Page 51 of Playing the Field

Instead, I nod toward the hall. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

She hesitates, like she’s debating whether to argue with me, but then sighs, grabbing her bag from the counter. “Fine.”

I follow her to the front door, watching as she zips up her coat. Her hair is still slightly damp from the shower, curling at the ends. There’s no makeup on her face, just the natural flush of her skin, the smudge of exhaustion lingering under her eyes.

She looks … soft.

And I don’t like the way that does something to my chest.

She catches me staring and arches a brow. “What?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

She squints at me suspiciously, but then she exhales, pulling open the door. A gust of cold morning air rushes in, making her shiver slightly.

I reach past her, gripping the door frame. “Be careful.”

She blinks up at me. “It’s a five-minute drive, not a cross-country expedition.”

I smirk. “Still.”

For a second, it looks like she’s going to say something else. But then she shakes her head, steps over the threshold. “I’ll see you at work, Mr. Callahan.”

And then she’s gone.

I watch her until she disappears down the hallway, her footsteps fading.

Then, with a sigh, I shut the door.

The warmth of the morning—the coffee, her lingering presence, the feel of her body against mine—is already fading.

The quiet settles in, pressing against me in a way that feels too damn noticeable. I scrub a hand over my jaw, exhaling slowly before turning back toward the kitchen.

Focus, Callahan.

I have forty minutes before I need to be at the facility with Brandt to go over last night’s game. A game we won. A game where, for the first time this season, the Tigers actually played like a team.

I walk back to the counter, picking up my half-finished coffee and taking a slow sip. It’s lukewarm now, but I barely register the taste. My mind is still running through the details of last night’s match against Seattle. The Tigers came in as the underdogs, written off by most analysts before the game even started.

And then?

They shut everyone up.

Dominic Carter was ruthless on the field, leading the charge with the kind of controlled aggression that makes him one of the best captains in the league. The forwards were solid, unyielding, breaking through Seattle’s defense with sheer force. And the backline—despite my concerns—held their own.

It was the kind of win that gets people talking. The kind that sends a message.

But I know better than to get comfortable.

I set my mug down, pulling out my phone and flipping through my messages until I find what I’m looking for.

A confirmation from Bodhi Donovan.

Looking forward to it. See you next week.

Good. That’s one thing checked off my list.

I lean against the counter, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the marble surface. Bodhi’s got potential—raw talent that hasn’t been developed the way it should be. I watched the footage. The kid is fast, unpredictable, and has the kind of instinct you can’t teach. If we can get him here, get him in the right environment, he could be exactly what we need to take this team to the next level.