Page 23 of Playing the Field

For the past week, I’ve been giving her space. Letting her settle in, and get her bearings. But standing here, watching her like this, the distance feels unbearable.

Brady clears his throat, and I tear my eyes away.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that,” he mutters, not bothering to look at me.

I clench my jaw. “See what?”

His lips twitch. “Exactly.”

The crowd roars as the final warmups wrap up, the energy in the stadium reaching a fever pitch. Players are clapping each other on the back, shaking out their limbs, and readying for kickoff.

And still, I can’t shake the feeling that the biggest battle I’ll face tonight isn’t against Seattle.

It’s the one happening right now.

Right here.

Inside me.

The stadium is a beast, restless and vibrating with energy. The anthems have been sung, the players are on the field, and kickoff is minutes away. But even with the deafening roar of the crowd, the weight of expectation pressing down, and the sharp focus that comes before a game—my attention is fixed on one thing.

Or rather, one person.

She’s standing near the bench, arms crossed over her chest, her white team coat crisp and clean against the dark jeans hugging her legs. She looks steady and composed. Every inch the professional she’s supposed to be. But there’s tension in the set of her jaw, the way her fingers flex against her biceps like she’s holding something back.

Like maybe she feels the same storm raging inside me.

I don’t hesitate. If I let myself think about it, I’ll talk myself out of it. Again.

Brady barely notices when I step away. The focus is on the field, where the players are in position, and the anticipation is so thick it’s almost tangible.

I close the distance between us, and she must sense me before she sees me because her shoulders straighten slightly, her spine going rigid like she’s bracing for impact.

When she finally turns, our eyes meet.

Jesus.

It’s been a day—just a day—since I last spoke to her, and yet standing here now, with nothing but a few inches between us, it feels like I’ve been starving for this moment.

I clear my throat. “Can we talk?”

Her expression doesn’t change. If anything, it cools. “We’re talking now.”

The corner of my mouth tugs up because, of course, she’d make this difficult. “After the game,” I clarify, my voice steady despite the way my pulse slams harder than it should.

Her green eyes flicker with something unreadable before she exhales sharply. “Is that an order, Mr. Callahan?”

There it is. The challenge. The edge in her tone sharp enough to slice.

I should take the out. Let her brush me off and focus on what matters. But I don’t.

Because what matters is standing right in front of me, pretending like she isn’t affected by this any more than I am.

“Would it help if I said please?” My voice is low and rough, a direct contradiction to the chaos in the stadium.

Her lips part slightly, but she presses them together before she can say something sharp. I don’t miss the flicker of hesitation in her eyes, the way her throat works as she swallows.

I step closer, just enough to make it deliberate. Enough that the fabric of her coat nearly brushes against the front of my suit jacket. “Ana.”