5. Xander
XANDER
The whisky wasn’t working anymore.
I stood on the penthouse balcony, gripping the glass railing with white knuckles, watching dawn break over Miami Beach.
The city was already stirring—early joggers dotting the shoreline, delivery trucks rumbling along Ocean Drive, fishing boats heading out for the morning catch.
Normal people doing normal things while I stood above it all, trapped in a gilded cage of my own making.
The bottle of Macallan beside me was nearly empty. I’d started drinking around midnight, hoping to find that familiar numbness, the blessed quiet that usually came after the fourth or fifth glass. But it hadn’t come. Now, the alcohol had only sharpened every jagged thought.
Sleep had been impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Tara—not as she was now, composed and clinical, but as she’d been twelve years ago.
Sixteen years old, dark hair falling around her tear-stained face as she’d looked up at me behind the church after Jimmy’s funeral.
The moment I’d almost ruined everything by nearly kissing her.
I drained the last of my whisky, the burn in my throat barely registering anymore. Below, a lone female figure caught my eye—a runner moving along the beach with purpose. Dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, athletic build.
It couldn’t be.
I leaned forward, straining to see better. The distance made it impossible to be sure, but something about the way she moved... I swore it was Tara.
Christ, you’re losing it, McCrae.
I rubbed a hand on the back of my neck, disgusted by the paranoid turn of my thoughts. This was Miami, for fuck’s sake. Half the women here had dark hair and athletic builds. It wasn’t Tara. It couldn’t be.
But the seed of doubt had been planted, and in my exhausted, alcohol-soaked brain, it took root. I made a note to buy a pair of high-powered binoculars.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Leo appeared beside me, two steaming mugs of coffee in hand. He was wearing crisp linen shorts and a button-down shirt, looking infuriatingly put-together. He handed me a mug, his nose wrinkling at the empty whisky bottle.
“Did ye sleep at all?”
I grunted, accepting the coffee. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re going to regret this when you have to perform for your new team in—” he checked his watch, “—about two hours.”
I took a sip of the coffee. Black, scalding hot, and strong enough to strip paint. Just how I needed it.
“Don’t forget,” Leo continued, scrolling through his phone, “you’ve got your first PT session with Dr. Swanson at eight.”
Something inside me snapped. The mention of her name—so casual, so normal—as if she were just another team doctor and not the architect of my current nightmare.
“How did you not know?” The words came out low and dangerous.
Leo glanced up from his phone, brow furrowed. “Know what?”
“Your one job—your only job—was to do the research before I sign my life away.” I set the coffee mug down with enough force to slosh liquid over the rim. “You let me walk into a trap because you didn’t do your homework.”
Comprehension dawned on Leo’s face, followed quickly by hurt. “Xander?—”
“Hold on,” I said, my voice rising with each accusation. “You didn’t know the owner was Hank Swanson? Or that his daughter was head of sports medicine? What am I paying you for, Leo? To organize my social calendar? To make sure I have enough whisky?”
Leo’s expression hardened. “That’s no’ fair, and you know it.”
“Fair? You want to talk about fair ?” I laughed, the sound harsh. “Fair would have been knowing what I was walking into. Fair would have been having a fucking choice.”
“The team’s ownership was hidden behind a series of LLCs,” Leo shot back, his temper rising. “The high-level staff weren’t publicly listed until the launch. I’m your assistant, Xander, not a corporate spy! They obviously wanted it kept quiet and disguised their tracks!”
“Bullshit. You could have found out. You should have found out.” I jabbed a finger at him. “But you were too busy planning parties and chasing tail to do your actual job.”
Leo recoiled as if I’d slapped him. “That’s what you think I do? After twelve years? After everything we’ve been through?”
“I think you dropped the ball on the most important transfer of my career, and now I’m fucking trapped by a CEO billionaire who hates my guts.” I turned away from him, staring back at the beach where the dark-haired runner had disappeared from view. “I think you let me walk into an ambush.”
“An ambush?” Leo’s voice was incredulous. “You’re acting like this is some kind of conspiracy. It’s a football team, not the fucking CIA.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” The words came out tired, defeated. “You don’t know what they’re capable of.”
“Then enlighten me! Because from where I’m standing, you’re having a meltdown over seeing your old friend’s family again.” Leo stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I get that Jimmy’s death was traumatic, but this? This isn’t normal, Xander.”
I whirled on him, fury coursing through me, anew. “Normal? You want to know what’s normal? Normal is not having the father of the kid you basically killed manipulate your entire fucking career. Normal is not having the sister you almost—” I cut myself off, the words too dangerous to say aloud.
Leo’s face softened with concern. “The sister you almost what?”
“Nothing.” I ran a hand over my face. “Forget it.”
“Xander, whatever happened?—”
“I need to get ready for practice.” I pushed past him, heading for the door. “I’ll get a car service. Don’t wait up.”
“Xander, wait?—”
But I was already inside, the sliding glass door shutting behind me with a final-sounding click.
I leaned against it for a moment, hating myself for the hurt I’d seen in Leo’s eyes.
He didn’t deserve my rage. None of this was his fault.
But I needed someone to blame, someone to absorb the toxic cocktail of guilt and fear churning inside me.
Because the alternative was admitting the truth: that I’d brought this all on myself, and I was still paying the price.
I showed up early at the Pirates’ training facility for two reasons: to dodge Leo at the penthouse and to get my showdown with Tara out of the way. My skull felt like it was hosting a rave, thanks to last night’s booze festival, zero sleep, and emotional baggage playing on loop.
But whatever game Tara had planned, I was ready to play.
At 8 AM sharp, the sports medicine wing was dead quiet. I passed through the glass doors, looking for Tara. Instead, I got a tiny blonde in scrubs behind the reception desk.
“Mr. Xander McCrae,” she announced without bothering to look up from her screen. “Dr. Swanson asked me to inform you that your physical therapy session is canceled because of a scheduling conflict.”
I stood there like an idiot. “Canceled?”
“Yes.” She finally granted me eye contact, her face revealing her boredom. “You’re free to join team practice at nine. Coach Wilkes expects you.”
“When is it rescheduled for?”
“Dr. Swanson will be in touch.” Back to her screen, conversation over.
I lingered, knocked off my game and pissed. This was textbook power-play bullshit—Tara establishing dominance, making it clear she controlled when and where we’d interact. Part of me felt relieved for the delay, but mostly I was fuming at being so easily jerked around.
“Fine,” I said, turning to leave. “Tell Dr. Swanson I said thanks for the consideration.”
The assistant didn’t give enough of a shit to respond.
The locker room was half-full when I entered, with players in various states of dress preparing for the morning session.
The conversation died as I walked in, replaced by a heavy silence that followed me to my assigned locker.
I recognized a few faces from the welcome party—Diego Mano, the team’s star striker; Banda, a veteran defender; and a handful of younger players whose names I couldn’t recall.
I nodded at everyone, expecting the same enthusiasm you’d get from a DMV employee on a Friday afternoon.
Being the new guy always sucked balls, especially when you’re the fancy import with a “problem child” reputation.
Throw in being Hank Swanson’s pet project, and I basically had “SOCIAL LEPER” branded on my ass.
I changed into my training gear, moving like someone who wasn’t nursing a hangover.
Over a decade in pro soccer taught me locker room politics—the pecking order, the silent judgment, the “prove yourself, asshole” gauntlet everyone runs.
My strategy remained simple: shut up and show my domination on the field.
“So, McCrae.” Diego Mano’s voice sliced through the quiet. “Settling in okay?”
I glanced up to find the Columbian striker posted up against the neighboring locker, arms folded like he was posing for his next underwear ad. At thirty-two, Mano was soccer’s equivalent of a classic car—not as fast as he once was, but still dangerous and overpriced.
“Getting there,” I said, yanking my shirt over my head.
“Good, good.” Mano faked a smile. “Miami’s a great city. Lots to enjoy. Beaches, clubs, beautiful women...” He paused like he was about to drop wisdom. “Though some women around here are off-limits, you understand?”
I met his stare, having already read his territorial pissing contest invitation. “I’m just here to play football, Mano.”
“Of course.” He smacked my shoulder with enough force to qualify as low-key assault.
“But since we’re teammates now, let me give you some friendly advice.
The doctor? Dr. Swanson?” His voice dropped to a rough hush.
“I saw your little performance on her table yesterday. I don’t give a fuck what you’ve got planned, but she’s team property. Hands off!”
The way he talked about Tara—like she was the community coffee machine—made my blood boil, but I kept my poker face. “Noted.”
“Good.” Mano straightened up, mission accomplished. “See you on the pitch, superstar.”