Page 110 of A Game of Deception
Chloe’s eyes went bright. “Damn right you are.” She shoved a coffee into my hands. “Now, sit. Tell me everything the news didn’t. I want the behind-the-scenes director’s cut.”
As I talked, she unwrapped the lumpy sculpture. It was a grotesque, vaguely man-shaped clay head with a crown falling off. Your father, she explained, gesturing with a half-eaten cinnamon roll. I’m calling it ‘The Patriarchy Eats Itself.’ It’s cathartic. I brought you a hammer. We can smash it later.
I told her everything—the storage unit, saving Diego, the chilling final confession in my father’s study.
“So what now?” she asked when I’d finished. “With the smoldering remains of your father’s empire, the team, and Sir Brooding McHottie?”
I sighed. “The league is taking over the team. My father is… gone. And Xander…” I trailed off. “We went through a war together. But what happens when the war is over? What if we’re just a trauma bond? What if normal, quiet, boring life is something we can’t actually do?”
Chloe rolled her eyes so hard I heard them click. “Tara, honey, listen to me. ‘Normal’ was never in the cards for you two. You built a literal serial-killer wall to him in your office. He flew across an ocean and walked into a mob den for you. This isn’t a rom-com. It’s a goddamn epic. Stop trying to shrink it down to fit in some boring little box.” She leaned forward, her expression fierce. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. That man is a goner. So maybe, for once, stop analyzing the brushstrokes and just enjoy the damn painting?”
My phone buzzed, saving me from having to answer. It was a video link from the team’s official social media. Diego’s bruised but resolute face filled the screen.
“…Everything in those reports about Hank Swanson is true,” he was saying. “Xander is a great player and a better man. He savedmy life when he had every reason not to. I’m telling the truth to start repaying a debt I’ll never be able to fully square.”
The video ended.
“Well, look at that,” Chloe said, grabbing the burlap-wrapped head. “The dominoes are falling, and the patriarchy is about to meet its maker.” She handed me a small mallet from her tote bag. “Your turn first.”
I looked at the ugly clay head, at the hammer in my hand, and for the first time all morning, I smiled. A real, genuine smile. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to smash a few things and let myself be happy.
By noon,three major sponsors had announced they were pulling out of their deals with the Miami Pirates FC, citing ethical concerns. The league had appointed an interim management team to oversee the club while Hank was under investigation. The local news was reporting that my father had been seen leaving his mansion with suitcases, destination unknown.
It was surreal, watching it all unfold from the quiet isolation of my apartment. The man who had controlled so much of my life, who had manipulated and lied and schemed to keep me under his thumb, was being systematically stripped of his power, his reputation, his empire.
And I felt... nothing. Not satisfaction or vindication or even anger. Just a profound emptiness where those emotions shouldhave been. As if my father had become a stranger, someone whose fate no longer affected me.
My phone rang—Xander.
“Hey,” I said, my voice softening automatically at the sound of his.
“Hey yourself,” he replied, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “How are you holding up?”
“Honestly? I have no idea. It’s all so... overwhelming.”
“I know.” He paused, and I could picture him running a hand through his hair the way he did when he was gathering his thoughts. “Listen, I was thinking... do you remember that morning we met to run? When we first decided to work together?”
“Of course.” How could I forget? It had been the beginning of everything—our partnership, our reconciliation, our journey toward the truth.
“Meet me there,” he said simply. “At South Pointe Park. Same spot, sunrise tomorrow. Just you and me, away from all this madness. We need to talk.”
My heart stuttered in my chest.We need to talk. Those four words that never preceded anything good in the history of relationships. But no—I was being paranoid. After everything we’d been through, Xander wouldn’t bring me to a meaningful place just to end things. Would he?
“I’ll be there,” I promised, trying to keep the sudden anxiety from my voice.
“Good. Thank you.”
The call ended, and I stood in the middle of my bedroom, phone clutched to my chest like a talisman. Tomorrow at sunrise. Our spot. Just the two of us.
That night,for the first time, I let myself truly grieve. Not for the abstract victim of a car crash, but for Jimmy. My brother. The boy who hid his demons behind a blinding smile. I cried until my body ached and the knot of pain I’d carried for so long finally, blessedly, began to loosen.
When my alarm went off at 5:00 AM, I was already awake, watching the sky bleed from black to bruised purple. I dressed in the dark—running clothes, a ghost of that first morning—and slipped out before Chloe, who’d insisted on sleeping on my couch like a bohemian guard dog, could wake up and offer a pep talk I didn't have the strength to hear.
The drive to South Pointe Park was a masterclass in anxiety. Every traffic light seemed to mock me.We need to talk.The words echoed in the silent car, a four-word death sentence. The war was over. The mission was complete. What if I was just collateral damage he no longer needed to protect? What if, after all this, he was letting me go? The thought was a shard of ice in my chest.
I parked and walked the familiar path, the air cool and thick with the smell of salt and new beginnings.
And there he was.
