Page 18 of A Game of Deception
“Xander, whatever happened?—”
“I need to get ready for practice.” I pushed past him, heading for the door. “I’ll get a car service. Don’t wait up.”
“Xander, wait?—”
But I was already inside, the sliding glass door shutting behind me with a final-sounding click. I leaned against it for a moment, hating myself for the hurt I’d seen in Leo’s eyes. He didn’t deserve my rage. None of this was his fault. But I needed someone to blame, someone to absorb the toxic cocktail of guilt and fear churning inside me.
Because the alternative was admitting the truth: that I’d brought this all on myself, and I was still paying the price.
I showedup early at the Pirates’ training facility for two reasons: to dodge Leo at the penthouse and to get my showdown with Tara out of the way. My skull felt like it was hosting a rave, thanks to last night’s booze festival, zero sleep, and emotional baggage playing on loop.
But whatever game Tara had planned, I was ready to play.
At 8 AM sharp, the sports medicine wing was dead quiet. I passed through the glass doors, looking for Tara. Instead, I got a tiny blonde in scrubs behind the reception desk.
“Mr. Xander McCrae,” she announced without bothering to look up from her screen. “Dr. Swanson asked me to inform you that your physical therapy session is canceled because of a scheduling conflict.”
I stood there like an idiot. “Canceled?”
“Yes.” She finally granted me eye contact, her face revealing her boredom. “You’re free to join team practice at nine. Coach Wilkes expects you.”
“When is it rescheduled for?”
“Dr. Swanson will be in touch.” Back to her screen, conversation over.
I lingered, knocked off my game and pissed. This was textbook power-play bullshit—Tara establishing dominance, making it clear she controlled when and where we’d interact. Part of me felt relieved for the delay, but mostly I was fuming at being so easily jerked around.
“Fine,” I said, turning to leave. “Tell Dr. Swanson I said thanks for the consideration.”
The assistant didn’t give enough of a shit to respond.
The locker room was half-full when I entered, with players in various states of dress preparing for the morning session. The conversation died as I walked in, replaced by a heavy silence that followed me to my assigned locker. I recognized a few faces from the welcome party—Diego Mano, the team’s star striker; Banda, a veteran defender; and a handful of younger players whose names I couldn’t recall.
I nodded at everyone, expecting the same enthusiasm you’d get from a DMV employee on a Friday afternoon. Being the new guy always sucked balls, especially when you’re the fancy import with a “problem child” reputation. Throw in being Hank Swanson’s pet project, and I basically had “SOCIAL LEPER” branded on my ass.
I changed into my training gear, moving like someone who wasn’t nursing a hangover. Over a decade in pro soccer taught me locker room politics—the pecking order, the silent judgment, the “prove yourself, asshole” gauntlet everyone runs. My strategy remained simple: shut up and show my domination on the field.
“So, McCrae.” Diego Mano’s voice sliced through the quiet. “Settling in okay?”
I glanced up to find the Columbian striker posted up against the neighboring locker, arms folded like he was posing for his next underwear ad. At thirty-two, Mano was soccer’s equivalent of a classic car—not as fast as he once was, but still dangerous and overpriced.
“Getting there,” I said, yanking my shirt over my head.
“Good, good.” Mano faked a smile. “Miami’s a great city. Lots to enjoy. Beaches, clubs, beautiful women...” He paused like he was about to drop wisdom. “Though some women around here are off-limits, you understand?”
I met his stare, having already read his territorial pissing contest invitation. “I’m just here to play football, Mano.”
“Of course.” He smacked my shoulder with enough force to qualify as low-key assault. “But since we’re teammates now, let me give you some friendly advice. The doctor? Dr. Swanson?” His voice dropped to a rough hush. “I saw your little performance on her table yesterday. I don’t give a fuck what you’ve got planned, but she’s team property. Hands off!”
The way he talked about Tara—like she was the community coffee machine—made my blood boil, but I kept my poker face. “Noted.”
“Good.” Mano straightened up, mission accomplished. “See you on the pitch, superstar.”
He sauntered away. I’d just been marked as competition—not just for playing time, but for Tara’s attention. The irony would have been laughable if it weren’t so fucking depressing. Here I was, trying to avoid Tara at all costs, while Mano had me tagged as a threat to whatever he had going on with her.
I finished changing and was lacing up my boots when a shadow fell across me. A younger player, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, was hovering awkwardly. I think Leo called him Bill something.
“Mr. McCrae? I’m Ben Carter.” The kid extended his hand, his expression a mix of nervousness and barely contained excitement. “Welcome to the team, sir. It’s an honor to play with you.”
