Page 8 of A Game of Deception
The house was already filling with guests—team executives, coaching staff, local celebrities, and players. I didn’t immediately scan the place for Xander. That would be too obvious, too eager. Instead, I worked the room, shaking hands, making small talk, being the poised, professional daughter Hank Swanson expected.
But I was hyperaware, every nerve ending attuned to the entrance. Every tall, dark-haired figure in my peripheral vision made my pulse spike. I’d been waiting twelve years, but I could hardly wait another twenty minutes.
As I was discussing rehabilitation protocols with the assistant coach, I felt a shift in the air, a prickle at the back of my neck. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. I knew he was here.
“Excuse me,” I said to the coach. “I need to check in with my father before the announcements.”
I made my way toward the back of the room.
My father stood near the small podium that had been set up, talking with the team’s PR director. He looked up as I approached, his eyes taking in the emerald dress with a flicker of concern.
“Tara.” He kissed my cheek, the gesture perfunctory. “Right on time.”
“Always.” I smiled. “Is everything ready?”
“Just about.” He dismissed the PR director with a nod and turned to me fully. “You remember what we discussed?”
“Of course.” Though we hadn’t discussed much, really. Just that I was to be polished and represent the organization well.
“Good.” He squeezed my arm, a rare physical gesture. “This is an important night for both of us.”
The PR director was back, signaling that it was time for the announcements.
My father moved to the podium, and I took my place slightly behind him, my eyes searching the room as he welcomed the guests. And then—there. By the bar. Dark hair, green eyes, wide shoulders in a black suit. Xander, with a man I assumed was Leo next to him, whispering something in his ear.
My breath caught. All the photographs and video clips hadn’t prepared me for the reality of him. He was broader than he’d been at seventeen, his jawline sharper, his eyes—even fromacross the room—harder. But it was him. The boy who’d haunted me for over a decade, now a man standing twenty feet away.
He hadn’t seen me yet. He was looking down at his champagne glass, nodding absently at whatever Leo was saying.
“And now,” the Club President’s voice cut through my fixation, “the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Please welcome your new team owner, Hank Swanson, and our new head of sports medicine, Dr. Tara Swanson!”
I stepped forward, my smile firmly in place. And that’s when Xander looked up.
Our eyes locked across the room, and the champagne glass shattered.
Leo was immediately at his side with napkins, tending to his hand. But Xander wasn’t looking at Leo. He was looking at me, his face a study in shock.
My father was already moving toward Xander. He glanced down at Xander’s hand and called for me to assist.
I took Xander to my father’s study, and as I began cleaning the wound, my mind flashed back to that day at the cemetery.
The world felt like it was stuffed with cotton, all sound muffled except for my own hiccupping sobs. He found me later, hiding behind the church. His strong shoulders were shaking; I’d never seen him cry before. My arms moved around his neck, a desperate attempt to hold together the pieces of my shattered world. I whispered his name, and he looked down at me, his eyes so green, like moss after it rains. He leaned in, and I felt his breath on my cheek. He was going to kiss me, and for one impossible second, I thought maybe the world wouldn’t feelso broken for us anymore. But then he flinched back as if I’d burned him. “I’m sorry, I can’t—you’re Jimmy’s sister.”
A month later, he was gone, but that almost-kiss remained, seared into my brain.
“There’s a piece of glass,” I said, snapping back to reality. I grabbed the tweezers. Leaning over his hand, I tried to ignore the scent of his cologne as I extracted the shard.
I wrapped up my first-aid treatment quickly before the door swung open. Dad. He surveyed us—the closeness, the electric current between us—his eyes missing nothing.
“Everything alright in here?” he asked.
“All done, Dad,” I said, my tone all business. “Mr. McCrae’s good to go, just needs to keep that cut clean”.
My father’s gaze shifted to Xander. “Ugly gash,” he said, the words dripping with unspoken meaning. “Accidents happen though, right, Xander? Especially when booze enters the picture.”
I watched Xander’s face tighten, a flicker of pain crossing his features before being replaced by a mask of indifference. My father clapped him on the shoulder with forced camaraderie and ushered him out, leaving me alone in the quiet study.
Daddy was up to something, no doubt. I couldn’t pinpoint his exact game plan, but my gut screamed that we’d barely scratched the surface of whatever twisted plot was unfolding.
