Page 19 of Playing the Field

The door to my office shuts behind me with a soft click, but the sound feels deafening in the quiet room. My heartbeat is a chaotic drumbeat in my ears as I sink into the chair behind the desk, staring blankly at the folders and laptop in front of me. The professional world of the Toronto Tigers sprawls out in neat, organized files, and I’m supposed to dive into it like nothing happened.

Like I didn’t just watch Graham Callahan—my boss—set fire to his reputation as the man with an ironclad demeanor and rip a player’s career apart in the span of a heartbeat.

Like I didn’t just see the flicker of something raw in his eyes when he looked at me.

I press my palms against the desk, trying to ground myself, but the storm of emotions swirling inside me doesn’t settle. Instead, it churns harder, dragging up memories I’ve been trying to bury since the moment I walked into that conference room and saw him walk into the room.

It wasn’t just the shock of seeing him here, of all places, that knocked me off balance. It was the way he looked at me—like I was just another name on the payroll. No flicker of recognition, no acknowledgment of the night we shared. The night that, apparently, meant a hell of a lot more to me than it did to him.

Focus, Ana. Focus.

I open the top folder, the one marked “Player Medical Histories,” and force myself to read. The words blur together, black lines on white paper, as my mind drifts back to the hallway.

I didn’t know Graham could be like that. Ruthless, commanding, his voice sharp enough to slice through steel. The way he stood up for me—not that he’ll ever admit it—was something I didn’t expect. It made me feel seen in a way that’s almost painful to admit.

And yet… there’s a bitterness that refuses to fade.

It’s not like I expected him to greet me with open arms or gush about how our paths have crossed again. But pretending not to know me? Acting like I’m just some stranger he has to tolerate? That’s a level of cold I wasn’t prepared for.

I glance down at my hand, my fingers brushing against the edge of the desk. The skin still tingles from where I shook his hand earlier. Professional, polite, and distant—like I’m someone to be managed, not someone who once unraveled in his arms.

I hate that I care.

I hate that I keep replaying that night in Cape Town, the way his laugh sounded against my skin, the way his hands felt on my body. I should be better than this. I should be focusing on the opportunity in front of me, not the man who’s suddenly become a complication I can’t afford.

My phone buzzes on the desk, pulling me out of my thoughts. It’s Veronica, my roommate, and self-appointed life coach.

How’s the first day, Doc? Are any rugby players throwing themselves at your feet yet?

The corners of my mouth twitch despite myself. I type a quick response.

No rugby players. But a boss who might be the death of me.

Her reply is immediate.

Spill.

I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. How do I even begin to explain this? That the man who just fired a player in a blazing show of authority is the same man who kissed me like the world was ending? The same man who left me feeling like maybe, just maybe, I could believe in connection again.