Page 9

The office feels quieter once she’s gone, but the air is charged with expectation. I take a moment to sit in the leather chair behind the desk, the panoramic view of the training field stretching out before me. It’s a lot to take in—the team, the facility, the determination to make this work.

But this is mine now, and for better or worse, I intend to make something of it.

With a sigh, I open the first folder and dive in.

Time to start learning.

The first page greets me with a player’s headshot—tight-lipped, sweaty, and far too serious for what looks like a team media day. Beneath the photo, his stats are laid out: height, weight, position, recent injuries. My eyes skim over phrases like “out of form” and “recovery timeline uncertain.” Not exactly a glowing introduction.

I lean back in the leather chair and glance at the stack of folders Betty left on my desk. There are at least thirty of these. Thirty players. Thirty sets of problems, potential, and, hopefully, solutions.

Betty had said, “You’ll get the hang of it.” God, I hope she’s right.

A knock at the door breaks my concentration. Brady pops his head in, clipboard still in hand. “How’s it going?”

“Enlightening,” I say, setting the folder aside. “Though I’m starting to think the late Mr. Harrison—no disrespect— started treating this like it was a hobby, not because he wanted to win.”

Brady smirks but doesn’t deny it. “He had his reasons. Loved the sport, loved the culture. But yeah, winning hasn’t been the Tigers’ strong suit lately.”

“Understatement of the century,” I mutter, glancing back at the dismal stats. “How bad is the morale?”

“Mixed,” Brady admits, stepping further into the office. “Some of the veterans are frustrated. They’ve been here through the worst seasons. The younger guys? They’re just trying to prove themselves. But everyone’s feeling the pressure.”

“Pressure I now inherit.”

“Exactly.”

I press my palms flat against the desk and look at Brady. “You’ve been with this team for how long?”

“Seven years,” he says. “Started as an assistant coach before moving into management.”

“So you’ve seen it all.”

He nods, his expression unreadable. “I’ve seen the highs and the lows. Mostly lows, if I’m being honest.”

I tap a pen against the desk, considering my next words. “You’ve been straight with me so far. Be straight with me now: Can this team be saved?”

Brady doesn’t answer immediately, which is more telling than anything he could say. “It’s going to take work,” he says finally. “But the talent is there. The infrastructure is there. The right leadership could make all the difference.”

I catch the subtle emphasis on “leadership.”

“Guess I better make sure I’m that guy.”

“You’ve got a good start,” he says, nodding toward the pile of folders. “Betty included everything you’ll need to understand the roster.”

As if summoned, Betty reappears, another folder in hand. She doesn’t bother knocking—just strides in with the quiet confidence of someone who’s been doing this job longer than I’ve been making deals.

“Forgot this one,” she says, placing it on top of the stack. “Our scrum-half. Figured you’d want to start with him.”

I glance at the label: Elias Novak. Scrum-half.

“Thanks, Betty.”

She nods, already halfway out the door. “Dinner’s at seven in the cafeteria if you want to see where the players eat. Might be worth a visit.”

Once she’s gone, I look back at Brady. “Is she always this efficient?”

“She’s the glue that holds this place together.”