2. Tara
TARA
Much earlier the same day…
I’d been running this exact route every morning for the past month.
Not because I was a creature of habit, though I was.
Not because the sunrise over the Atlantic was spectacular, though it was.
I’d been running it because the route passed the row of luxury penthouses where the team housed some of its VIP players.
My earbuds were not playing music. Instead, a British sports commentator’s voice filled my head: “McCrae was never a fit for Chelsea. He’s always been Miami’s type of player—flash, style, a bit of danger.”
Danger . If they only knew.
“—and as I expected, sources at Chelsea say the management isn’t heartbroken to see him go. Too many late nights, too many missed practices. Talent can only take you so far when your lifestyle’s working against you?—”
I rounded the corner, slowing as I approached the glass-fronted building where the team had three penthouse suites reserved. One of them would be his later today.
My eyes darted to the top floors. Empty for now. But soon… tonight.
I kicked it up a notch, focusing on not dying. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Steady. Controlled. The exact opposite of how I’d been since the day Xander left Palo Alto.
The rest of my five-mile run went by in a haze. I knew Leo Martin would be glued to his side—his babysitter for the past decade, the only person who hadn’t jumped ship from the shitshow of Xander McCrae.
I knew every detail about him that Google and gossip could provide without actually breathing the same air. And tonight, finally, that would change.
Back in my apartment, I stuck to my morning ritual of showering with my stupidly expensive Chloé vanilla and jasmine shampoo.
Why that specific one? Because twelve years ago, a seventeen-year-old soccer prodigy casually mentioned he dug some random girl’s vanilla scent.
Pathetic? Absolutely. I remembered everything he’d ever said to me. Every. Single. Word.
I wrapped myself in a plush towel and padded to my bedroom, where three dresses lay arranged on my king-sized bed.
The black one: sophisticated, serious, a statement that I was a professional to be reckoned with.
The navy blue: team colors, showing my allegiance, my father’s daughter through and through.
And then the deep emerald one: the exact shade of Xander’s eyes.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Dad: “ Car will pick you up at 6 PM. Remember, you’re representing the organization tonight.”
I stared at the message, my wet hair dripping onto the screen. Was it a warning or just logistics? With my father, you never knew.
I typed back: “ I’ll be ready. ” Simple. Noncommittal. The perfect daughter response.
I opened the charter flight app. It confirmed Xander’s plane had touched down right on schedule.
The team’s car service had probably collected him already.
Xander was now breathing the same Miami air as I was.
I hammered out a quick “welcome home” text and fired it off to his number.
Because of course I had his number. What kind of obsessed stalker would I be if I didn’t?
I set my phone down and looked again at the three dresses. I’d decide later. Right now, I had to get to work.
For the past three months, I’d basically lived in the sports medicine wing at the training facility. Top-shelf equipment, twelve staff members I’d handpicked myself, and the unspoken power that comes with being brilliant at my job—oh, and Daddy owning the team.
I flipped through injury reports at my desk, making notes on treatment plans for two midfielders with minor hamstring strains and a goalkeeper recovering from wrist surgery.
This wasn’t pretense; I genuinely cared about these athletes and their recovery.
My obsession with Xander had never been at the expense of my professional integrity.
It had simply been the engine driving it.
There was a knock at my door.
“Dr. Swanson?” My assistant, Lauren, stood there with a stack of manila folders.
Forty-ish, divorced, with the efficient manner of someone who’d spent decades making other people look good.
I’d hired her precisely because she wasn’t young or pretty or interested in football players.
She was interested in organization and discretion.
“The new player files arrived,” she said. “Should I distribute them to the team, or?—”
“I’ll handle them myself.” I kept my voice neutral, even as my heart rate ticked up.
She set the stack on my desk without comment. Lauren never asked questions, which was another reason she was perfect.
When the door closed behind her, I waited thirty seconds—counting them in my head—before reaching for the files. These were the final player acquisitions for this transfer window. I flipped through them until I found the one with Chelsea’s seal.
Xander McCrae. DOB: 29/05/1994. Height: 6’3”. Weight: 84 kg.
I opened it with steady hands, the steadiness that comes from actively telling your muscles not to shake.
The medical history was extensive. Football at that level took its toll.
Old ankle sprain from his Glasgow days. Hyper extended knee three years ago.
Broken finger from what was listed as “training incident” but what I knew from news reports was actually a bar fight in London.
And then, in the more recent notes: “Patient reports stress-related insomnia following a personal matter. Sleep aid prescribed: Ambien, 10mg PRN.”
Personal matter? What are you hiding, Xander?
I chose the emerald dress.
Not because it matched his eyes—though it did, perfectly—but because it was a weapon. The cut was standard, but the fabric stuck to my curves like it had something to prove—a dress that makes a man forget his own name.
My father’s car arrived promptly at 6 PM. The driver—Lenny, who’d worked for my father since before I was born—gave me an approving nod as I slid into the back seat.
“You look lovely, Miss Tara.”
“Thank you, Lenny.” I smoothed the dress over my thighs, my hands betraying none of my anxiety. “Is my father already at the house?”
“Yes, miss. He’s been there since four overseeing the preparations.”
Of course, he had. Hank Swanson left nothing to chance, especially not tonight. This was the culmination of... what? That was the question that had been gnawing at me for over two years, since he’d first mentioned his interest in creating the team. What exactly was my father’s endgame here?
The car pulled up to Dad’s waterfront mansion, where valets in team colors were already parking guests’ cars. I froze with my finger on the doorknob.
“Lenny,” I said, “has my father been acting... weird lately?”
Lenny’s eyes caught mine in the rearview. “Weird how, miss?”
“I don’t know. All detached and intense.”
Lenny was silent for a moment. “Your father has always been a man who plays the long game, Miss Tara. Perhaps he’s simply seeing a plan come to fruition.”
Perhaps. I nodded, gathered my clutch, and stepped out of the car.
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 from across 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 feel so 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.