Page 80 of A Game of Deception
As I walked, I mentally prepared myself for a confrontation. This had to be about Tara, about what she’d found in his study. He must know we were getting closer to the truth. Would he threaten me? Try to buy me off? Or would he go straight to ruining my career, as he’d done before?
I knocked on the door to his office, squaring my shoulders, ready for battle.
“Come in,” Hank’s voice called from inside.
I pushed open the door, stepping into the spacious office with its view of the practice fields. Hank was seated behind his massive desk, immaculately dressed as always in a tailored suit despite the early hour. But it wasn’t the sight of him that made me freeze in my tracks.
It was the woman seated in one of the chairs facing his desk, who turned to look at me with a predatory smile I remembered all too well.
Brittany Ashworth. Instagram model. Professional groupie. A woman I’d banged a few times when I was wasted and spiraling in London. A woman who hadn’t crossed my mind for months.
“Xander, thank you for joining us,” Hank said, his tone pleasant but his eyes cold. “I believe you know Ms. Ashworth?”
“Brittany,” I acknowledged stiffly, not moving from the doorway. “What are you doing here?”
She popped up, tugging at her skintight dress, her cosmetically enhanced lips forming a fake-ass smile. “Xander, honey,” she cooed, dramatically placing her hand on her noticeably swollen belly—a sight that made my blood run cold. “We need to talk... about the baby.”
20
TARA
I staredat the rows of PT schedules on my laptop screen, the cursor blinking mockingly at me like it knew my mind was a million miles away. The gentle soreness between my thighs—a delicious, lingering ache—served as a constant reminder of the weekend with Xander. His rough hands gripping my hips as he thrust deep, his mouth hot and demanding on my neck, the way he’d pinned me against the shower wall yesterday morning, water cascading over our slick bodies while he growled my name like a curse and a prayer. And later, across the breakfast table, those moss-green eyes locking on mine with an intensity that made my core clench, like I was something he couldn’t get enough of. God, the man knew how to unravel me.
But now? The Valdez Case.
The phrase kept circling in my thoughts like a shark in chummed waters, pulling me under. Whatever this mysterious case was, it might be the key to unlocking the truth about Jimmy’s death—about the accident that had shattered us all. I shook my head, forcing myself to focus on the rehabilitation plan for BenCarter’s hamstring injury. With proper care, he’d be good to go for Saturday’s kickoff, his explosive speed back on the field.
I actually managed to get some work done for about fifteen minutes, typing notes, before someone banged on my office door like they were serving a warrant.
“Come in,” I called, not looking up from my laptop, my fingers hovering over the keys.
The door swung open with a whoosh, and Jess, one of the junior physical therapists, burst in. Her eyes were wide as saucers, her phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline. “Dr. Swanson, have you seen this?” she asked breathlessly, thrusting her phone toward me.
I frowned, taking the device from her, my thumb brushing the screen. “Seen what?”
The display lit up with a celebrity gossip site, the kind that thrived on scandal and half-truths. My stomach dropped as I registered the headline screaming in bold, lurid font: SOCCER BAD BOY XANDER MCCRAE EXPECTING FIRST CHILD WITH MODEL GIRLFRIEND. Below it was a photo of a stunningly beautiful blonde woman—flawless skin, lips curved in a coy smile, perfect makeup that screamed “camera-ready.” Her hand rested protectively on a visibly pregnant belly, the swell unmistakable under her form-fitting dress. She stood outside our training facility, looking both vulnerable and victorious, like she’d just won some twisted game.
“They’re saying she flew in from London yesterday,” Jess was babbling, her voice distant as blood rushed in my ears, drowning out everything but the pounding of my heart. “Apparently,they’ve been together for a while. Like, on-and-off secret romance or something.”
I couldn’t tear my eyes from the image. The woman—Brittany Ashworth, according to the caption—was exactly the type I’d seen Xander with in countless paparazzi shots over the years, the ones I’d obsessively collected in my digital dossier of his downfall. Tall, blonde, model-thin except for that undeniable baby bump, her curves engineered for maximum allure. My throat tightened, a cold sweat prickling my skin as I scrolled down, skimming the article’s salacious details.
“Dr. Swanson? Are you okay?” Jess’s voice cut through the fog, concern etching her young features.
I blinked, realizing I’d been staring silently at the phone for too long, my grip white-knuckled. I handed it back to her, hiding behind the same cool front I used with my father. “I’m fine,” I said, my voice steady, even as my insides twisted like a wet rag. “But we shouldn’t be gossiping about team members, Jess. It’s unprofessional.”
Her face fell slightly, cheeks flushing. “Oh, right. Sorry. I just thought... with you working so closely with him...”
“Thank you for your concern,” I cut her off, turning back to my laptop. “Could you close the door on your way out? I need to finish these schedules.”
She nodded, mumbling another apology before slipping out. Once alone, I sat perfectly still, yet the room seemed to tilt around me, the air thickening like humidity before a storm. With trembling fingers, I picked up my phone and opened my browser, typing “Xander McCrae Brittany Ashworth pregnant” into the search bar, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The results flooded in like a tidal wave. Every major sports and entertainment site had the story, splashed across their homepages with gleeful abandon. Some included quotes from “sources close to the couple” claiming they were “overjoyed” and “working through some issues but committed to co-parenting.” Others had paparazzi shots of them together in London clubs months ago—his arm slung possessively around her waist, her face turned up to his, both laughing in that hazy, alcohol-fueled glow. Five months ago, according to one article’s meticulous timeline.
Five months ago, when I was still secretly following his every move online, cataloging his exploits like a deranged archivist in my hidden wall of obsession. Five months ago, when I was plotting my revenge against the man I believed had killed my brother, running past his penthouse at dawn to unsettle him. Five months ago, when he had no idea I even existed anymore, lost in his spiral of self-destruction.
A cold, sickening feeling spread through my chest, coiling like nausea. I’d known about his reputation, of course—the drinking, the partying, the endless parade of beautiful women who’d grace his arm for a night or two before being discarded. I’d seen the photos, analyzed them like evidence in a trial. There was nothing wrong with that; we weren’t together then. Hell, I was the one who’d hated him. But somehow, in the whirlwind of our reconnection—the stolen kisses, the heated nights where he’d worshipped my body like I was his salvation—I’d convinced myself that was all in the past. That he’d changed. That we were different.
Yet here was living, breathing proof—curved and swollen—that his old life was about to collide spectacularly with whatever fragile thing we’d been building these past weeks.
