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Chapter Six

Graham

The locker room is dead silent, save for the occasional shuffle of cleats against the tile floor, the rhythmic drip of a shower still running somewhere in the background. The weight of expectation, of proving that we belong in this league as more than just fourth-place contenders, sits heavy in the air.

I let the silence stretch. Let them sit in it. Let them feel the weight of it the way I do every time I step onto this field, the way I have since I took over this team.

Then I clear my throat and step forward, eyes sweeping over the group of men in front of me. “Look, I don’t need to tell you what this game means,” I start, my voice low but firm. “You already know. You’ve been hearing the same damn things I have. That the Tigers are struggling. That we’re not a real threat. That this is just another stepping stone game for Seattle to widen the gap between us and them.”

I take a breath, my jaw tightening. “But you know what I see? I see a team that’s sharper. More cohesive. A team that’s fought through the bullshit and come out stronger. I see a team that has every reason to walk out there tonight and play like they have something to prove—because we do.”

My gaze flickers to Dominic, who gives a subtle nod, his expression unreadable but his posture screaming readiness. Good. They need to be ready.

“We don’t have the luxury of being overlooked anymore,” I continue. “Not with the way you’ve been playing. Not with the shift in this team’s culture. We’re done with the toxicity, the excuses, the dead weight. We’re here to win. And that starts now.”

A murmur of agreement runs through the team, a few sharp nods, the clench of fists. It’s enough.

I nod once. “Go out there and remind them who the hell we are.”

With that, I step back, giving Coach Brandt room to run through the final logistics before we head out.

I’ve been on the field for every game since I took over. Couldn’t imagine sitting in the owner’s box, separated by a thick layer of glass and distance. If I’m going to turn this team around, I need to be in it—feeling it, breathing it, knowing every damn thing that’s happening at ground level.

As I walk onto the sideline, the energy of the stadium crackles around me, a deafening roar of thousands of voices blending into one. The stadium lights are blinding, the air thick with the scent of fresh-cut grass and adrenaline.

Brady steps up beside me, arms crossed as he watches the team take the field. “They’re locked in,” he says, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the noise.

“They need to be,” I reply. “Seattle’s not going to make this easy.”

“Never do,” he says with a grunt. Then, with a glance at me, “You catching any of the pregame commentary?”

I let out a sharp exhale through my nose. “Same shit, different week.”

Ever since I took over, the sports world hasn’t shut the hell up about it. The billionaire businessman with no professional rugby background, throwing himself into a sport he barely understands. They don’t care that I’ve spent every waking moment since February trying to learn everything there is to know about this team, this league, this game.

Doesn’t matter. They’ll write their narratives.

But I’ll write mine, too. And it starts with turning this team into a contender.

Brady doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just watches the players warming up, the way they move, the sharper pace, the cleaner execution. “They’re playing better,” he finally says. “Morale’s better, too.”

He doesn’t say since Novak left, but he doesn’t have to.

“Coach Brandt has been pushing them extra hard,” I remark, watching as the coach in question talks to some of the players. He’s a hard man, but he’s respected by the team and the staff and that’s all I really care about.

I glance toward the sideline, where Dominic is standing, deep in conversation with Anastasia.

And just like that, my breath is gone.

She’s dressed in dark skinny jeans and white tennis shoes, her team lab coat buttoned neatly over her frame. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, the loose strands catching the light when she tilts her head, listening intently to whatever Dom is saying.

She looks effortlessly professional and focused.

And completely unaffected by me.

Which is exactly what I told myself I wanted.

I force my attention back to the field, but it doesn’t stick. My gaze keeps dragging itself back to her, to the sharp line of her jaw, the way she absently tucks her hair behind her ear as she nods at whatever Dominic is saying. She’s mostly makeup-free, her skin clear and smooth, her lips set in that neutral, unreadable expression I’ve come to know too well over the past twenty-four hours.