Page 29 of Playing the Field

I grit my teeth and focus on the real problem—the guy in front of me.

“Where does it hurt?” I ask, voice steady.

“My knee,” Max groans, wincing as I press gently around the joint. No swelling yet, but it’s stiff. Likely hyperextended. Painful, but not a break.

I hear another furious snarl behind me, and when I glance up, Graham and Dominic are still locked in a battle of wills.

“Graham, walk away, now!”

Graham is breathing hard, his entire body locked up like he’s one word away from swinging again. But Dominic doesn’t let him go.

I turn my attention back to Max, blocking out the madness.

But my hands aren’t steady.

Because I felt it—the instant Graham saw me go down, something inside him snapped.

And that knowledge does something to me that I can’t afford to analyze right now.

Because once the fight is over, once Graham cools off—I have to face him.

And I have no idea what the hell I’m going to say.

I storm through the tunnel, my sneakers slamming against the concrete, my pulse pounding harder than it had during the game. Every inch of me is wired, furious, still shaking from the adrenaline dump of the last five minutes.

And the man responsible for it?

He had better be⁠—

He’s standing just outside the locker room, hands still curled into fists, his shoulders rigid, his chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled breaths. He hasn’t even taken off his damn suit jacket. He looks just as ready to fight now as he did on the field.

I don’t stop. I don’t think. I just go for him.

“What the hell was that, Graham?”

He turns slowly, and the moment his icy blue gaze locks onto mine, my rage ignites all over again.

“I handled it,” he says, voice rough, still thick with adrenaline.

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, you handled it? By what—trying to knock out one of their players on live television?” I shove my hands through my ponytail, then cross my arms over my chest to keep from doing something reckless—like shaking him. “You’re the owner of this team, Graham! Not an enforcer! What the hell were you thinking?”

His jaw ticks, his fists clenching at his sides. “I was thinking about the fact that I watched you go down and no one on that field gave a damn.”

The words hit me like a punch to the ribs.

I suck in a sharp breath, but I refuse to let him see how much it rattles me.

Because if I let it—if I let myself feel it—I’ll have to acknowledge the truth:

Graham didn’t just react. He lost his mind the second I hit the ground.

And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

I lift my chin, pressing my lips together to keep them from trembling with something dangerously close to emotion. “You don’t get to do that,” I snap. “You don’t get to—lose it—because of me.”

He takes a step forward. Close enough that I feel his body heat despite the space between us. Close enough that I feel my resolve waver for the first time all night.

“You think I had a choice?” His voice is lower now, rougher, like he’s barely keeping himself in check. “You think I could stand there and watch that happen and just do nothing?”