Page 112 of A Game of Deception
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve spent half my life running from the truth. Running from that night. Running from myself. But the one thing I could never outrun was you.” His voice grew thick with an emotion that made my heart ache. “I love you, Tara. I think I’ve loved you since I was a stupid seventeen-year-old kid who didn’t know what love was. I loved you when I hated myself for what I thought I’d done. And I loved you even when you were plotting my ruin.”
The confession hung in the air, a raw and beautiful thing. The icy knot of fear in my stomach finally melted, replaced by a wave of warmth so profound it stole my breath.
I cut him off the only way I could—by surging forward and pressing my lips to his.
It wasn't a kiss of passion, but of homecoming. It was the pain and misunderstanding and anger melting away under the light of a new day. He responded instantly, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me in until there was no space left between us, as if he could absorb me into himself.
“I love you too,” I whispered against his lips, the words a sob of relief. “God, Xander, I never stopped. Even when I hated you, a part of me was still that sixteen-year-old girl who was hopelessly in love with you.”
He let out a laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy that echoed across the empty beach. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?”
“The biggest,” I agreed, smiling through my tears. “But we’reourmess.”
We stood there for a long time, just holding each other as the sky turned from gold to brilliant blue.
EPILOGUE
Xander
The mariachi bandcranked up another tune as I scribbled my fifteenth autograph of the night, this one for a kid barely twelve who gazed at me like I’d just walked off Mount fucking Olympus.
“Could you make it out to Sofia?” she asked in careful English, her eyes huge with that hero-worship shit that still throws me off balance, even now.
“Of course, sweetheart.” I grabbed the soccer ball she’d shoved at me and found a clean spot.To Sofia—Chase your dreams with the same fire you showed tonight. Xander McCrae.“Here you go.”
She hugged that ball like it was made of pure gold, bouncing like a pogo stick. “Gracias, Señor McCrae! You’re the best player in the world!”
In the world.Jesus, kids really don’t bullshit, do they? But her absolute certainty lit something warm in my chest. A month ago, I was persona non grata, suspended and disgraced. Now I’msigning autographs at a quinceañera for the daughter of a guy who runs half the illegal gambling in South Florida.
Fucking bizarre how life works out.
“She’s not wrong, you know,” Tara whispered next to me, quiet enough for my ears only. She looked knockout gorgeous in that midnight blue dress that clung to every curve I’d traced with my hands, her dark hair pulled up to show off her neck. The same neck I’d kissed that morning when she tried sneaking out for her run.
I looked over, catching that little smile playing at her lips. “About what?”
“Being the best.” Her fingers found mine with a gentle squeeze. “You scored Saturday, plus two assists. That’s practically a hat trick. And Diego’s been telling everyone you’re the most unselfish forward he’s ever played with.”
Diego’s name still caught me off guard. Three weeks back, he was my worst enemy on the team. Now we had this weird almost-friendship thing going, forged when I wouldn’t let Torres’s thugs beat him to death over those gambling debts. Nothing bonds guys like almost dying together.
“Diego’s just happy to be breathing,” I said, but couldn’t hide my pride. What we’d built on the field was magic—his aggressive runs creating space for my technical play, my passes finding him perfectly positioned to score. We topped the league in goals, and better yet, we kept winning.
Another pack of teenagers approached, and I slipped back into the photo-and-autograph routine. The quinceañera was exactly as over-the-top as expected—Coral Gables Country Club, enoughflowers to fill a botanical garden, and a seven-tier cake. Vicente Torres had gone all out for his princess.
Weird as hell being here. But a promise is a promise, and this particular one saved Diego’s life. Plus, Isabella Torres was actually pretty cool, more interested in talking about her soccer team than begging for selfies.
“Mr. McCrae!” The birthday girl herself popped up beside me, rocking a pink gown straight out of Disney. “My dad wants to introduce you to some of his business associates. They’re really big fans.”
I shot Tara a look, and she raised an eyebrow. Vicente’s “business associates” were definitely other criminals, but they were keeping their word about treating this as a legit family celebration. No shop talk, no threats, just a dad showing off to his daughter’s party.
“Lead the way, birthday girl.”
The guys Vicente introduced as his “business associates” looked like they’d walked straight out of central casting—thick necks, silk suits, and handshakes that were a quiet test of nerve. But they were die-hard soccer fans, and the conversation quickly turned to strategy, formations, and the Miami Pirates’ real shot at the championship.
“Good thing we didn’t have tomake-an-exampleout of that Mano kid,” a guy named Tony said with a wry grin, gesturing with his cigar. “The chemistry you two got on the field is somethin’ else. We’d have been robbing ourselves.”
“Tell me about it,” another one chimed in. “My bookie’s crying every time you guys step on the field. That pass you fed him last week? Beautiful.”
