The voice on the other end has been there before.

He’s lifted the Grey Cup. He’s carried a province. He knows what comes next. So, when Darian Durant hears Trevor Harris talk about turning the page, about putting the Grey Cup on the shelf and diving straight into film on the rest of the West Division, there’s no hesitation.

“That’s the way,” Durant says, almost instantly. “Not just the right way, the only way. Because the moment you win, the clock resets.”

Harris made it clear in his SportsCage appearance that his off-season wasn’t about reliving the 2025 championship run. He watched the Grey Cup once, then it was on to breaking down opponents, building notes, searching for the next edge. Durant hears that and smiles.

“Especially when you’re getting to that stage of your career, you’ve got to take a mature approach,” he says. “You’ve got to be ahead mentally.”

At 39 years old, Harris isn’t chasing anymore, he’s defending. In the CFL, that’s a completely different fight. Durant doesn’t sugarcoat it: the Riders are the target now.

Everyone else in the West Division is digging through last season’s film, searching for cracks. A missed rotation. A tendency. A moment where something almost worked. Durant knows exactly how those conversations go in opposing meeting rooms.

“They’re looking at Saskatchewan like, ‘If we did this differently, maybe we beat them,’” he says. “So now Trevor’s got to be a step ahead of that.”

That’s where the real work lives, not in the highlights, but in the details no one sees. Durant leans into it, the conversation shifting from philosophy to the craft itself. Watching film isn’t passive, it’s intentional, almost surgical. You don’t just watch a game, you watch one piece of it at a time.

“One day, you’re just watching the DBs,” Durant explains. “Next day, just the front. Same game, different focus.”

It’s repetition with purpose. Controlled tunnel vision. A way to trick your brain into seeing something new in something familiar. Because in a league with only nine teams, there are only so many secrets. So you go hunting for the smallest ones. A foot slightly forward. A linebacker leaning. A defensive back giving away leverage without realizing it.

“Everybody has something,” Durant says. “Something small that can tell you what they’re about to do.”

And if you find it? That’s where careers change.

“That’s how you earn a big contract,” he adds with a laugh. “One little thing.”

It’s not just about schemes. Those rarely change dramatically. It’s about people. Habits. Human nature under pressure. Durant compares it to poker, tells, tendencies, and subtle giveaways. And he admits, he had his own. Back in his playing days, defensive mastermind Chris Jones had cracked the code. Run or pass, Durant was tipping it somehow. He didn’t even know it at first.

“I’d come to the line and hear, ‘Rabbit, rabbit or parrot, parrot,’” Durant recalls. “I couldn’t figure it out.”

Until he did. And once he did, everything flipped. Now, the tells became tools. What once gave him away became a weapon to deceive.

“I could make it look like a run, and it’s a pass, and then you hit a big play.”

That evolution, from unaware to intentional, is what separates quarterbacks who last from those who don’t. Which brings it all back to Harris. Durant sees a quarterback who understands where he is in his career. Who takes care of his body. Who prepares with purpose. Who isn’t clinging to what just happened.

“You’ve got to let the Grey Cup go,” Durant says.

Don’t dismiss it. Don’t forget it. Don’t live in it. Because in the CFL, what you did last year doesn’t win you anything this year. And if Durant’s right and history suggests he usually is, Harris is already doing the hardest part — starting over.