Page 7 of Playing the Field

Chapter Two

Graham

Mid-February and the view from my penthouse is nothing short of cinematic. Toronto sprawls out below, blanketed in snow, the streets glimmering under the streetlights. I sip my scotch, its warmth contrasting the frigid air outside, but it does nothing to dull the memory that has been replaying in my head for weeks.

The woman I met in Cape Town and haven’t been able to forget since.

I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, staring at it like it holds the answers. “You’re quiet tonight,” my dad says, his fork scraping against the plate. He’s seated across from me at the dining table, the weight of his gaze heavy.

“Just thinking,” I say casually, though casual hasn’t been my strong suit lately.

“About your latest acquisition?” he asks, raising a skeptical brow. “A rugby team, Graham? I know you’re still grieving your mom’s death, but a fucking rugby team? What the fuck do you know about rugby?”

For all his talk about public image, behind closed doors, Dad swears like a sailor. It amuses me to no end.

The corner of my mouth lifts. “Not much,” I admit, setting my glass down. “But I figured, why not? I was bored, and the opportunity presented itself.”

Dad leans back in his chair, incredulous. “You’re bored, so you buy a rugby team? That’s your answer?”

“It’s better than a midlife crisis Porsche,” I deadpan, earning a snort from him.

He waves his fork in my direction. “That’s not saying much. A rugby team, Graham. Do you even know what a ruck is?”

“I’m assuming it’s not a typo of ‘ruckus,’ but beyond that, no clue.”

Dad groans, shaking his head. “You don’t just throw money at something because you’re bored.”

“Sure you do,” I counter, smirking. “That’s the whole point of having money.”

His blue eyes narrow, the same shade as mine but twice as piercing. “This isn’t like one of your tech startups. You can’t just sell it off when you lose interest.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad,” I say, my tone lighter than I feel. “I’ll figure it out.”

He sighs, running a hand through his silver hair. “You better. Because this isn’t just about you anymore. This is about a city, a fan base, a legacy.”

I raise my glass in a mock salute. “To legacies, then.”

But as I drink, my thoughts drift back to Anastasia. To her green eyes and the way she had challenged me with every word. She wouldn’t have let me get away with a stunt like this without ripping into me first. The thought makes me smile, even as it twists something in my chest.

“You’re a damn fool, you know that?” Dad mutters, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice quieter now. “I know.”

I don’t tell him the real reason I bought the team.

It’s not about rugby. It’s about trying to chase the kind of reckless, unfiltered something I felt that night in Cape Town. The kind that made me feel alive for the first time in years.

The contracts for the Toronto Tigers sit in front of me, their pristine pages glinting under the bedside lamp like a dare. I’ve read through them a thousand times by now, including all the fine print. I lean back against the headboard of my oversized bed, feeling the weight of the decision I’ve just made settle into my chest. The ink is barely dry on my latest and most questionable acquisition, and my insomnia, ever faithful, is already at my side, whispering doubts.

Rugby.

A sport I know as much about as I do quantum physics. Yet here I am, buying a team, because boredom is a dangerous motivator and the chance to own something so…unexpected seemed like the perfect distraction. The team hasn't been doing so well lately, and while I might not be a doctor like Ana, I guess part of me likes to fix things too.

I flip to the next page of the contract, scanning through the clauses and stipulations my lawyer already explained in excruciating detail. It’s not like I’m actually reading. I just need something to occupy my hands. My mind, however, is elsewhere—on green eyes and an unapologetic laugh that still haunts my thoughts like a ghost I invited in.

It’s been weeks since Cape Town. Weeks of waking up and falling asleep replaying the way her lips tilted when she teased me, the flash of amusement in her eyes when I tried to keep up with her razor-sharp wit. I promised myself I wouldn’t look her up again. I failed that promise three times already, and the frustration of not knowing her last name, her number, or where she might be now eats at me like acid. I could have asked. Hell, I should have asked. But we’d both agreed—no last names, no attachments. Just one night.

One perfect, maddeningly unforgettable night.