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Now, I just have to get through a meeting with Brandt, who will be tearing apart last night’s game with the same intensity whether we won or lost. That’s why I hired him. He doesn’t settle. He doesn’t get complacent. And neither do I.

But before I deal with Brandt, I need to deal with the other problem sitting at the back of my mind.

Anastasia.

I exhale sharply, running a hand down my face. Even now, I can still feel the warmth of her against me, the press of her body from this morning, the way she looked at me when she said she didn’t regret any of it.

And that should be enough to settle something in me.

But it doesn’t.

Because the problem isn’t that I regret it.

The problem is that I don’t.

And that’s a complication I can’t afford to dwell on right now.

I shake off the thought and push away from the counter, grabbing my keys and jacket as I head for the door.

The Tigers just proved they’re not a team to be underestimated.

And now, it’s my job to make sure they don’t lose that momentum.

By the time I pull into the Tigers’ training facility, my mind is back where it needs to be.

On the team. On the work ahead. On the fact that last night’s win was good—but not good enough.

I step out of my car, scanning the parking lot as I make my way inside. A few of the guys are already here, stretching out or hitting the gym, and I nod to them as I pass. I don’t stop. Not yet.

Brandt is waiting for me.

I find him in the film room, exactly where I expected him to be, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen in front of him. The game footage is paused mid-play, the Tigers’ defensive line caught in motion. He doesn’t look up as I enter, just gestures toward the chair beside him.

“Sit.”

I smirk. “You gonna scold me, Coach?”

His lips twitch, but his focus stays on the screen. “I’ll let you decide.”

I drop into the chair, my elbows resting on my knees. The footage rolls, and for the next twenty minutes, we go over every detail of last night’s game.

The good.

The bad.

The parts that need fixing.

Brandt rewinds a clip, pausing on a moment where our current scrum-half hesitates for half a second too long. That hesitation cost us a clean breakaway.

“That,” Brandt says, pointing at the screen, “is why we’re still not where we need to be.”

I nod, already knowing what he’s going to say next.

“Our attack is solid. Defense is getting stronger. But we need someone who can drive the pace of play. Who sees the openings before they happen. A guy with quick hands, quick feet, and a fucking brain that moves faster than the opposition.”

I smirk. “Sounds like you just described Bodhi Donovan.”

Brandt finally looks at me, interest flickering in his sharp eyes. “You think the kid’s got what it takes?”