Epilogue
Anastasia
O ne month.
That’s how long it’s been since Graham kissed me in his apartment, asked me to take a real shot on him, and, in the process, upended every last carefully laid-out plan I thought I had for my life.
One month of late-night dinners, stolen kisses in his office, and quiet mornings wrapped up in his sheets.
One month of balancing work and love, of figuring out how to keep things professional at the facility and anything but behind closed doors.
One month of falling harder than I ever thought possible.
I’m still living in my apartment. Technically. I have clothes there, my name’s still on the lease, and I make an effort to stop by every few days to pick up my mail. But at some point—somewhere between early-morning coffee in his kitchen and late-night conversations curled up on his couch—I stopped just staying over and started living with him.
And I haven’t regretted it once.
Not when the team is thriving, climbing from third on the leaderboard to second after a string of solid wins following our loss against Houston.
Not when I’ve finally found my place—as their team doctor, as their sideline presence, as someone they trust to have their backs, just like they have each other’s.
Not when I have everything I never even let myself dream about.
It’s a rare day off for me, which means I should be sleeping in, enjoying a lazy morning in bed, maybe convincing Graham to stay in with me instead of heading to the facility ahead of today’s game against San Diego.
But instead, I find myself being escorted to the team box, my steps slow as I trail behind the security personnel Graham arranged to bring me here.
When he told me this morning that I wasn’t going to be watching from the sidelines today, that he had arranged for me to sit in the private box reserved for families, wives, and girlfriends, I’d stared at him in stunned silence before blurting out, “You mean the WAGs?”
He had smirked and kissed me slow and deep before saying, “You’re one of them now, Bellows. Might as well get used to it.”
And now, standing in front of the glass doors leading into the suite, I wonder if this is the moment I should have fought him on.
Because the WAGs?
They know each other.
They have history with the team, roots that run deep in a way I haven’t even begun to put down yet.
And me?
I’m just the new girlfriend.
And not just any new girlfriend.
I’m dating the boss.
The thought makes my stomach twist as I step inside, my breath catching slightly at the breathtaking view of the field below. The stadium is already packed, fans buzzing with excitement as the Tigers prepare to take on San Diego.
A few of the women glance up at my arrival, but before I can shrink back toward the door, Rachel Dupont is on her feet, making her way toward me.
She’s effortlessly gorgeous, dressed in Tigers colors, a soft, welcoming smile on her face as she pulls me into a hug.
“There you are,” she says, squeezing me before stepping back. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
I blink. “You… have?”
Her smile widens. “Of course. Graham sent a text this morning saying you’d be up here with us today.”
I barely have time to process that before Carmen Vasquez and Natasha Holloway are at my side, looping their arms through mine like I’ve been here all along.
“You’re not allowed to sit by yourself,” Carmen announces. “That’s the rule.”
“We’ve heard plenty about you already,” Natasha adds, grinning. “The guys talk about you all the time.”
I narrow my eyes slightly. “Should I be concerned?”
Lily Armstrong snorts from her seat. “No more than the rest of us should be.”
There’s a beat of silence before everyone laughs, and just like that—the tension in my chest eases.
I’m not an outsider here.
I’m one of them.
I settle into a seat between Rachel and Allie Harris, who immediately starts breaking down the strengths and weaknesses of the Sabercats’ defensive line like she’s coaching the team herself.
“These guys like to press hard early on,” she mutters, eyes locked on the field. “But they’ll gas out if we push them past halftime.”
I smile, leaning in. “You sound like you should be down there in the locker room.”
She winks. “Toby says the same thing. He refuses to let me critique his film.”
I laugh, feeling the last bit of nerves melt away.
The women pull me into their world effortlessly, filling me in on team traditions, who gets the most intense during games (Dominic, obviously), and which players are the most superstitious (apparently, Finn has to eat the same pre-game meal before every match, or he swears they’ll lose).
And then, as the Tigers take the field, the entire box erupts in cheers, a wall of noise that rivals the stadium itself.
I glance down, my eyes immediately finding Graham standing near the sideline, arms crossed as he watches his team take their places.
As if he feels my gaze, he glances up toward the box, his blue eyes locking onto mine through the glass.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
Then, slowly, he smirks.
I bite my lip, fighting back a grin.
Because he was right.
I am one of them now.
I belong here.
With the team.
With the WAGs.
With him.
And as the whistle blows and the game begins, one thought echoes through my mind.
I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
The stadium is electric.
The final whistle blew seconds ago, and the Toronto Tigers just won.
The scoreboard flashes Tigers: 28 – San Diego: 17, and the roar of the crowd is deafening, waves of orange and black surging in celebration. Players embrace on the field, slapping backs, fists pumping in triumph.
But I don’t care about any of it.
Because my eyes are locked on one person.
Graham stands on the sidelines, his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths, his blue eyes sharp, victorious. He looks exhausted, overwhelmed, and completely in control all at once.
And mine.
Without thinking, without hesitation, without a single care for the cameras snapping, the fans screaming, or the WAGs cheering behind me, I run.
Straight for him.
He turns just as I launch myself forward, his reflexes kicking in just in time to catch me, arms banding around my waist as I wrap my legs around him, breathless, giddy, victorious.
For a second, he just stares at me, his pupils blown wide, his hands gripping me tight like he has no intention of letting go.
Then, I kiss him.
Hard.
Desperate.
A claim, a promise, an inevitability.
It’s hot and breathless and entirely too public, but I don’t care.
Not about the crowd.
Not about the photographers.
Not about the way the entire team whoops and hollers like this is a bigger win than the one they just secured on the field.
Because Graham Callahan played the field, maneuvering his way through every obstacle, every near miss, every hard-fought battle—all to get me exactly where he wanted me.
And now?
I’m his.
I pull back just enough to catch my breath, my forehead pressed to his, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“I love you,” I whisper, for the first time.
His fingers tighten on my hips, his throat bobbing as his gaze softens into something deeper, something intense and endless and so full of want that it makes my stomach flip.
Then, his lips curve into the slowest, most devastating smirk I’ve ever seen.
“Damn right you do,” he murmurs, voice rough.
I laugh, rolling my eyes, but before I can respond, he tilts his head, his breath warm against my cheek.
“Guess that means I should start shopping for a ring.”
My pulse stutters.
I gasp softly, my fingers tightening in his shirt, my entire body burning from the way he says it—like he means it.
Like he’s already decided.
Like this—us, this future, this forever—isn’t even a question.
I pull back just far enough to meet his gaze, my heart in my throat, my entire body buzzing, weightless, alive.
“You better make it a good one, Callahan,” I whisper.
His eyes darken, glinting with challenge, with certainty, with absolute, unwavering intent.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his lips brushing mine, his hold on me ironclad, his presence in my life something I know—deep in my bones—is never letting go. “You have no idea.”
And as the stadium erupts in celebration, as my teammates cheer, as cameras flash and the entire world watches?—
I know I don’t.
But one thing’s for sure.
I can’t wait to find out.
THE END
BOOK 1 TORONTO TIGERS