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By the time the press conference is over, I’m ready to put my fist through a wall.

Not because of the media. I knew what they’d ask before I even sat down. Knew they’d twist the story however they wanted. Knew they’d ignore the biggest damn win this team has had all season in favor of a headline that makes me look like an out-of-control billionaire with no business running a rugby team.

No, none of that gets to me.

What gets to me?

The fact that Anastasia hasn’t looked at me once since we walked off the field.

The fact that the last time she did, her eyes were blazing with anger, her breath uneven, her lips still swollen from my mouth on hers.

And now?

She’s avoiding me.

I know exactly where she is—the medical room at the far end of the hallway, probably working through her reports, checking stats on player recoveries, pretending like tonight didn’t just crack something wide open between us.

I don’t think. I move.

Brady starts to say something as I leave the press room, but I wave him off. Dominic is watching me too, probably knowing exactly where I’m going, but I don’t stop.

The medical room door is slightly ajar.

I push it open without knocking.

Anastasia is standing by the counter, her back to me, sorting through paperwork with tight, clipped movements. Her white lab coat is still on, but she’s rolled up the sleeves, and the tension in her shoulders is so sharp it might as well be a warning.

She knows I’m here.

She just doesn’t want to deal with me.

Too bad.

I step inside and shut the door behind me.

She stiffens. “You know, barging into the medical room isn’t exactly professional.”

I exhale through my nose. “Neither is pretending I don’t exist after you kissed me back.”

That does it.

She turns around, her green eyes flashing. “Are you serious?” she hisses. “You think that’s the issue here?” She throws her pen down onto the counter, crossing her arms like she’s physically restraining herself from throwing something at me.

I step closer, slow, deliberate. “You’re damn right it’s an issue. You kissed me back, Anastasia. Don’t act like it didn’t happen.”

She lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, it happened. And you know what else happened? You lost your temper on the field like a—” She stops herself, pressing her fingers to her temples. When she looks back at me, her expression is tired, frustrated, and something else she doesn’t want me to see.

I close the distance between us. Just enough that I can see her breathing change. Just enough that I know she still feels this too.

“You don’t get to do that,” she whispers, her voice thinner now. “You don’t get to throw punches and storm onto the field every time something happens to me.”

I should step back.

I should let her finish.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t regret it.