Page 85 of A Game of Deception
I stood up, grabbed my water bottle, and turned to face him. Everyone went quiet again, watching for the fireworks.
“Not for you,” I said, ice in my voice, then headed for the exit.
As I pushed through the door, I nearly slammed into Ben Carter. The young midfielder was just arriving with his gear bag, a compression wrap visible on his hamstring.
“Oh, hey, Xander,” he said, completely missing the drama behind me. “How’s it going?”
“Been better,” I admitted.
Ben nodded. “Yeah, I saw the news. Rough stuff.” He paused, then added quietly, “For what it’s worth, I think it’s all bullshit.”
“Thanks, Ben.”
He shrugged with a small smile. “No problem. See you out there?”
I nodded, and he continued into the lion’s den. Behind him, I heard Diego start up again. But at least one person didn’t think I was complete garbage. It wasn’t much, but I’d take it.
The practice field felt like freedom after the suffocating locker room. I jogged some warmup laps, trying to clear my head.
As the rest of the team arrived, Coach Wilkes gathered us for instructions, outlining scrimmage exercises focused on ball control and quick transitions. When he split us into groups, I noticed he put me on the opposite side from Diego—small mercies.
“Carter,” Coach called, “you’re on limited participation today. Go get cleared first.”
Ben nodded and jogged to the sideline where the physical therapy team waited. I looked for Tara’s dark hair. She wasn’t there—just two junior therapists I recognized.
“McCrae!” Coach barked. “You with us or daydreaming?”
I snapped back to reality. “Sorry, Coach.”
He gave me a hard look. “Focus on the pitch, not your personal drama. I need your head in the game.”
“Yes, sir,” I muttered, joining my group.
Practice started okay. I threw myself into drills, channeling all my anger into physical exertion. For brief moments, I could almost forget the dumpster fire my life had become—there was just the ball, the grass under my feet, the pure joy of the game I’d loved since I was a kid.
Reality crashed back when we switched to full-field scrimmage. Diego played center forward for the opposing side, matched directly against me. From the first whistle, he was all over me—fouling just subtly enough to avoid Coach’s notice, whispering shit whenever we got close.
“Saw your girlfriend on TV last night,” he murmured as we waited for a corner kick. “Nice rack on her. No wonder you couldn’t keep it in your pants.”
I ignored him, focusing on the ball’s path as it flew toward the goal.
“Though I gotta say,” he continued, “the doc’s more my type. All that repressed energy. Bet she’s wild once you get her going.”
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth nearly shattered.
Don’t react. That’s exactly what he wants.
The ball came our way, and I headed it clear, sending it upfield to a teammate. Diego jogged beside me as we repositioned.
“Too bad you fucked that up too,” he said casually. “Heard she won’t even look at you now. Can’t blame her. Who wants damaged goods?”
I missed a pass, the ball rolling past me as my concentration broke. Diego laughed, a low, satisfied sound.
“Thought so,” he said, breaking away to intercept the ball.
The scrimmage continued, and so did Diego’s psychological warfare. Every mistake I made—and there were plenty as my focus crumbled under his constant attacks—was met with another cutting remark about Brittany, about Tara, about my drinking, about my failures on and off the pitch.
I was ready to explode by the time Coach called a water break. My hands shook as I grabbed my bottle, gulping water like it might wash away the fury building inside me.
