Page 26 of A Game of Deception
“Sorry, Coach. Physical therapy ran long.”
He checked his watch. “Five minutes to get your ass on that field. Owner’s watching again today.”
Perfect. Just what I needed. Hank Swanson’s icy stare tracking my every move, hunting for weakness, for evidence that he’d been right about me being a drunken fuck-up.
“I’ll be right there.”
The practice fieldsparkled like a golf course on steroids, sunshine pouring over the grass while I hauled ass to join warm-ups. Same as yesterday, everyone watched me like I was the new zoo exhibit.
Ben Carter gave me a bro-nod as I lined up next to him.
“You okay?” he muttered.
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“Dr. Swanson seemed a little upset this morning.”
I shot him a look. “Yeah?”
He paused. “I’ve seen how you react with her. Just saying, if you needed to talk?—”
“How about we don’t?” I snapped.
Ben winced. “Got it.”
Fuck. The kid was just being nice. Before I could fix it, the coach’s whistle sounded across the field.
“Move your asses! First team west, second team in pinnies east. Scrimmage in fifteen!”
I jogged to first-team territory where Diego Mano stood waiting, eyeballing me like I’d keyed his car.
“McCrae,” he called. “You’re with me.”
The drill was simple—one player would send a ball in, and the other would control it, then lay it off to a third player making a run. Basic stuff we’d done a thousand times before. But as Diego sent the ball toward me, it came in hard and high, nowhere near my feet.
I brought it down with my chest, but before I could settle it, Diego was there, coming in with a tackle that was late and deliberate. His cleats raked down my shin as I tried to jump away, sending a shot of pain up my leg.
“Fuck!” I stumbled but stayed upright, blood already seeping through my sock where his studs had caught me.
“Oops,” Diego said with all the sincerity of a politician. He leaned in close. “I thought I told you to stay away from the doctor’s office? You’re not the only one getting ‘special treatment’.”
Bingo. There it was again. This wasn’t about soccer. This was about Tara.
“Everything cool over there?” Coach yelled.
“All good, Coach,” Diego chirped, suddenly Mr. Innocent. “Just miscommunication.”
Coach turned away, and Diego shot me one final death-glare before trotting off.
“You good?” Ben appeared beside me, eyeing my bloody sock.
“Peachy,” I tested my weight. Hurt like hell, but nothing busted. “Just a scratch.”
“He’s a total asshole,” Ben said. “Thinks he owns the place—and everyone in it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Not a fan, huh?”
Ben shrugged. “I hate bullies. Plus, I’ve seen how he looks at Dr. Swanson. Like she’s his property.”
