boots against the floor.
The team is wrecked.
Physically. Emotionally.
Houston didn’t just beat them.
They suffocated them.
Every attempt to break through their defense, every strategy Graham and Brandt had thrown at them—shut down.
And now, all that’s left is the weight of it.
Dominic sits on the bench, his arms braced over his knees, sweat still dripping from his brow. His knee is swollen, and I make a mental note to get him in for ice and compression as soon as this meeting is over.
Leo leans against his locker, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Finn stares down at his hands, rubbing his knuckles absently.
Graham stands at the front of the room, near the whiteboard. He’s calm—but I know better.
Inside, he’s seething.
Not at them.
But at the loss.
He hates losing.
And so does this team.
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw, then finally speaks.
“Look at me.”
Every head lifts.
His blue eyes sweep the room, hard and unyielding.
“You feel that?” he asks, his voice measured. “That weight sitting in your chest? That burning in your gut?”
No one answers.
They don’t have to.
“We had them,” Graham says, his tone razor-sharp. “We had them—and we let them go.”
Leo mutters a curse under his breath.
Dominic’s fingers tighten into fists.
Graham exhales sharply. “This wasn’t about talent. This wasn’t about strength. It wasn’t even about skill. It was about belief.”
His voice drops lower, steadier.
“We didn’t believe,” he continues. “Not when it mattered. And because of that, we let them dictate the game.”
The weight of his words settles into the room.
For a long moment, no one moves.
Then, finally, Graham exhales.
“This is what losing feels like,” he says. “I want you to remember it. Burn it in.” His gaze flicks to Dominic. “Because I promise you—this is the last time it happens.”
Dominic’s jaw clenches. “Damn right.”
There’s a murmur of agreement.
The fire is still there.
The hunger.
Graham nods once. “Get cleaned up. Rest. And then we get back to work.”
He turns to leave, but before he does, he glances at me.
“Check Carter’s knee.”
I nod. “Already on it.”
And then he’s gone.
On his way to the press conference, where the real storm is about to hit.
The reporters are waiting like vultures.
Graham walks in, his expression unreadable, and takes his seat at the podium.
Brooke stands off to the side, arms crossed, scanning the room for potential trouble.
It doesn’t take long.
The first few questions are predictable.
“What went wrong in the second half?”
“How do you plan to recover from this loss?”
Graham answers with his usual controlled intensity.
“We weren’t clinical enough. We let too many opportunities slip, and a team like Houston will punish you for that.”
“The Sabercats have been undefeated all season. Do you think the Tigers are capable of competing at that level?”
His jaw tightens. “We’re not here to compete. We’re here to win. And we will.”
A few heads turn, reporters exchanging glances at the boldness of his statement.
But Graham doesn’t flinch.
The question we’ve all been waiting for.
“Graham, earlier today, a press briefing was sent out from the Tigers’ PR department confirming your relationship with team doctor Anastasia Bellows. Can you comment on that?”
Silence.
The air shifts.
Every camera in the room zooms in.
Brooke tenses slightly, but she doesn’t move.
She’s letting him handle this.
Graham’s fingers flex against the table, but when he finally speaks, his voice is calm, even.
“Yes,” he says simply. “The statement is true.”
The room erupts.
More questions fire in rapid succession.
“How long have you two been involved?”
“Were there concerns about favoritism in her contract negotiations?”
“Was the team ownership aware of this before her position was made permanent?”
Graham doesn’t let them rattle him.
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table.
“Anastasia and I met in Cape Town before I ever took ownership of this team. We reconnected in Toronto before either of us knew we’d be working together. We kept things private for as long as we could, but with my position, that became increasingly difficult.”
He pauses, then adds, “Anastasia earned her position with the Tigers through her own work. Not because of me. She is the best person for the job, and anyone questioning that should take a look at the work she’s done since stepping in.”
The room quiets slightly.
That wasn’t a prepared PR answer.
That was him.
Owning the truth.
Standing by me.
Another reporter leans in. “So you’re officially confirming that the two of you are in a relationship?”
Graham’s lips twitch slightly.
“Yes.”
And just like that?—
The story isn’t a rumor anymore.
It’s fact.
Graham doesn’t look away from the reporters.
He doesn’t shift under the weight of the questions.
And as I stand off to the side, watching him handle this with his usual steady, uncompromising presence, one thing becomes crystal clear.
He isn’t running from this.
From me.
From us.
He’s standing right in the middle of the storm?—
And daring it to come for him.
Cameras flash. Reporters keep shouting.
They want more.
More about me.
More about Graham.
More about something that has nothing to do with why we’re here.
But Graham?
He doesn’t give them the satisfaction.
A reporter—one of the smarter ones—leans forward, cutting through the noise.
“Graham, now that this game is behind you, what’s next for the Tigers?”
The room quiets slightly, shifting back to what actually matters.
Graham leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his expression unreadable but controlled.
“We go back to work,” he says, voice steady. “We take what we learned from this game, and we fix it.”
The reporter nods. “Houston exposed some weaknesses in your defense. How do you plan to address that?”
A flicker of something sharp crosses Graham’s face.
“We weren’t aggressive enough at the breakdown,” he says. “We gave them too much space, too much time to dictate the pace of the game. That won’t happen again.”
Another reporter jumps in. “You mentioned earlier that you’re not here to compete—you’re here to win. Given tonight’s result, do you still believe that’s possible?”
Graham’s jaw flexes, but when he answers, his voice is even stronger.
“Yes.”
The room murmurs, shifting at the weight of his conviction.
“I’ve been here for weeks, not years,” Graham continues. “This team has been building something under Coach Brandt long before I stepped in. And what I see—what I believe—is that this group is capable of more than people are giving them credit for.”
His gaze scans the room, daring anyone to challenge him.
Another voice chimes in. “Do you think you need to make roster changes to keep up with teams like Houston?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw.
“This isn’t about personnel. This is about execution. We have the players we need. Now, it’s about making sure they play at the level they’re capable of.”
“Speaking of players,” another reporter cuts in. “There are rumors that you’ll be recruiting Bodhi Donovan to take the place of scrum half. Care to comment on that move?”
Graham exhales, glancing briefly toward Brooke, who gives a small nod.
“I can neither confirm nor deny those rumors at this time,” Graham says. “He’s a talented player and if we should be lucky enough to have someone with his skillset on this team, we’ll be stronger for it.”
I watch him from the sidelines, my chest tightening slightly.
Because this is Graham Callahan.
He’s not here to make excuses. He’s not here to shift blame.
He’s here to win.
And even though tonight didn’t go their way, he still believes this team is capable of more.
The questions start winding down. Brooke steps forward, signaling to the room.
“Last question,” a reporter calls out.
Graham nods.
“What’s the message to the fans after this loss?”
A beat of silence.
Then, slowly, Graham leans back in his chair.
“The message?” he repeats, eyes flicking toward the camera.
“This isn’t the end of the story,” he says. “It’s the beginning.”