Page 38 of A Game of Deception
Yes. Yes, I had.
And then I’d let him carry me to his bedroom. Let him undress me, touch me, taste me. Let him see me fall apart beneath him, my careful control shattered by his hands, his mouth, his hard cock.
I flung back the covers and headed for the shower. Under the hot spray, I took inventory of the evidence. The slight soreness between my thighs. The shadow of a bruise forming on my hip where his fingers had dug in. The faint sting of his stubble burned on my neck and chest.
Physical proof it hadn’t been a dream. That Dr. Tara Swanson, head of sports medicine for the Miami Pirates, respected professional and consummate control freak, had come completely undone in Xander McCrae’s bed.
What was I thinking?
That was the problem. I hadn’t been thinking at all. I’d been feeling—raw, desperate, and out of control.
Pathetic.
I shut off the water and wrapped myself in a towel. As I wiped the steam from the mirror, I stared at myself. “This stops now,” I told my reflection firmly. “You are not some lovesick teenager. You have a reputation to maintain and a career to protect.”
My reflection stared back at me, unconvinced.
As I dried my hair, a new perspective took shape in my mind. Maybe last night hadn’t been a mistake after all. Maybe it hadbeen exactly what I needed—what we both needed. Years of tension, of wondering, of what-ifs... all of it released in one night of mindless, physical pleasure.
I’d gotten him out of my system. That was all. I’d satisfied my curiosity, scratched the itch that had been plaguing me since I was sixteen.
And I’d done it on my terms. I’d gone to him. I’d dictated what would happen between us. I’d left before dawn, before things could get messy or complicated.
I hadn’t lost control at all. I’d exercised the ultimate control.
I hadn’t fallen victim to any uncontrollable desires. I’d made a strategic decision to neutralize the distraction he represented. And now that it was done, I could move forward. Focus on my job. On my future.
I dressed with renewed confidence, choosing a casual sundress for my Saturday brunch plans. As I applied a light touch of makeup, I avoided thinking about how Xander’s eyes had tracked my every movement as I’d dressed in his room. How he’d watched me from his bed, the sheets pooled around his waist, his expression unreadable in the pre-dawn light.
“So what happens now, Dr. Swanson?”
I pushed the memory away. Nothing would happen now. We’d had our moment, and now it was over. Back to reality. Back to our respective roles—player and team doctor. Nothing more.
“You fucked him.”
I nearly choked on my mimosa. “Jesus, Chloe. Keep your voice down.”
Chloe Durand, my best friend since undergrad and the most unapologetically blunt person I’d ever met, leaned across our table at Havana Café, her eyes gleaming with mischief. Her wild curls were dyed a vibrant turquoise this month, a vivid contrast to the bohemian white sundress that made her look like some kind of ocean goddess.
“Well, did you?” She pressed on, undeterred by my glare.
The trendy brunch spot was packed with beautiful people in designer sunglasses, sipping overpriced drinks and pretending not to eavesdrop on each other’s conversations. I glanced around, paranoid that someone from the team might be nearby.
“Can we not do this here?” I hissed.
Chloe rolled her eyes but settled back in her chair. “Fine. But you’re not getting out of this conversation, T. I’ve waited for God knows how long to hear how the ghost boy measures up to your fantasies.”
I winced at the nickname. Ghost boy. That’s what Chloe called Xander. The one who haunted my dreams, my relationships, my entire adult life.
“It’s not what you think,” I said, picking at my avocado toast.
“So you didn’t sleep with him?” Her arched eyebrow called bullshit on my evasion.
I sighed, resigned to her persistence. “Okay, yes. I did. But it’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” Chloe let out a burst of laughter that turned heads at nearby tables. “Honey, you’ve been obsessed with this man since you were in braces. You’ve stalked his social media, dated guys who looked like him, and literally chosen your entire career path just to get close to him again. And now you’ve slept with him. That’s thefuckingdefinition of a big deal.”
Put that way, it did sound slightly unhinged. But Chloe didn’t understand. She lived her life like one of her art installations—chaotic, vibrant, open to interpretation. She’d never understood my need for structure, control, and carefully laid plans.
