Page 7 of A Game of Deception
Dad: “Car will pick you up at 6 PM. Remember, you’re representing the organization tonight.”
I stared at the message, my wet hair dripping onto the screen. Was it a warning or just logistics? With my father, you never knew.
I typed back: “I’ll be ready.” Simple. Noncommittal. The perfect daughter response.
I opened the charter flight app. It confirmed Xander’s plane had touched down right on schedule. The team’s car service had probably collected him already. Xander was now breathing the same Miami air as I was. I hammered out a quick “welcome home” text and fired it off to his number. Because of course I had his number. What kind of obsessed stalker would I be if I didn’t?
I set my phone down and looked again at the three dresses. I’d decide later. Right now, I had to get to work.
For the past three months,I’d basically lived in the sports medicine wing at the training facility. Top-shelf equipment, twelve staff members I’d handpicked myself, and the unspoken power that comes with being brilliant at my job—oh, and Daddy owning the team.
I flipped through injury reports at my desk, making notes on treatment plans for two midfielders with minor hamstring strains and a goalkeeper recovering from wrist surgery. This wasn’t pretense; I genuinely cared about these athletes and their recovery. My obsession with Xander had never been at the expense of my professional integrity. It had simply been the engine driving it.
There was a knock at my door.
“Dr. Swanson?” My assistant, Lauren, stood there with a stack of manila folders. Forty-ish, divorced, with the efficient manner of someone who’d spent decades making other people look good. I’d hired her precisely because she wasn’t young or pretty or interested in football players. She was interested in organization and discretion.
“The new player files arrived,” she said. “Should I distribute them to the team, or?—”
“I’ll handle them myself.” I kept my voice neutral, even as my heart rate ticked up.
She set the stack on my desk without comment. Lauren never asked questions, which was another reason she was perfect.
When the door closed behind her, I waited thirty seconds—counting them in my head—before reaching for the files. These were the final player acquisitions for this transfer window. I flipped through them until I found the one with Chelsea’s seal.
Xander McCrae. DOB: 29/05/1994. Height: 6’3”. Weight: 84 kg.
I opened it with steady hands, the steadiness that comes from actively telling your muscles not to shake. The medical historywas extensive. Football at that level took its toll. Old ankle sprain from his Glasgow days. Hyper extended knee three years ago. Broken finger from what was listed as “training incident” but what I knew from news reports was actually a bar fight in London.
And then, in the more recent notes: “Patient reports stress-related insomnia following a personal matter. Sleep aid prescribed: Ambien, 10mg PRN.”
Personal matter? What are you hiding, Xander?
I chose the emerald dress.
Not because it matched his eyes—though it did, perfectly—but because it was a weapon. The cut was standard, but the fabric stuck to my curves like it had something to prove—a dress that makes a man forget his own name.
My father’s car arrived promptly at 6 PM. The driver—Lenny, who’d worked for my father since before I was born—gave me an approving nod as I slid into the back seat.
“You look lovely, Miss Tara.”
“Thank you, Lenny.” I smoothed the dress over my thighs, my hands betraying none of my anxiety. “Is my father already at the house?”
“Yes, miss. He’s been there since four overseeing the preparations.”
Of course, he had. Hank Swanson left nothing to chance, especially not tonight. This was the culmination of... what? Thatwas the question that had been gnawing at me for over two years, since he’d first mentioned his interest in creating the team. What exactly was my father’s endgame here?
The car pulled up to Dad’s waterfront mansion, where valets in team colors were already parking guests’ cars. I froze with my finger on the doorknob.
“Lenny,” I said, “has my father been acting... weird lately?”
Lenny’s eyes caught mine in the rearview. “Weird how, miss?”
“I don’t know. All detached and intense.”
Lenny was silent for a moment. “Your father has always been a man who plays the long game, Miss Tara. Perhaps he’s simply seeing a plan come to fruition.”
Perhaps.I nodded, gathered my clutch, and stepped out of the car.
