Page 27 of A Game of Deception
Something ugly twisted in my gut. I squashed it. Tara wasn’t mine to get territorial over, no matter what weird energy buzzed between us in that PT room. She was still part of her father’s scheme to bring me to Miami.
“Thanks,” I nodded toward Diego. “For the warning.”
“No problem.” Ben hesitated. “Some of us are actually glad you’re here. Not everyone buys the ‘washed-up party boy’ bullshit.”
Coach’s whistle cut him off. “Enough gossip! Full-field scrimmage!”
I limped into position, shin throbbing.
Practice finished without more drama. By the end, my legs felt like concrete, and my shin pulsed with every heartbeat.
As we left, Coach grabbed my arm. “McCrae. Hold up.”
I braced for a lecture, but he surprised me. “Good work today.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“Don’t get excited yet.” He nodded toward Hank, who was talking with Tara. “The boss wants to see you after your shower.”
My stomach dropped. “Again. Why?”
“No idea, didn’t ask.” Coach’s face softened. “Look, I don’t know what’s happening between you and the Swansons, and I don’t care. But after thirty years in MLS, I know talent, and you’ve got it in spades. Don’t let this bullshit derail that.”
I nodded, speechless, watching Hank and Tara walk away, wondering what fresh hell awaited in the owner’s office.
The shower didlittle to ease the tension knotting my shoulders. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting the hot water pound against my skin, trying to wash away the memory of Tara’s hands, of Diego’s threat, of Hank’s icy stare.
By the time I emerged, the locker room was mostly empty. A few stragglers were still getting dressed, including Ben, who gave me a small wave as he headed out.
“The party tonight at Basement,” he called over his shoulder. “You coming?”
I forced a smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Once I was alone, I checked my phone. No new messages from Tara. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting—an apology? Acontinuation of our tense exchange? Some acknowledgment of what had passed between us in that PT room?
Instead, there was nothing. Just the hollow silence of a conversation cut short.
I dressed quickly in jeans and a simple black t-shirt, still damp from the shower. I took the elevator to Hank’s office on the top floor.
His assistant gave me a tight smile as I approached. “Mr. McCrae, Mr. Swanson is expecting you.”
She buzzed me in without another word.
Hank was standing at the window, his back to the door, hands clasped behind him as he gazed out at the Miami skyline. He didn’t turn when I entered.
“Xander,” he said, my name sounding like an afterthought. “Have a seat.”
I remained standing. “I’ll stand, thanks.”
Now he turned, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Still defiant, I see. Some things never change.”
“What do you want, Hank?”
He moved to his desk, sitting down in a leather chair. “Direct, as always. I’ve always appreciated that about you.”
I said nothing, waiting him out.
“I wanted to discuss your... progress,” he said finally. “Dr. Swanson tells me your shoulder is still giving you trouble.”
