Page 8 of Playing the Field

I finish the last page of the contract and drop it onto the growing pile at my side. For a moment, I stare at the ceiling, willing the ache of regret to ease. It doesn’t. It only sharpens, forcing me to grab my phone and open the search bar. Her name—is Anastasia. It’s all I have, and even that feels insufficient. Green eyes, dark brown hair, brilliant smile—if I close my eyes, I can still feel the way her laughter curled inside my chest, warming places I’d long since let grow cold.

I type her name again, “Anastasia, doctor.”

A fruitless search I’ve tried before. Nothing. Not a trace of her.

I toss the phone onto the nightstand harder than necessary, the clatter echoing in the quiet room. “Idiot,” I mutter to myself, scrubbing a hand over my face. I should have asked. Should have ignored whatever pride—or fear—kept me from making her more than a conquest. More than a night of wild sex.

But I didn’t, and now here I am, chasing shadows.

Tomorrow, I remind myself. Tomorrow, I’ll have plenty to distract me.

I’ve bought a rugby team. That should be enough to keep my hands and mind busy, even if my heart feels frustratingly aimless.

The Tigers’ training facility is every bit as impressive as the sales pitch promised. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls let in an abundance of natural light, highlighting the pristine gym equipment lined up like soldiers in formation. The scent of freshly cleaned floors mingles with faint notes of sweat and determination.

Brady Manson, the team’s General Manager, walks briskly ahead of me, clipboard in hand. He’s doing his best to exude confidence, but I can feel his nervous energy radiating in waves. I don’t blame him—most new owners sweep in and start cleaning house. He doesn’t know yet that I’ve already decided to keep the entire staff employed.

“This facility is state-of-the-art,” Brady says, glancing back at me. “The previous owner spared no expense when he renovated last year. Cryotherapy chambers, hydrotherapy pools, high-altitude training rooms…you name it.”

“It shows,” I reply, running a hand along the edge of a sleek weight rack as we pass through the main gym. “No wonder the place looks like a luxury hotel. I take it the players appreciate the upgrades?”

“They do,” Brady says with a tight smile. “Unfortunately, the performance on the field hasn’t reflected the investment. We’re sitting fourth in the league standings this season. Injuries, inconsistent play, and, frankly, a lack of chemistry have been holding us back.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Lack of chemistry? Is that corporate speak for ‘nobody gets along’?”

Brady chuckles awkwardly. “Let’s just say there’s room for improvement.”

We turn a corner, stepping into a hallway lined with team photos and championship memorabilia. It’s the kind of display that screams legacy, though some of the frames are visibly outdated. Brady gestures toward a large double door at the end of the hall.

“This leads to the locker room,” he says. “I won’t take you through there today—players are mid-workout—but suffice it to say, it’s as high-end as the rest of the facility.”

I glance at the frosted glass windows inset in the doors, catching a glimpse of movement inside. “Good. I don’t need to see it today. Let’s head up to the office.”

The climb to the executive floor is quick, and soon we’re standing in what will be my new workspace.

“This was Mr. Harrison’s office,” Brady says, watching my reaction carefully. “If you’d like, we can have it remodeled to suit your preferences.”

The office is a blend of old-world charm and modern utility, designed with an understated elegance that doesn’t scream wealth but whispers it in every detail. The centerpiece is a massive oak desk, its surface polished to a high sheen and free of clutter, save for a leather blotter and a brass desk lamp with a green glass shade. Behind it, a high-backed chair upholstered in supple black leather dominates the space, flanked by two matching visitor chairs with subtly curved arms.

A large window stretches across one wall, offering a panoramic view of the training fields below. Sunlight streams through, casting long streaks of light onto the dark hardwood floors. To the left of the desk, a sleek built-in bookshelf holds a mix of leather-bound books, rugby memorabilia, and framed photos from the team’s history, including a few of championship celebrations and past owners.

On the right, a display case spans half the wall, showcasing team trophies, signed rugby balls, and neatly framed jerseys—symbols of the legacy I’ve just inherited. A flat-screen television is mounted discreetly above the case, likely for reviewing game footage or catching live matches.

In the far corner, a small seating area with a low glass coffee table and two minimalist armchairs offers a space for casual meetings or private conversations. A splash of greenery—a potted fiddle-leaf fig—softens the otherwise functional feel of the room, and a textured area rug anchors the furniture in the center. The space feels more like a museum exhibit than a workspace, a silent reminder of the team’s history and the responsibility I’ve signed up for.

“It’s fine,” I reply, my voice clipped as I walk to the desk. “I don’t need a remodel. It’s functional, and that’s what matters.”

A knock at the door draws my attention, and an older woman enters, carrying a stack of thick folders. Her hair is neatly pinned back, and her expression is calm but no-nonsense.

“Mr. Callahan,” she says, her tone polite but efficient. “I’m Betty, Mr. Harrison’s administrative assistant. I’ve been with the Tigers for over a decade, and I’ll be assisting you now if you’ll have me.”

“Nice to meet you, Betty,” I say, offering her a firm nod. “I’ve already decided to keep all the existing staff on board, so it looks like we’ll be working together.”

Betty’s eyes soften with something resembling gratitude, though she keeps her expression professional. “Thank you, sir. That’s reassuring to hear.” She sets the folders down on the desk with a solid thunk. “These are the player profiles. Names, positions, stats, and performance notes for everyone on the roster. It’s a lot to take in, but it should help you get up to speed.”

“Appreciated.” I glance at the stack of folders, already feeling the weight of the task ahead.

“If you need anything, just let me know,” Betty says, nodding once before exiting the room.