Page 32 of Playing the Field

It’s not soft. It’s not careful.

It’s everything he’s been holding back, everything I’ve been trying to ignore.

His mouth crashes against mine, hands gripping my waist like he’s anchoring himself, like letting go isn’t an option. I should push him away, should remind him of all the reasons this is impossible, but my hands have other plans.

I grip the front of his dress shirt and pull him closer, gasping against his lips when his fingers slide up my back, spreading across my ribs.

He groans into my mouth like he’s been waiting for this just as much as I have, like the tension between us was always going to snap in the worst way possible.

And then—a sharp voice echoes down the hall.

I jolt back, breathless, my heart slamming against my ribs as I realize where we are, and what we just did.

Graham doesn’t move at first. His forehead stays pressed against mine, his breath warm against my lips, his hands still wrapped around me like he’s not ready to let go.

I’m not ready either.

But we don’t have a choice.

I step back. His hands fall away.

My pulse is still hammering as I force myself to meet his eyes, knowing nothing between us is the same anymore.

“We can’t do this,” I whisper.

Graham just watches me for a long moment. Then his jaw tightens, and he nods once.

But we both know it’s a lie.

Because that kiss?

That was just the beginning.

Chapter Eight

Graham

Irun a hand over my face, inhaling sharply before pushing through the doors leading into the post-game press conference. The room is already buzzing with energy—cameras flashing, reporters murmuring, waiting to see what kind of mess I’m going to make out of this.

Perfect.

This is exactly the kind of attention I didn’t want.

We just pulled off a gritty, hard-fought win against the second-ranked team in the conference, and instead of talking about the players who busted their asses out there, the headline tomorrow is going to be about me.

Not the win.

Not the momentum shift in our season.

Not how the team has completely turned itself around since Novak’s departure.

No, the story will be about how their damn owner stormed onto the field like an unhinged maniac and tried to put a Seattle player through the turf.

All because I saw Anastasia go down and lost my fucking mind.

Brady and Coach Brandt are already seated at the long table, their expressions carefully neutral as I step onto the platform and lower myself into the chair next to him. Dominic sits to my right, arms crossed, jaw tight, ready to throw himself in front of any bullet fired my way.

The moment I take my seat, a wave of flashes goes off, the bright light only making my headache worse.