Page 67 of Playing the Field

I lock it.

And I wait to see if she knocks again.

She doesn’t.

And fuck if that doesn’t make me hate myself just a little bit more.

Graham

I don’t sleep well.

Not because I’m overthinking the argument—because I refuse to.

Not because I keep waiting for Anastasia to knock on that damn door—because I’m not.

It’s because I’m running plays in my head. Because tomorrow’s game matters. Because if we don’t win, the Warriors leapfrog us in the standings, and all the progress we’ve made this season takes a fucking hit.

That’s why I don’t sleep.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

But when morning rolls around, and I wake up feeling like I barely closed my eyes, I know that’s not entirely true.

The real reason I don’t sleep?

She’s on the other side of that damn door.

And I fucking hate it.

By the time we arrive at the stadium, my head is exactly where it needs to be—on the game.

The guys are dialed in, warming up on the field, stretching out tension, keeping their movements sharp. The energy is good. Focused. Determined.

I can’t afford to be distracted.

So I’m not.

Anastasia walks past me on the sidelines, clipboard in hand, her expression cool and unreadable. She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t look at me.

And I ignore the way that irritates the hell out of me.

I ignore the way everyone else notices it too.

Brandt side-eyes me after I snap at Dominic during pre-game drills. “Jesus, Callahan. You want to rip the kid’s head off, do it after he wins us a game.”

I exhale sharply. “Just keep them sharp, Brandt.”

He watches me for a beat too long, like he’s about to say something else, but then he just shakes his head and mutters under his breath before heading back toward the team.

Even Betty, who rarely travels for away games but made an exception for this one, catches on. She hands me a pre-game report and gives me a long, knowing look over her glasses.

“You’re in a mood today.”

“I’m fine,” I grit out, scanning the report.

She doesn’t buy it for a second. “No, you’re not,” she says dryly. “And if you don’t want me to start making bets on why, I’d suggest you fix it before someone else does.”

I glance at her, brow arching. “Making bets?”