1. Xander #2
I closed the door before he answered, slumped against it, and let out a breath. This bathroom was ridiculous—marble and chrome everywhere, a rainfall shower big enough for the entire starting lineup, and a tub that could host a water polo match.
Just another luxury space wasted on my undeserving ass.
The mirror didn’t lie. I looked like complete garbage—a human dumpster fire running on empty, held together with duct tape and bullshit.
I cranked the shower until it was practically boiling, turning my skin lobster-red and making my muscles throb in that weird, not-quite-pain way.
I stood there cooking myself until I felt somewhat like a person again.
When I stepped out into the fog, I found the suit Leo had picked out. Tom Ford. Black on black. Not an outfit—a goddamn shield. By the time I buttoned up, my “couldn’t-give-less-of-a-fuck” face was locked and loaded.
Leo was waiting by the door. “Car’s downstairs,” he said, giving my suit an approving nod.
I straightened my cuffs, the motion feeling strangely final. “Good. Let’s go meet the rich motherfucker who bought me for twenty million.”
The house—mansion, really—was precisely the over-the-top display of wealth I’d expected. Mediterranean-inspired architecture, a circular driveway lined with palm trees, valets in crisp uniforms taking keys from guests who arrived in luxurious cars.
Our driver pulled up to the entrance, and Leo bounced out of the car. “Are ye ready to meet the man who built a whole team just tae sign ye?”
“Can’t wait,” I said, my tone flat.
The foyer was marble and gold, a chandelier the size of my first car hanging from a ceiling at least twenty feet high.
Staff in black and white circulated with trays of champagne and canapés.
A string quartet played something classical in one corner.
The whole thing screamed new money trying very hard to look like old money.
I grabbed champagne from a server and checked out the crowd. A parade of power players—MLS bigwigs, politicians, C-list celebrities, and every soccer VIP with a pulse, all crammed in to witness this franchise’s big, expensive birth.
“That’s Diego Mano,” Leo pointed to a tall guy wearing what looked like a designer suit that fit him like a trash bag. “Columbian striker. They brought him over a few months ago. Word from trainin’ is he’s a right hothead with a massive ego, but the lad can play. He’s been outperforming everyone.”
I knew the type. Talented but a total ball hog, the type of player who’d rather blast it into row Z than pass to an open teammate.
Mano caught me staring and lifted his glass, a smug smirk on his face.
I did the same, mentally preparing for the dick-measuring contest that was definitely on the horizon.
“And there’s Ben Carter,” Leo pointed to some baby-faced kid chatting up a reporter. “Last year’s number one draft pick.”
“Anyone else I need to fake interest in?” I asked, gulping my champagne.
“The entire roster, and?—”
The screech of microphone feedback shut him up. Everyone went quiet as the MLS commissioner waddled up to a podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome!” the Commissioner said.
“For years, one man has pursued a singular vision: to bring another world-class soccer team to the heart of Miami. Tonight, that dream becomes a reality. It is my distinct honor to celebrate the official launch of Miami’s new MLS franchise, the Miami Pirates FC! ”
The room exploded with applause. Miami’s mayor stood up front, pumping the senator’s hand, both grinning like they’d won the lottery.
This wasn’t a party—it was a goddamn coronation built on cash mountains and ego.
And I was the priciest bauble in their collection.
I focused on my champagne bubbles, the only thing not screaming for attention.
“And now, the man who bankrolled it all,” the Commissioner bellowed. “Please welcome your team owner, Hank Swanson, and the team’s new head of sports medicine, Dr. Tara Swanson!”
My glass didn’t drop—it fucking detonated with glass chunks stabbing into my palm, blood and champagne creating a modern art piece on the marble.
“Shite, Xander, you alright?” Leo jumped in, snatching napkins, jamming them against my bleeding hand.
But I couldn’t hear him over the roaring in my ears. Couldn’t feel the pain in my hand. Couldn’t focus on anything but the two figures now standing at the podium.
Hank Swanson. Older, grayer, but those eyes—those cold, accusing eyes—were exactly the same as they’d been twelve years ago at his son’s funeral.
And beside him...
Fuck .
Tara.
Not sixteen-year-old Tara with braces and tears at a funeral.
Twenty-eight-year-old Tara in a dress that was professional but also absolutely not, with Jimmy’s eyes and Jimmy’s stubborn jaw but also curves that made my mouth go dry and my cock shamefully hard.
She was looking right at me; her expression perfectly composed despite the scene I was making. And her eyes. Her eyes said: Gotcha .
The room came back into focus slowly, sound filtering in past the rushing in my ears. Leo was still fussing over my hand. A server had appeared with a dustpan and brush for the broken glass. People were staring, whispering.
And then Hank was walking toward me, his steps deliberate, as if he were an executioner approaching the block.
“Xander McCrae,” he said, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Welcome to Miami.”
He glanced down at my bleeding hand, his expression unreadable. “Someone get a first aid kit,” he called over his shoulder. “Dr. Swanson, perhaps you could assist?”
Tara grabbed my bloody hand.
“We need to wash this out,” she said, her voice deeper than memory served. “Could have glass bits stuck in there.”
I gaped at her, brain short-circuiting as I tried to connect this grown woman to the teenager from twelve years back. The teenager I’d nearly...
The cemetery was quiet except for the soft sound of sobbing. Tara in the black dress that was too big for her stood across from me, Jimmy’s coffin between us like a barrier.
I found her alone behind the church afterward, her face streaked with tears, her thin shoulders shaking. I didn’t know what to say, what to do. I just knew I couldn’t leave her alone.
“Tara,” I said, and she looked up at me. And for one insane second, one grief-drunk, pain-filled second, I almost kissed her...
“Mr. McCrae?” Tara’s voice cut through my thoughts, all business and ice-cold distance. “If you’ll follow me, we can get this taken care of.”
I nodded, my mouth suddenly useless. Leo moved to tag along, but Hank blocked him.
“I’m sure your friend is in good hands with Dr. Swanson,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me about your first impressions of Miami?”
Leo froze, his eyes finding mine for direction. I gave him the tiniest nod. I’m fine. Go.
He surrendered to Hank’s guidance, throwing worried looks over his shoulder as he went. I trailed behind Tara through the crowd, feeling every damn eyeball in the room drilling into my back.
She brought me to a small study off the main foyer, shutting the door with a click that might as well have been a prison cell locking. The whole place reeked of dusty books and unspoken accusations.
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to a leather armchair.
I obeyed, dropping into the chair while she dug through a desk drawer and pulled out a first aid kit. She snapped on latex gloves, then kneeled in front of me and took my bleeding hand.
“This might hurt,” she said, finally looking me in the eye.
“I’ve had worse,” I said, my voice coming out like I’d gargled gravel.
Her mouth twitched with what might’ve been a smile—gone so fast I questioned if I’d seen it at all. “I’m sure you have.”
She started cleaning the cut with antiseptic wipes. Her touch was gentle, but as the alcohol bit into my open wound, I flinched.
“Sorry,” she said, not sounding remotely apologetic.
I couldn’t help staring at her while she worked. Everything about her had blossomed with age—no more braces, just perfect teeth. Her hair stopped at her shoulders now instead of flowing down her back. But those eyes hadn’t changed a bit. Same shade as Jimmy’s.
“There’s a piece of glass,” she announced, picking up tweezers. “This is gonna sting.”
I nodded and braced myself. She leaned over my hand, focused entirely on her task. The scent of vanilla drifted from her skin—subtle but unmistakable.
The tweezers dug into my cut, and I sucked air through my teeth.
“Almost got it,” she said, her voice unexpectedly soft. “There.”
She held up a bloody glass shard like a trophy before dropping it into a dish and returning to clean my wound.
“So,” I said. “Sports medicine.”
“Yes.” She kept her eyes on my hand. “I’ve been on staff for three months, getting everything ready for the launch.”
“And your father bought the team.”
That got me a quick look, amusement flashing in her eyes. “He didn’t buy it, Mr. McCrae. He created it.”
The correction dangled between us, and my jaw clenched. “Quite a coincidence,” I said. “Me being hunted for this team. Not to mention becoming available at the exact moment your father was completing his roster.”
She dabbed antiseptic cream on the cut, her touch businesslike, completely unbothered by my accusation. “I don’t believe in coincidences, Mr. McCrae.”
Neither did I.
She wrapped gauze around my hand, taping it with mechanical efficiency. Her fingers burned hot against my skin.
“So,” I said. “How long have you known?” I blurted out the question that’d been stuck in my throat since I spotted her at that podium.
“Known what?” Her voice played innocent, but when her eyes locked on mine, they told a completely different story.
“That I was coming to Miami.”
She finished my bandage and rocked back, stripping off her gloves. “About as long as you have, I imagine.”
“Bullshit.”
A tiny smile crept across her face. “Keep this clean and dry. New bandage every day.”
She stood, collecting the first aid supplies while turning her back on me. I pushed myself up from the chair.
“Why?” I demanded. I wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily.
She spun around, face blank. But her eyes held something I couldn’t decode.
“Why what, Mr. McCrae?”
“Why am I here? Why are you here? Why did your father create this team?”
She dropped the first-aid kit on the desk. “Why am I here? This is my home, Mr. McCrae. My dad moved us from California right after the funeral. I finished high school here, got my doctorate at U-Miami.”
She took a breath, letting that bomb detonate before switching back to Dr. Professional. “So, I’m here because I’m the best at my job, and my father created the team because he loves football. And you’re here because you’ve got talent. That’s all.”
Total bullshit answer. Maybe she spent half her life in this humidity hell, but that changed exactly dick.
“Twelve years,” I growled. “Twelve years, and now we’re all magically on the same team. That’s not random, and it’s not about scoring goals.”
She moved closer, near enough that I spotted tiny freckles scattered across her nose.
“What do you think it’s about, then?” She whispered so quietly I had to lean in.
Before I could answer, the door opened, and Hank Swanson stepped into the room. He glanced between us, his eyes narrowing, sizing up the situation.
“Everything alright in here?” he asked, his tone pleasant but his eyes cold.
Tara stepped back. “Just finishing up, Dad. Mr. McCrae should be fine, but he’ll need to keep the wound clean and change the bandage daily.”
Hank nodded, his gaze shifting to me. “Ugly gash,” he said. “Accidents happen though, right, Xander? Especially when booze enters the picture.”
The words were innocent enough, but the implied meaning was clear. A reference to that night and Jimmy.
I met his gaze steadily. “I’d better get back to the party.”
He stepped aside, gesturing for me to precede him out of the study. As I passed him, he added, “I hope your hand heals quickly. We have a lot of work to do, you and I.”
I didn’t respond, didn’t trust myself to. Instead, I walked back into the crowd, searching for Leo, for a drink, for anything that might anchor me in this surreal reality I’d stepped into.