Page 16 of A Game of Deception
“I just want what’s best for you. You know that, don’t you?”
I simply nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Good.” He patted my hand. “Because sometimes what’s best for us isn’t what we think we want.”
The warning was clear, if oblique. I forced a smile. “I’m a big girl, Dad. I can take care of myself.”
“Of course you can.” His answering smile was indulgent. “But even big girls need their fathers sometimes.”
The car glided to a stop in front of my building. My father leaned over to kiss my cheek.
“Get some rest,” he said. “You have a busy day tomorrow. McCrae again, yes?”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“Good luck with that.” Something in his tone made me glance sharply at him, but his expression revealed nothing. “Goodnight, Tara.”
“Goodnight, Dad.”
I stepped out of the car, watching as the Bentley pulled away from the curb.
Inside my apartment, I kicked off my heels and headed straight for the shower, as if I could wash away the unsettling dinner conversation along with the day’s sweat. The hot water did nothing to ease the tension that had settled there.
My father’s words repeated in my head:A hotheaded player picking a fight with some loudmouth blogger isn’t exactly a mastermind plot.
Blogger was a clue. What if my father, with his connections and his millions, had orchestrated the entire thing? Created the perfect scandal to force Chelsea’s hand, to make Xander available when my father was building his team?
I dressed in my sleeping shorts and tank top, then padded to my home office. The space was organized with medical journals lined up on shelves, physical therapy equipment neatly stored, and a large desk facing the window with a beautiful view.
I sank into my desk chair, opening my laptop. The screen illuminated, displaying the photos I’d taken of Xander’s medical file from Chelsea. I zoomed in on the note about his insomnia:
The patient reports difficulty falling asleep and staying asleep. Attributes to stress. Prescribed Ambien 10mg PRN. The patient advised limiting alcohol consumption while using medication.
Insomnia. A common symptom of PTSD; of unresolved trauma.
I stared at the warning listed in Xander’s file. Ambien and alcohol—a potentially lethal combination. The recommended limit was one drink, maybe two at most. But I’d seen the tabloid photos. Xander wasn’t having “a drink.” He was drowning himself night after night.
Was he trying to self-destruct? Or just desperate for dreamless sleep?
I made a note on my phone to address it during tomorrow’s session. It would be tricky—confronting him about his drinking would likely trigger defensiveness. But I couldn’t ignore a genuine medical concern, especially not when it affected a player under my care.
I closed my laptop and stood, stretching tired muscles. Tomorrow would be another predawn run past his building, another day of calculated interactions. Another step in my plan.
Back in my bedroom, I set my alarm for 4:45 AM and crawled into bed, wondering which of us was more damaged.
5
XANDER
The whisky wasn’t working anymore.
I stood on the penthouse balcony, gripping the glass railing with white knuckles, watching dawn break over Miami Beach. The city was already stirring—early joggers dotting the shoreline, delivery trucks rumbling along Ocean Drive, fishing boats heading out for the morning catch. Normal people doing normal things while I stood above it all, trapped in a gilded cage of my own making.
The bottle of Macallan beside me was nearly empty. I’d started drinking around midnight, hoping to find that familiar numbness, the blessed quiet that usually came after the fourth or fifth glass. But it hadn’t come. Now, the alcohol had only sharpened every jagged thought.
Sleep had been impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Tara—not as she was now, composed and clinical, but as she’d been twelve years ago. Sixteen years old, dark hair falling around her tear-stained face as she’d looked up at me behind the church after Jimmy’s funeral. The moment I’d almost ruined everything by nearly kissing her.
I drained the last of my whisky, the burn in my throat barely registering anymore. Below, a lone female figure caught my eye—a runner moving along the beach with purpose. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, athletic build.
