Page 24 of Playing the Field

She inhales sharply at the sound of her name. My name for her. A name I haven’t used since Cape Town, since before I had to shove her into the part of my mind where she doesn’t belong.

For a moment, I think she’s going to walk away. Shut me down entirely.

But then she meets my gaze again, and something shifts.

Fine cracks in her armor. Subtle. Fleeting. But there.

Her lips part, and for a second, I’m convinced she’s going to tell me to go to hell.

Instead, she exhales, her voice barely above the noise of the crowd. “Fine. After the game.”

Relief surges through me, but I don’t let it show. I nod once. “I’ll find you.”

She holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary before turning and walking away with a smooth, purposeful stride. But not before I see it.

The slight tremor in her fingers.

The tension in her shoulders.

The proof that maybe—just maybe—I’m not the only one feeling this pull.

As I watch her disappear down the sideline, my body is still coiled tight, my breath shallow.

The game is about to start.

But for the first time since taking over this team, I know my biggest battle isn’t happening on the field tonight.

It’s happening the second I’m alone with Anastasia Bellows.

And God help me, I don’t know if I want to win or lose.

The stadium is alive. The kind of electric, pulse-pounding energy that makes every breath feel charged with static. The kind that reminds you you’re standing in an arena built for battle. The anthems have been sung. The players are in position. The ref gives one final check before blowing the whistle, signaling kickoff. The ball launches high into the night sky, spinning like a bullet as it arcs toward our territory. Zane Holloway, our fullback, tracks it the whole way, his body steady despite the roar of the crowd. He adjusts his footing at the last second and catches cleanly, tucking the ball tight to his chest as the Seattle Seawolves’ defensive line comes crashing down on him like a freight train. The first hit is brutal. Their inside center, a bruiser of a player, slams into Zane with full force. But Zane’s built for this—he absorbs the impact, twists his body just enough to stay on his feet, and keeps driving forward. A second Seattle player—one of their flankers—dives low, wrapping around his thighs in a textbook tackle. Zane goes down hard, the ball popping free for a split second before Dominic is there. He dives in, securing possession as a ruck forms instantly. Bodies slam together. The low, guttural grunts of impact mix with the sharp commands from the ref. The Seawolves are pushing hard, trying to counter-ruck, but Callum O’Reilly and Luka Petrovic plant themselves like immovable forces, holding their ground while Benji Armstrong and Declan Hayes drive forward, forcing Seattle to retreat.

“Use it!” the ref barks.

Finn Gallagher, our scrum-half, reacts instantly. He digs the ball out with quick hands, scanning the field for the best option. Seattle’s defensive line is tight, but Toby Keane is already calling for it. Finn fires a sharp, spinning pass straight to Toby, who barely hesitates before sending it wide to Nico Vasquez at inside center. He sees the gap before it fully forms. He steps hard off his left foot, slipping between two defenders with a powerful burst of acceleration. The Seawolves scramble, their outside center lunging for him, but Nico anticipates it, twisting mid-stride and flicking a perfect offload to Elliot just before he’s tackled. Elliot catches mid-stride and takes off like a shot. The crowd erupts. He burns down the field, twenty meters, thirty meters, eating up space with long, powerful strides. The Seawolves’ fullback angles in, trying to cut him off before the try line, but Elliot reads it perfectly, shifting the ball to his outside hand and firing a no-look pass to Leo Matthisen on the wing. He doesn’t hesitate. He snatches the ball mid-stride and accelerates, his explosive pace turning the corner before the fullback can react. The gap is tight, the sideline inches away, but Leo stays in bounds, pumping his legs like a thoroughbred, nothing but open grass ahead. Five meters out.

The fullback is closing fast, but it’s too late. Leo dives over the line, the ball secured against his chest as he touches down. The ref blows his whistle.

TRY!

The stadium explodes. Our sideline erupts. Players leap to their feet, fists pumping, adrenaline spiking like a live wire. On the field, Leo pushes himself up, roaring toward the stands, his teammates swarming him, slapping his back, ruffling his hair. Toby steps up for the conversion. He’s calm. Focused. This is where he thrives. He places the ball on the kicking tee, takes his measured steps back, and breathes deep. The crowd noise fades, drowned out by pure, unwavering concentration.

One step.

Two.

He strikes through cleanly, the ball soaring through the posts.

7-0, Tigers.

A slow exhale leaves my chest. It’s the kind of start we needed—fast, aggressive, decisive. But I know better than to relax.

Seattle won’t take this lightly.

They’ll adjust. They always do.

But for now?