Page 25 of A Game of Deception
Ben didn’t flinch. He waited until Diego was out of earshot before turning to me, his “question” about his hamstring forgotten. “You okay?” he asked, his voice quiet.
“I’m fine,” I said, though I was more shaken than I wanted to admit. “Thank you, Ben.”
He just nodded, a silent understanding passing between us. “Anytime, Doc.”
He gave me a small, respectful smile and walked away.
I watched Ben until he disappeared around the corner.
This morning I’d been so certain, so smug in my belief that I was in control of this game. I’d manipulated Xander’s body on my table. I’d orchestrated every touch. I’d convinced myself I was the puppet master.
What a joke.
7
XANDER
I couldn’t feelmy legs.
My back pressed against the frigid metal of my locker, shirt still bunched in my fist. Everyone else had hustled out to the practice field, but I remained frozen. Brain offline.
Her touch lingered on my skin—methodical one second, weirdly intimate the next. How her fingers found that exact spot on my shoulder where old injuries had healed over deeper wounds. The shift in her eyes when she pressed into it, like she was x-raying straight through to my fucked-up soul.
I yanked my shirt over my head, flinching as my newly prodded muscles complained. Before common sense kicked in, I grabbed my phone and fired off a reply to the “Welcome home” message I was sure had been from Tara.
You felt it too.
The message zoomed away. Three dots popped up almost instantly, vanished, then reappeared. My heart knocked against my ribs while I waited.
Felt what?
Classic deflection. Pure Dr. Swanson mode. But I’d finished with the bullshit games. Done running from old ghosts. I was exhausted. So fucking exhausted.
That we’re both broken in exactly the same places.
I stared at the screen, waiting for the three dots to return. Nothing. Just dead air stretching forever.
Whatever. If she wanted to play pretend, I could join in. Nothing left to lose anyway. I typed:Tomorrow night. Team party at The Basement. I know you’ll be there.
I paused, then added:
Wear the green dress.
A direct challenge. A poke in the ribs. I knew she’d never do it, but I wanted her to know I remembered the dress that matched my eyes. Did she really give that much attention to detail that she dressed to match my eye color? Hmm. Maybe. If so, what did that say about her motives?
Her reply arrived faster this time.
I’ll wear whatever I want.
A smile crept onto my face despite everything. There she was—the fighter, the woman who refused to be pushed around.
Good. Surprise me.
I set the phone down, a weird rush replacing the empty ache in my chest. I’d thrown down the challenge. Her move now.
“McCrae! You planning on joining us this century?”
Coach Wilkes blocked the doorway, arms crossed. Behind him, the Florida sunshine blazed, and I heard the shouts and whistles from practice already underway.
