Page 79 of Playing the Field
Chapter Seventeen
Anastasia
It starts with a look.
One of those long, lingering ones from across the pool table where Graham is doing his best impression of a man who doesn’t want to be noticed, even though the entire damn room gravitates toward him like he’s the sun in a galaxy of lesser beings.
And me?
I’m the idiot comet barreling straight for impact, fully aware I should redirect but unwilling—incapable—of changing course.
The truth is, I shouldn’t be flirting with him. Not when the air between us still crackles from the fallout of everything unsaid. Not when the whispers in the locker room are starting to bleed into rumors, and certainly not after I overheard Brooke, the team’s PR manager, delicately suggesting to Graham that the optics of our situation might not be great.
Translation? People are talking.
About me.
About him.
About whether my name is being thrown around for the permanent team doctor position because of my credentials or because of my ability to warm his bed.
So yeah, I should absolutely not be standing here, twirling the end of my pool cue between my fingers, throwing Graham little half-smirks just to see if I can make that muscle in his jaw twitch.
But I do.
Because despite all my best instincts, there is something utterly intoxicating about the way his gaze darkens every time I move.
“You’re going to miss the shot if you keep looking at me like that.”
I blink, barely suppressing my grin. “I wasn’t looking at you.”
Graham exhales a laugh, low and indulgent, before stepping forward to line up his shot. He’s loose now, more at ease than I’ve seen him in weeks, but there’s still something sharp coiled beneath the surface.
“Liar,” he murmurs, not even glancing up from the table.
And dammit, the worst part is, I can’t even deny it.
Brady and Nick cash out soon after, exchanging goodbyes before heading toward the door, leaving us standing at the edge of the pool table, surrounded by the kind of electric silence that makes my spine hum.
Graham glances at the half-empty whiskey glass on the ledge behind him. “Another round?”
It’s an innocent question. One that any other person in this bar might take at face value.
But I know better.
Another round isn’t just another drink.
Another round is time.
Time to flirt, to linger, to blur the lines even more than we already have.
Time to pretend I didn’t hear the conversation between Brooke and Graham.
Time to pretend I don’t care.
“I don’t think that’s a great idea.”
His lips quirk. “Because you’ll get drunk and do something you regret?”
