4. Tara
TARA
When the door shut on Xander’s retreating figure, my knees buckled beneath me.
I slid down against the cool surface and hit the floor.
My hands trembled as I raised them to my face, staring at my fingers—the same fingers that had just traced the outline of my brother’s initials tattooed on Xander’s skin.
“Breathe,” I whispered to myself. “Just breathe.”
But my lungs refused to cooperate. Every inhalation caught halfway, trapped by the thundering of my heart. My skin still buzzed where it had touched his—alive in a way I’d never experienced before. Nothing had prepared me for the reality of him.
The heat of his skin.
The flex of muscle beneath my hands.
The scent of him—expensive soap layered over something raw and masculine.
The insistent bulge of his cock that rubbed against his briefs was impossible to ignore when I hooked his leg over my shoulder.
A laugh bubbled up from my chest—half triumph, half disbelief. I’d done it. After years of planning, of maneuvering myself into the perfect position, I’d finally gotten my hands on Xander McCrae.
And he had responded exactly as I’d hoped.
I pushed myself up from the floor, smoothing my navy scrubs as I took a deep breath, centering myself. Control was everything. I’d spent twelve years building this version of myself—competent and untouchable. I wouldn’t let one encounter, no matter how charged, unravel me.
I glanced at the clock. Five hours until dinner with my father. Five hours to prepare for the subtle interrogation that would inevitably come. Because tonight wouldn’t be a simple family meal. It would be a debriefing.
I needed to be ready.
The restaurant my father had chosen was exactly his style—expensive, and impersonal. The kind of place where the menu had no prices, and the waitstaff moved like ghosts, appearing only when needed.
My father stood as I approached the table, his tall frame impeccable in a tailored suit.
At sixty, Hank Swanson still cut an imposing figure with silver hair precisely styled, his posture military-straight.
The physical resemblance between us was minimal.
I had my mother’s coloring, her delicate features.
But the set of my jaw, the stubborn line of my mouth—those were pure Swanson. Jimmy had inherited more from him.
“Tara,” my father said, leaning in to brush a perfunctory kiss against my cheek. “You look lovely.”
I’d chosen my outfit carefully—a navy sheath dress, professional but feminine. Armor for the battle ahead.
“Thank you for making time,” I said, settling into the chair a waiter had pulled out for me. “I know how busy you are with the team launch.”
My father waved a dismissive hand. “Family comes first. Always has.”
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they raised the fine hairs on my arms. In my father’s world, “family” wasn’t about love or connection—it was about loyalty, about falling in line.
“Speaking of the team,” he continued, “the launch party was a resounding success. Commissioner Wilson called me personally to say how impressed he was with our setup.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said, accepting the glass of wine a server poured for me. “The facility is certainly state-of-the-art.”
“It should be, for what it cost.” My father’s eyes crinkled with pride. “But worth every penny. We’ve assembled quite a roster. Mano, Banda, Carter... and of course, McCrae.”
And there it was, the name landing between us with the weight of a challenge. I took a careful sip of wine, using the moment to compose my features.
“How did you find him today?” My father’s tone was casual. “Physically, I mean.”
I met his gaze, keeping my expression neutral. “His overall condition is excellent. Exceptional cardiovascular fitness, no major injury concerns. Some muscular imbalances that need addressing—primarily in the shoulders and lower back. Nothing unexpected for a player at his level.”
“And mentally?”
I tilted my head, feigning confusion. “I’m not a psychologist, Dad. My assessment was purely physical.”
“Come now, Tara. You’re more observant than that.” He leaned forward slightly. “Did he seem... stable to you?”
I couldn’t quite decipher the question. Was he concerned about his investment?
“He seemed focused,” I said carefully. “Professional. Cooperative with the examination.”
“Hmm.” My father took a sip of his whisky, studying me over the rim of his glass.
The server arrived with our appetizers, momentarily breaking the tension. I used the interruption to steer the conversation to safer ground—the team’s upcoming schedule, the marketing campaign, the charity events planned for the season. My father played along, but I felt his focus wavering.
As I finished a point about community events, he reached across the small table and his index finger brushed away a tiny, nonexistent crumb from the tablecloth next to my bread plate.
The gesture was slight, proprietary, and utterly dismissive of what I’d just said.
It was a silent correction, a reminder that he controlled the space, the conversation, and everything in it.
He leaned back, his point made without a single word.
“You’ve prescribed physical therapy for McCrae, I understand?” he asked, his voice casual again now that he had reestablished command.
I nodded. “Bi-weekly sessions to start, then we’ll reassess. His muscular tension needs aggressive treatment if he’s going to perform at his best.”
“Bi-weekly?” My father raised an eyebrow. “Is that standard protocol?”
“For elite athletes? Absolutely.” The lie came easily. “The sooner we address these imbalances, the better he’ll integrate with the team.”
My father studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, satisfied with my explanation.
I took a deep breath, sensing an opening. Time to test the waters.
“It was incredibly fortunate for us,” I said, keeping my tone neutral, “that a player of his caliber became available at the exact moment you were completing the roster.” I paused, observing him. “The incident in Chelsea that got him transfer-listed was perfect timing for us.”
My father gave a dismissive, paternalistic laugh.
“Tara, men like McCrae are walking liabilities. Trouble doesn’t find them; they invite it in for a drink.
” He signaled to the server for another whisky.
“Besides, his marketability alone justified the expense. Miami loves a bad boy, and McCrae sells tickets. His jersey sold out the first day.”
He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Frankly, Chelsea was looking for an excuse to get rid of him. A hot-headed player picking a fight with some loudmouth blogger isn’t exactly a mastermind plot.”
I froze, my wine glass halfway to my lips. Blogger .
The word lodged in my brain like a splinter. Every article I’d read, every report I’d combed through had described the man as a “paparazzo” or “member of the press.” But my father had called him a “blogger”—a more specific, more dismissive term.
I set my glass down carefully, concealing the tremor in my hand. “I wasn’t suggesting a conspiracy, Dad. Just commenting on the timing.”
“Timing is everything in business,” he said, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “And in life.”
The rest of dinner passed in a blur. We spoke of inconsequential things—the Miami weather and the upcoming hurricane season. But beneath the surface pleasantries, my mind raced.
That one word— blogger —had cracked the smooth narrative my father had presented. It was a tiny inconsistency, insignificant on its own. But combined with everything, it raised questions I wasn’t sure I wanted answered.
Had my father manipulated events to bring Xander to Miami? And if so, why?
By the time the check arrived (which my father paid without glancing at the total), a cold certainty had settled in my stomach. This wasn’t just about me or Xander. My father was playing a longer game, one with rules I didn’t fully understand.
“I’ll take you home,” he said as we stood to leave.
“That’s unnecessary. I have my car.”
“Nonsense. You’ve had two glasses of wine. The valet can take your car home.” His tone brooked no argument. “Besides, I’d like a few more minutes with my daughter.”
Outside, a sleek black Bentley waited at the curb with Lenny at the wheel. My father’s hand at my elbow guided me inside, his grip firm. The interior was cool and dark, smelling of leather.
As the car pulled away from the restaurant, my father turned to me. “I’m proud of you, Tara. The way you’ve established yourself with the team, the respect you’ve earned. Your brother would be proud too.”
The mention of Jimmy made my throat tighten. “Thank you.”
“I just want what’s best for you. You know that, don’t you?”
I simply nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Good.” He patted my hand. “Because sometimes what’s best for us isn’t what we think we want.”
The warning was clear, if oblique. I forced a smile. “I’m a big girl, Dad. I can take care of myself.”
“Of course you can.” His answering smile was indulgent. “But even big girls need their fathers sometimes.”
The car glided to a stop in front of my building. My father leaned over to kiss my cheek.
“Get some rest,” he said. “You have a busy day tomorrow. McCrae again, yes?”
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“Good luck with that.” Something in his tone made me glance sharply at him, but his expression revealed nothing. “Goodnight, Tara.”
“Goodnight, Dad.”
I stepped out of the car, watching as the Bentley pulled away from the curb.
Inside my apartment, I kicked off my heels and headed straight for the shower, as if I could wash away the unsettling dinner conversation along with the day’s sweat. The hot water did nothing to ease the tension that had settled there.
My father’s words repeated in my head: A hotheaded player picking a fight with some loudmouth blogger isn’t exactly a mastermind plot.
Blogger was a clue. What if my father, with his connections and his millions, had orchestrated the entire thing? Created the perfect scandal to force Chelsea’s hand, to make Xander available when my father was building his team?
I dressed in my sleeping shorts and tank top, then padded to my home office. The space was organized with medical journals lined up on shelves, physical therapy equipment neatly stored, and a large desk facing the window with a beautiful view.
I sank into my desk chair, opening my laptop. The screen illuminated, displaying the photos I’d taken of Xander’s medical file from Chelsea. I zoomed in on the note about his insomnia:
The patient reports difficulty falling asleep and staying asleep. Attributes to stress. Prescribed Ambien 10mg PRN. The patient advised limiting alcohol consumption while using medication.
Insomnia. A common symptom of PTSD; of unresolved trauma.
I stared at the warning listed in Xander’s file. Ambien and alcohol—a potentially lethal combination. The recommended limit was one drink, maybe two at most. But I’d seen the tabloid photos. Xander wasn’t having “a drink.” He was drowning himself night after night.
Was he trying to self-destruct? Or just desperate for dreamless sleep?
I made a note on my phone to address it during tomorrow’s session. It would be tricky—confronting him about his drinking would likely trigger defensiveness. But I couldn’t ignore a genuine medical concern, especially not when it affected a player under my care.
I closed my laptop and stood, stretching tired muscles. Tomorrow would be another predawn run past his building, another day of calculated interactions. Another step in my plan.
Back in my bedroom, I set my alarm for 4:45 AM and crawled into bed, wondering which of us was more damaged.