A Game of Deception (The Scottish Billionaires #16)

1. Xander

XANDER

The champagne bubbles tickled my nose, tiny explosions of overpriced bubbles that did absolutely nothing to dull the edge. Three glasses in and still painfully sober. Still painfully me.

“Christ, you’re not going to believe this shite.” Leo’s face was pressed against the Gulfstream’s window, his breath fogging the glass like an excited kid on Christmas morning. “Look at those beaches. Look at the water. Miami’s going to be bloody brilliant.”

I lowered my drink. “You said the same thing about London.”

“London was cold and full of stuck-up models.” He turned to me, blue eyes bright. “Miami is different. It’s paradise.”

Paradise. Right.

Leo’s phone buzzed. “Mystery billionaire buys expansion team, immediately drops twenty million on Scottish bad boy...” he read, scrolling through what looked like ESPN. “They’re really leaning into that angle.”

Bad boy. The label clung to me like tar.

Maybe not without reason: Five months ago, some dickhead with a press badge ambushed me outside the bar in Chelsea, jammed his phone in my face and talked shit about my family.

A scandal about my twin brother, Sean McCrae, getting mixed up with a Scottish socialite.

I told him to fuck off with his lies—Sean would’ve called me if he was even in the country.

But this press asshole just wouldn’t quit.

He kept pushing and pushing until—bam—I decked him. What else was I supposed to do?

Unfortunately, a photographer documented the entire showdown.

The pictures made me look like a complete jackass, plastered all over the news and gossip sites, and just like that, my Chelsea career went straight into the gutter.

Banished to the reserves like some rookie fuck-up, I needed an escape hatch.

Then thirty days ago, this absurdly fat offer from Miami appeared out of nowhere.

Too perfect, too convenient, but hey—new continent, clean slate, and all that bullshit.

“They still won’t say who’s financing the team,” Leo said. “Some oil tycoon probably. Somebody who thinks football is played with their hands.”

“As long as the checks clear and they keep me away from California,” I said, my tone deliberately casual despite the sudden tightness in my chest.

Leo didn’t notice the change. He never did. That was why I kept him around as my assistant—that and the fact that he was the only person who’d stuck by me demanding nothing but proximity to the mess that was my life.

“Another?” He gestured to my empty glass.

“Why not?” It wasn’t like I had anywhere important to be. Just a new team. A new city. A new place to disappoint people who expected the eighteen-year-old wonder kid I once was instead of the burnout adult I’d become.

The flight attendant—Melanie, probably—swooped in with another champagne, flashing a smile that could outshine the Miami sun. Unlike most airplane staff who blend into the cabin walls, this one wanted to be noticed.

“Fresh drink for Mr. McCrae,” she announced, leaning close enough that her citrus-flower perfume hit my nostrils. “Getting the Miami party started early?”

My autopilot charm kicked in without permission. “You could say that,” I replied, my face arranging itself into a practiced half-grin. “Or just making this flight more bearable.”

Her blue eyes locked onto mine for one Mississippi too many. “If you need any other... comforts during your journey, just flag me down.” Her fingers grazed my arm while setting down the glass—a move straight out of the “I’m interested” playbook.

“Noted,” I said between sips, throwing her a wink. Just my default setting with hot women who showed interest. No effort required. No thought needed. Just what I do.

She turned with a promising look, hips doing that calculated rhythm down the aisle. I tracked her exit, my brain already running its tired program: grab number, hotel bar meetup, lose myself for a night between expensive sheets and unfamiliar perfume.

I cut my stare short, pivoting from the aisle to face the window.

Miami’s coastline approached—a dazzling ribbon of white and turquoise that supposedly represented my do-over.

The whole point of this transfer, the one vow I’d made to myself after I’d torched my Chelsea career, was to knock off the bullshit.

To pump the brakes. No more 3 AM “Leo, I’m in trouble” phone calls, no more mornings where my skull felt like someone took a hammer to it while shame crashed over me in waves.

This was my shot to dominate on the field.

Beyond the glass, Miami stretched out like a billboard for second chances. White buildings, turquoise water, palm trees dancing in what had to be a breeze warm enough to make you forget your mistakes.

I remembered my last Florida trip. A high school tournament when I was sixteen. Jimmy stood right beside me. We’d crushed it. Just a year before everything exploded in our faces.

That memory stuck. Jimmy’s victory-red face. His arm draped across my shoulders. That trophy weighing down our hands. The moment he locked eyes with me: “We’re unstoppable, man. Fucking unstoppable.”

But reality check—we weren’t. Just dumb teenagers who thought death and consequences were for other people.

I finished half of the champagne in one gulp.

“...and there’s this club on South Beach that has underwater speakers, so you can feel the bass while you’re in the pool,” Leo was saying, still scrolling through his phone.

“And during Art Basel, they have these parties where everyone’s basically naked but covered in body paint.

And the Brazilian models, bro. They do yoga on the beach at sunrise. ”

“Sounds great,” I said, with little interest. “We should check it out.”

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 penthouse the 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.”

Leo snorted. “You’re twenty-nine, not collecting Social Security. Have a drink, mate. We’ve got that team thing tonight.”

Right. The team event. Some fancy party at the owner’s mansion, where I’d meet my new teammates, coaching staff, and the rich clown who’d decided I was worth twenty million despite my game going to shit lately.

“What time is that again?”

“Eight. The car is picking us up at seven-thirty.” Leo sipped his scotch. “You’ve got an hour. Plenty of time to settle in.”

I nodded, still reading the text message.

Welcome home, Xander.

Who the fuck would send that? Who even had my number?

The team, obviously. Management. PR. But something about the wording— home —turned my blood cold.

I didn’t delete the message.

“I’m going to shower,” I said, heading for the bathroom.