Page 113 of A Game of Deception
“Diego makes it easy,” I said honestly. “He’s got an instinct for finding space. My job is just getting him the ball where he can use it.”
“You look good,” Tony observed, his gaze shifting to where Tara was laughing with Isabella and her friends. “Happy to see it, after all that mess with your old boss.”
He meant Hank, of course. “That’s all behind us.”
“Good riddance,” the other guy grunted. “A man who’d use his own kid’s suicide like that… there’s no honor in it. It’s one thing to ruin your enemy. But to do that to your own daughter? To steal her grief so you can use it as a weapon? That’s a whole other kind of sickness.”
No honor.Coming from them, the words landed with a different kind of weight. They weren't wrong. What Hank did—the manipulation, the lies—wasn’t just about revenge. It was about a complete perversion of family, a sickness that rotted everything it touched. He hadn't just let Tara believe a lie; he had actively prevented her from mourning her brother, keeping her trapped in a cage of rage he had built just for her.
The Feds were still picking through the bones of his empire. His lawyers were angling for a deal—probation, forfeitures, a slap on the wrist that would still cost him everything that mattered. He’d dodge a cell, but he’d lose the team, his reputation, and his daughter.
“Mr. McCrae!” Isabella bounced back over, tiara slightly crooked from dancing. “Will you take a picture with the whole family? Please?”
I spent the next twenty minutes in what felt like hundreds of photos—with Isabella, her parents, every cousin and aunt andfamily friend who’d made the trip. The photographer, a nervous little dude constantly wiping sweat from his forehead, directed us through pose after pose until my face hurt from smiling.
It was totally worth it though, seeing Isabella’s joy, watching her glow with pride at having her hero at her party. At fifteen, she was just figuring out who she wanted to be, and if my presence helped her believe dreams come true, I’d smile until my face fell off.
“You’re really good at this,” Tara said when we finally escaped the photo marathon. We found a quiet corner by the dessert table, temporarily free from autograph hunters.
“At what?”
“Being someone’s hero.” She straightened my tie, her fingers lingering against my chest. “You’ve got this natural way with kids. Like you actually remember what it felt like to be their age.”
I did remember, more clearly than I sometimes wanted. That desperate hunger for approval, how one word from someone you admired could make or break your entire week. I’d been lucky to have coaches who understood that power, who built kids up instead of tearing them down.
“Speaking of kids,” I nodded toward the dance floor where Leo was teaching Isabella’s younger cousins some complicated line dance. “How’s our boy doing?”
Tara laughed, the sound cutting through the mariachi music. “He’s been flirting with that server for an hour. The one with the dimples who keeps finding excuses to refill his wine glass.”
I spotted Leo getting very attentive service from a young guy who looked like a romance novel cover model. Good for him.About time he found someone who appreciated what a catch he was.
“Think he’ll ask for the guy’s number?” I asked.
“Already did, he told me. They’re going to brunch tomorrow.”
“Fast worker.”
“I think he’s making up for lost time.”
Before I could ask what she meant, a cymbal crash announced the cake’s arrival, all seven tiers wheeled in on a cart requiring three people to maneuver. Isabella squealed with delight as the crowd pressed closer, Vicente grabbing the microphone for a toast.
“My beautiful daughter,” he began, voice thick with emotion, “fifteen years ago, you made me the luckiest man in the world. Tonight, you become a woman, and I couldn’t be prouder of the person you’re becoming.”
Tara took my hand, her fingers fitting perfectly between mine. I looked at her, catching her soft smile. We were both thinking of Jimmy, I realized. All the celebrations he missed. But also everything we’d survived.
Here we stood, together, having weathered the worst. That counted for something.
The cake cutting turned into organized chaos as two hundred guests lined up for their slice of tres leches with raspberry filling. I got cornered by Isabella’s school friends, all wanting to know if I was dating anyone and whether they were too young for pro soccer tryouts.
“Focus on your grades first,” I told them, falling back on the same advice every adult gave me at their age. “Soccer will always be there, but you can’t get your education back once you’ve missed it.”
“But you left school to play professionally,” pointed out a girl with braces and enough confidence to suggest she’d be trouble soon.
“I did,” I admitted. “And I got lucky. For every player who makes it, thousands don’t. Having a backup plan isn’t giving up—it’s being smart about your dreams.”
“Mr. McCrae!” Isabella appeared again, dragging a boy her age. “This is Miguel, my boyfriend. He plays forward just like you.”
Miguel looked ready to die from embarrassment, but managed a strangled, “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m your biggest fan.”
