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Epilogue
Anastasia
One month.
That’s how long it’s been since Graham kissed me in his apartment, asked me to take a real shot on him, and, in the process, upended every last carefully laid-out plan I thought I had for my life.
One month of late-night dinners, stolen kisses in his office, and quiet mornings wrapped up in his sheets.
One month of balancing work and love, of figuring out how to keep things professional at the facility and anything but behind closed doors.
One month of falling harder than I ever thought possible.
I’m still living in my apartment. Technically. I have clothes there, my name’s still on the lease, and I make an effort to stop by every few days to pick up my mail. But at some point—somewhere between early-morning coffee in his kitchen and late-night conversations curled up on his couch—I stopped just staying over and started living with him.
And I haven’t regretted it once.
Not when the team is thriving, climbing from third on the leaderboard to second after a string of solid wins following our loss against Houston.
Not when I’ve finally found my place—as their team doctor, as their sideline presence, as someone they trust to have their backs, just like they have each other’s.
Not when I have everything I never even let myself dream about.
It’s a rare day off for me, which means I should be sleeping in, enjoying a lazy morning in bed, maybe convincing Graham to stay in with me instead of heading to the facility ahead of today’s game against San Diego.
But instead, I find myself being escorted to the team box, my steps slow as I trail behind the security personnel Graham arranged to bring me here.
When he told me this morning that I wasn’t going to be watching from the sidelines today, that he had arranged for me to sit in the private box reserved for families, wives, and girlfriends, I’d stared at him in stunned silence before blurting out, “You mean the WAGs?”
He had smirked and kissed me slow and deep before saying, “You’re one of them now, Bellows. Might as well get used to it.”
And now, standing in front of the glass doors leading into the suite, I wonder if this is the moment I should have fought him on.
Because the WAGs?
They know each other.
They have history with the team, roots that run deep in a way I haven’t even begun to put down yet.
And me?
I’m just the new girlfriend.
And not just any new girlfriend.
I’m dating the boss.
The thought makes my stomach twist as I step inside, my breath catching slightly at the breathtaking view of the field below. The stadium is already packed, fans buzzing with excitement as the Tigers prepare to take on San Diego.
A few of the women glance up at my arrival, but before I can shrink back toward the door, Rachel Dupont is on her feet, making her way toward me.
She’s effortlessly gorgeous, dressed in Tigers colors, a soft, welcoming smile on her face as she pulls me into a hug.
“There you are,” she says, squeezing me before stepping back. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
I blink. “You… have?”
Her smile widens. “Of course. Graham sent a text this morning saying you’d be up here with us today.”
