Page 2 of A Game of Deception
Leo beamed, satisfied with my response. “Hell yeah, we should. Miami’s going to be epic.”
The captain’s voice crackled over the intercom, announcing our descent into Miami International. Leo buckled his seatbelt without pausing his monologue about South Beach nightlife. I finished my drink and handed the empty glass to Melanie, who took it with another seductive smile.
Miami, forty-five hundred miles from Palo Alto—from the ghost of Jimmy. A different coast. A different climate. A different life.
It should have felt like enough distance.
For some strange reason, it didn’t.
The penthousethe team had provided us was obscene.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of water so blue it looked artificial. The furniture was all cream leather and glass, the stuff that showed every fingerprint, every stain. Not exactly practical for someone who spends half his time covered in grass and mud, but I supposed that was what cleaning services were for.
Leo whistled as he wandered through the open-concept living area. “They’re not fuckin’ around, are they?”
“Guess not.”
The Miami heat nearly knocked me over as I walked onto the balcony.
Below me, thirty floors down, cars crawled along the streets like brightly colored insects. People moved in and out of shops, restaurants, and office buildings. Normal people with normal lives, untouched by the guilt that had shaped mine.
“Mate, come and look at all this booze!”
I followed Leo’s voice to one of the giant bedrooms. King-sized bed, more windows, another balcony. A bathroom bigger than my first apartment in Glasgow.
“Check out the welcome basket.” Leo gestured to a ridiculous arrangement on the dresser—a giant wicker basket wrapped in cellophane and tied with a navy blue ribbon in the team’s colors.
I approached it warily, half-fearing to find a severed horse’s head. But it was just expensive booze—Dom Perignon, Macallan 18, Grey Goose—along with some fancy snacks and...
“Is that Throat Coat tea?” I grabbed the distinctive yellow box, turning it over in my hands.
“What’s Throat Coat tea?” Leo asked, already opening the Macallan.
“It’s this herbal tea I started drinking after my voice cracked during that post-game interview in Glasgow seven years ago. The one where I sounded like I was going through puberty again.”
“Aye, I remember that. That was fuckin’ brilliant.”
I wasn’t laughing. That specific brand—not something you’d guess at. It wasn’t something you’d include in a standard welcome basket, unless you were welcoming a singer, or motivational speaker like Sean.
Someone knew me. Someone had been studying me.
“Weird coincidence,” Leo said, pouring himself a generous measure of scotch.
But I didn’t believe in coincidences. Not anymore.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Unknown Miami number. A text:Welcome home, Xander.
My eyes were fixed on the screen, and goose bumps prickled my skin.
Miami wasn’t home. Palo Alto had been home. Glasgow and then Chelsea were my exiles. Miami was just a big paycheck.
“You look like someone just pissed in your cornflakes,” Leo said, scotch sloshing in his glass. “What is it? A ghost pop out of your phone or something?”
Maybe it fucking did.But I just mumbled, “Just the jet lag making me tired.”
“It’s only a five-hour time difference, you daft git.”
“I’m old. My body’s betraying me at every turn.”
