Page 21 of Playing the Field

Because no matter how satisfying it was to watch Novak escorted out of the building, it didn’t change the fact that Graham had done it while acting like I was a stranger.

Dominic’s gaze lingers on me a beat too long, like he’s trying to read my mind. And maybe he is because his next words are careful. “You settling in okay?”

I force a casual smile. “So far, so good.”

He doesn’t push, but there’s something knowing in his expression before he nods toward the tunnel. “Game’s in a few hours. You ready for the chaos?”

“Absolutely,” I say, and for the first time all day, I actually believe it.

By the time I step onto the sidelines, the stadium is alive in a way that sends a thrill straight through my bloodstream. This is what I’ve worked for. This is what I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. And yet, my stomach is a knot of nerves that has nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the man I’ve spent all day avoiding.

The hum of the crowd is constant, swelling in volume with every new movement on the field. The energy is a living thing, pulsing, electric, wrapping around me as I take it all in. The bright glare of the stadium lights turns the freshly cut grass into a brilliant green, almost too perfect under the artificial glow. Players move across the field in smooth, powerful strides, their warm-ups a mix of speed, precision, and raw force.

From my spot on the sideline, I can feel the impact of every drill—the sharp thud of bodies colliding in contact warm-ups, the snap of the ball as it moves from hand to hand, the occasional curse muttered when a pass goes wide. The team trainers move efficiently around me, setting up supplies, and chatting in low tones, but I barely register them.

Because for the first time today, I feel it.

Not just the weight of my new role. Not just the pride of being here.

But the sheer, unfiltered joy of it.

A slow smile tugs at my lips as I watch the team shift into their final pregame drills, my gaze following the fluidity of their movements, and the way their bodies work together in perfect synchronization. It’s mesmerizing. I’m here. I made it. And nothing—not my past, not my insecurities, not even Graham Callahan—can take this moment away from me.

“Doc, you good?”

I blink, pulling myself out of my thoughts as Marco, one of the younger trainers, nudges my elbow. He’s got the easy confidence of someone who’s been around athletes long enough to know exactly how to handle them.

“Yeah,” I say, rolling my shoulders back like I can shake off the lingering tension. “Just taking it all in.”

He grins. “It’s something, huh? Wait until kickoff. The place will be vibrating.”

I don’t doubt it. Even now, the energy is building, the stadium packed with thousands of people who have been waiting all week for this moment. The players are locked in, their focus sharpened to a fine edge, their movements precise but laced with the barely contained aggression that makes rugby what it is.

I shift on my feet, pressing my hands into my jacket pockets, grounding myself in the familiarity of it all. This is what I trained for. This is where I belong.

And then I see him.

Graham.

He’s standing at the edge of the field, near the coaching staff, arms crossed over his chest, his sharp blue gaze locked on the team. He looks like he’s carved from stone—expression unreadable, posture rigid, the weight of his authority settling around him like a storm cloud about to break.

My breath catches, an unwelcome hitch in my chest because it doesn’t matter how much I’ve tried to push him out of my mind today.

The second I see him, everything tightens.

Everything rushes back.

But I refuse to let it show.

Straightening my spine, I turn back to the field, forcing my focus onto the game. Because if Graham Callahan can pretend I don’t exist, then I can damn well return the favor.