Page 6 of A Game of Deception
She dropped the first-aid kit on the desk. “Why amIhere? This is my home, Mr. McCrae. My dad moved us from California right after the funeral. I finished high school here, got my doctorate at U-Miami.”
She took a breath, letting that bomb detonate before switching back to Dr. Professional. “So, I’m here because I’m the best at myjob, and my father created the team because he loves football. And you’re here because you’ve got talent. That’s all.”
Total bullshit answer. Maybe she spent half her life in this humidity hell, but that changed exactly dick.
“Twelve years,” I growled. “Twelve years, and now we’re all magically on the same team. That’s not random, and it’s not about scoring goals.”
She moved closer, near enough that I spotted tiny freckles scattered across her nose.
“What do you think it’s about, then?” She whispered so quietly I had to lean in.
Before I could answer, the door opened, and Hank Swanson stepped into the room. He glanced between us, his eyes narrowing, sizing up the situation.
“Everything alright in here?” he asked, his tone pleasant but his eyes cold.
Tara stepped back. “Just finishing up, Dad. Mr. McCrae should be fine, but he’ll need to keep the wound clean and change the bandage daily.”
Hank nodded, his gaze shifting to me. “Ugly gash,” he said. “Accidents happen though, right, Xander? Especially when booze enters the picture.”
The words were innocent enough, but the implied meaning was clear. A reference to that night and Jimmy.
I met his gaze steadily. “I’d better get back to the party.”
He stepped aside, gesturing for me to precede him out of the study. As I passed him, he added, “I hope your hand heals quickly. We have a lot of work to do, you and I.”
I didn’t respond, didn’t trust myself to. Instead, I walked back into the crowd, searching for Leo, for a drink, for anything that might anchor me in this surreal reality I’d stepped into.
2
TARA
Much earlier the same day…
The steady rhythm of my feet against the pavement at 5:03 AM was a kind of peace to my soul. One-two, one-two, each impact sending a satisfying jolt up my calves. Miami Beach was still sleeping, just the occasional early-morning jogger and the homeless guys who recognized me now with sleepy nods.
I’d been running this exact route every morning for the past month. Not because I was a creature of habit, though I was. Not because the sunrise over the Atlantic was spectacular, though it was. I’d been running it because the route passed the row of luxury penthouses where the team housed some of its VIP players.
My earbuds were not playing music. Instead, a British sports commentator’s voice filled my head: “McCrae was never a fit for Chelsea. He’s always been Miami’s type of player—flash, style, a bit of danger.”
Danger. If they only knew.
“—and as I expected, sources at Chelsea say the management isn’t heartbroken to see him go. Too many late nights, too many missed practices. Talent can only take you so far when your lifestyle’s working against you?—”
I rounded the corner, slowing as I approached the glass-fronted building where the team had three penthouse suites reserved. One of them would be his later today.
My eyes darted to the top floors. Empty for now. But soon… tonight.
I kicked it up a notch, focusing on not dying. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Steady. Controlled. The exact opposite of how I’d been since the day Xander left Palo Alto.
The rest of my five-mile run went by in a haze. I knew Leo Martin would be glued to his side—his babysitter for the past decade, the only person who hadn’t jumped ship from the shitshow of Xander McCrae.
I knew every detail about him that Google and gossip could provide without actually breathing the same air. And tonight, finally, that would change.
Back in my apartment, I stuck to my morning ritual of showering with my stupidly expensive Chloé vanilla and jasmine shampoo. Why that specific one? Because twelve years ago, a seventeen-year-old soccer prodigy casually mentioned he dug some random girl’s vanilla scent. Pathetic? Absolutely. I remembered everything he’d ever said to me. Every. Single. Word.
I wrapped myself in a plush towel and padded to my bedroom, where three dresses lay arranged on my king-sized bed. The black one: sophisticated, serious, a statement that I was a professional to be reckoned with. The navy blue: team colors,showing my allegiance, my father’s daughter through and through. And then the deep emerald one: the exact shade of Xander’s eyes.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
