Page 29 of A Game of Deception
Leo’s expression shifted, concern replacing relief. “Xander, you need to be careful. If Hank finds out?—”
“He already knows,” I cut in. “He called me into his office today to remind me of the morality clause in my contract. Fraternizing with team staff is grounds for termination.”
“Jesus,” Leo muttered. “So that’s his game? Bring you here just to fire you if you get too close to his daughter?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. It’s not that simple.” I thought of the way Hank had looked at me in his office. All calculating. “He wants something from me, but I don’t think it’s my career. Not yet, anyway.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’m going to find out.”
Leo studied me for a long moment. “Just... be careful, aye? Whatever history you have with the Swansons, it’s clearly not over. And I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
The sincerity in his voice caught me off guard. In all the years we’d known each other, through all the clubs and parties and scandals, Leo had been the one constant in my life. My friend, my protector, the one person who’d stuck by me even when I was at my worst.
“I’ll be careful,” I promised, though we both knew it was a lie.
Leo seemed to sense this. “What time should we head to the club?”
“We?” I raised an eyebrow.
“You think I’m letting you walk into that lion’s den alone?” Leo grinned, some of his usual spark returning. “Besides, someone’s got to be sober enough to get your drunk ass home when this all goes sideways.”
How about that?I wasn’t entirely alone in this mess.
“Ten,” I said. “We’ll head over around ten.”
The Basement was exactlywhat its name suggested, an underground club nestled beneath one of South Beach’s most exclusive hotels. The line to get in stretched around the block, but Leo led me past it to a side entrance where a massive bouncer nodded in recognition.
“McCrae,” he said, unclipping the velvet rope. “The team is in the VIP section.”
The club was a sensory assault—bass pounding in my chest, strobe lights turning the dance floor into a blur of moving bodies, the sharp-sweet scent of perfume mixed with sweat and booze. I followed Leo through the crowd, nodding at the occasional fan who recognized me despite the dim lighting.
The VIP section was elevated above the main floor, offering a perfect view of the chaos below while remaining somewhat insulated from it. Most of the team was already there, spread across a collection of low couches and hightables. Diego held court at the largest table, surrounded by a group of women who laughed too loudly at whatever he was saying.
Ben Carter caught my eye from a quieter corner and raised his drink in greeting. I nodded back, scanning the room for the one face I really wanted to see.
And then I saw her.
She wasn’t wearing the green dress. She was in red, a deep blood-red dress that clung to every curve before ending mid-thigh. Her hair was down, falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She looked nothing like the severe Dr. Swansonwho’d tortured me in that PT room. This was Tara—fierce, beautiful, and utterly untouchable.
She was standing at the bar, her head tossed back in laughter. Diego’s eyes kept darting to her, possessive and hungry. As I watched, he excused himself from his table and moved toward her, placing a proprietary hand on the small of her back as he leaned in to say something in her ear.
An ugly twist knotted in my gut at the sight of his hand on her. The memory of what he said on the practice field echoed in my head:“You’re not the only one getting ‘special treatment’.”
“Down, boy,” Leo murmured beside me, noticing the direction of my gaze. “You’ve got that ‘punch first, think later’ look again.”
I forced myself to look away, accepting a drink from a passing waitress without checking what it was. The liquor burned going down, and I welcomed the heat, the momentary distraction from the sight of Diego’s hand on Tara’s back.
The night stretched on, a blur of music and drinks and meaningless conversation. I made the rounds, playing the part of the team’s new star, shaking hands and making small talk with sponsors and club officials. But my eyes kept finding her across the room, and more often than not, I found her watching me too.
It was torture, this silent communication across a crowded club. Each glance felt like a continuation of our text exchange, a challenge thrown and accepted.
I dare you. I double-dare you.
Diego hovered around her like he owned the place—and her. The longer the night went on, the harder it was to miss the way hekept trying to stake his claim. At one point, he tried to drag her onto the dance floor, but she shook her head, extracting herself from his grip with a smile.
I lost sight of her for a while after that, caught in a conversation with the nightclub’s owner, who was a big soccer fan and wanted to discuss European tactics. By the time I extricated myself, Tara was nowhere to be seen.
