Page 19 of A Game of Deception
I shook his hand, surprised by the genuine warmth in his greeting. “Thanks, Ben. And it’s just Xander. ‘Sir’ makes me feel ancient.”
Ben grinned, his nervousness falling away. “Right, sorry. Xander.” He hesitated, then added in a rush, “I grew up watching you at Rangers. That free kick goal against Celtic in the 2016 derby? Changed my life. Made me want to be a forward.”
Despite my foul mood, I smiled. There was something refreshing about the kid’s unabashed admiration. “That was a lucky shot.”
“Bullshit,” Ben said, then looked mortified at his outburst. “I mean—it was perfect. Textbook. Thirty yards out, top corner.”
I laughed, the sound rusty but genuine. “Well, when you put it that way.”
A whistle blew from the corridor outside, signaling it was time to head to the pitch. Ben bounced on his toes, still grinning.
“Anyway, I just wanted to welcome you. I’ve only been here a month, but if you need anything, or have questions about the city or whatever...” He trailed off, suddenly self-conscious.
“Thanks, Ben. I appreciate it.” And I did, more than the kid could know. In a locker room full of cold shoulders and thinly veiled hostility, his friendly overture felt like finding water in a desert.
We headed out together, joining the stream of players moving toward the indoor pitch. Ben kept up a steady stream of chatter about the team, the coaches, the tactical system they’d been working on. I let his words wash over me, grateful for the distraction from my darker thoughts.
The practice facility had a full-sized pitch under a soaring dome, the artificial turf a perfect replica of the stadium playing surface. Coach Wilkes, a grizzled veteran of the MLS, stood at the center circle with his assistants, clipboard in hand.
“Gentlemen,” he called as we gathered around him. “As you know, we’re just two weeks away from our season opener. Today we focus on integrating our new players into the system.” His gaze found me in the crowd. “McCrae, you’ll start with the first team. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I nodded as dozens of eyeballs bored into me. Nothing new here—the classic “show us you’re worth the money” moment. Football made sense to me. I could handle this shit.
We kicked off with basic warm-ups, then passing drills and mini-games. My body went through the motions automatically while my brain took a vacation. My hangover still knocked around in my skull, but it backed off once I got into the flow.
During a water break, I spotted a group watching from the edge—coaches, medical team, and slightly removed from the pack, Hank Swanson in the flesh. Our eyes connected for a hot second before he turned to chat with some lackey. Message received, boss: I’m under the microscope.
Practice wrapped with a full-team scrimmage, starters versus backups. They stuck me in attacking midfield, just behind Mano and another forward. As we lined up, Mano bumped past me.
“Don’t count on getting the ball,” he hissed. “New hotshots don’t get the VIP treatment here.”
I ignored him. Fuck it. My game would do the talking.
When the whistle shrieked, everything played out exactly how Mano promised—my so-called teammates deliberately froze me out, testing how long before I’d crack. Amateur hour bullshit I’d seen before. I stayed patient, kept finding open space, making myself an option, waiting for their competitive nature to overpower their petty crap.
It came as a loose ball in midfield. I jumped on it before the other guy could get there, spinning away from pressure like I was dodging an ex at the grocery store. The field in front of me? Wide open. Mano sprinted right, his face screaming, “PASS ME THE BALL, ASSHOLE.” Instead, I gunned it forward, the ball stuck to my feet while I danced between two defenders.
The keeper charged out straight at me. Out of the corner of my eye, Mano stood there waving his arms, completely unmarked. The old Xander would’ve blasted it himself, because of ego, and to make a point. But that wasn’t me anymore.
I slipped Mano a perfect pass. All he had to do was tap it in. When the ball hit the net, everyone shut up for a beat. Then BenCarter broke the silence with a “HELL YEAH!” and a few others clapped.
Mano looked like he’d swallowed something sour but tasty—happy about the goal, pissed the opportunity came from me. He gave me the world’s most reluctant nod as he jogged past me.
“Nice vision,” he mumbled.
“Nice finish,” I shot back.
For the rest of the scrimmage, guys actually passed to me. I kept it simple, showing I could control the game’s heartbeat rather than just showing off tricks. When Coach Wilkes blew his whistle, I’d dished three assists and created enough scoring chances to fill a highlight reel.
“Good work today, gentlemen,” Wilkes announced to our circle. “Especially you, McCrae. That’s the kind of unselfish play we need.”
I nodded at the compliment, feeling the vibe around me change just a little. I hadn’t won these fuckers over—not even close—but I’d earned a sliver of professional respect. Baby steps.
As the team dispersed toward the locker rooms, Wilkes approached me. “Hank needs you in his office,” he said, his expression giving nothing away. “And don’t forget the team dinner tonight. Seven sharp at La Mar.”
“Yes, Coach.”
Getting called to Hank’s office?About as promising as a prostate exam from Edward Scissorhands. And tonight’s team dinner meant another round of psychological warfare with the Swansons.
