Page 15 of A Game of Deception
I tilted my head, feigning confusion. “I’m not a psychologist, Dad. My assessment was purely physical.”
“Come now, Tara. You’re more observant than that.” He leaned forward slightly. “Did he seem... stable to you?”
I couldn’t quite decipher the question. Was he concerned about his investment?
“He seemed focused,” I said carefully. “Professional. Cooperative with the examination.”
“Hmm.” My father took a sip of his whisky, studying me over the rim of his glass.
The server arrived with our appetizers, momentarily breaking the tension. I used the interruption to steer the conversation to safer ground—the team’s upcoming schedule, the marketing campaign, the charity events planned for the season. My father played along, but I felt his focus wavering.
As I finished a point about community events, he reached across the small table and his index finger brushed away a tiny, nonexistent crumb from the tablecloth next to my bread plate. The gesture was slight, proprietary, and utterly dismissive of what I’d just said. It was a silent correction, a reminder that he controlled the space, the conversation, and everything in it. He leaned back, his point made without a single word.
“You’ve prescribed physical therapy for McCrae, I understand?” he asked, his voice casual again now that he had reestablished command.
I nodded. “Bi-weekly sessions to start, then we’ll reassess. His muscular tension needs aggressive treatment if he’s going to perform at his best.”
“Bi-weekly?” My father raised an eyebrow. “Is that standard protocol?”
“For elite athletes? Absolutely.” The lie came easily. “The sooner we address these imbalances, the better he’ll integrate with the team.”
My father studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, satisfied with my explanation.
I took a deep breath, sensing an opening. Time to test the waters.
“It was incredibly fortunate for us,” I said, keeping my tone neutral, “that a player of his caliber became available at the exact moment you were completing the roster.” I paused, observing him. “The incident in Chelsea that got him transfer-listed was perfect timing for us.”
My father gave a dismissive, paternalistic laugh. “Tara, men like McCrae are walking liabilities. Trouble doesn’t find them; they invite it in for a drink.” He signaled to the server for another whisky. “Besides, his marketability alone justified the expense. Miami loves a bad boy, and McCrae sells tickets. His jersey sold out the first day.”
He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Frankly, Chelsea was looking for an excuse to get rid of him. A hot-headed playerpicking a fight with some loudmouth blogger isn’t exactly a mastermind plot.”
I froze, my wine glass halfway to my lips.Blogger.
The word lodged in my brain like a splinter. Every article I’d read, every report I’d combed through had described the man as a “paparazzo” or “member of the press.” But my father had called him a “blogger”—a more specific, more dismissive term.
I set my glass down carefully, concealing the tremor in my hand. “I wasn’t suggesting a conspiracy, Dad. Just commenting on the timing.”
“Timing is everything in business,” he said, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “And in life.”
The rest of dinner passed in a blur. We spoke of inconsequential things—the Miami weather and the upcoming hurricane season. But beneath the surface pleasantries, my mind raced.
That one word—blogger—had cracked the smooth narrative my father had presented. It was a tiny inconsistency, insignificant on its own. But combined with everything, it raised questions I wasn’t sure I wanted answered.
Had my father manipulated events to bring Xander to Miami? And if so, why?
By the time the check arrived (which my father paid without glancing at the total), a cold certainty had settled in my stomach. This wasn’t just about me or Xander. My father was playing a longer game, one with rules I didn’t fully understand.
“I’ll take you home,” he said as we stood to leave.
“That’s unnecessary. I have my car.”
“Nonsense. You’ve had two glasses of wine. The valet can take your car home.” His tone brooked no argument. “Besides, I’d like a few more minutes with my daughter.”
Outside, a sleek black Bentley waited at the curb with Lenny at the wheel. My father’s hand at my elbow guided me inside, his grip firm. The interior was cool and dark, smelling of leather.
As the car pulled away from the restaurant, my father turned to me. “I’m proud of you, Tara. The way you’ve established yourself with the team, the respect you’ve earned. Your brother would be proud too.”
The mention of Jimmy made my throat tighten. “Thank you.”
