5. Xander #2
He sauntered away. I’d just been marked as competition—not just for playing time, but for Tara’s attention.
The irony would have been laughable if it weren’t so fucking depressing.
Here I was, trying to avoid Tara at all costs, while Mano had me tagged as a threat to whatever he had going on with her.
I finished changing and was lacing up my boots when a shadow fell across me. A younger player, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, was hovering awkwardly. I think Leo called him Bill something.
“Mr. McCrae? I’m Ben Carter.” The kid extended his hand, his expression a mix of nervousness and barely contained excitement. “Welcome to the team, sir. It’s an honor to play with you.”
I shook his hand, surprised by the genuine warmth in his greeting. “Thanks, Ben. And it’s just Xander. ‘Sir’ makes me feel ancient.”
Ben grinned, his nervousness falling away. “Right, sorry. Xander.” He hesitated, then added in a rush, “I grew up watching you at Rangers. That free kick goal against Celtic in the 2016 derby? Changed my life. Made me want to be a forward.”
Despite my foul mood, I smiled. There was something refreshing about the kid’s unabashed admiration. “That was a lucky shot.”
“Bullshit,” Ben said, then looked mortified at his outburst. “I mean—it was perfect. Textbook. Thirty yards out, top corner.”
I laughed, the sound rusty but genuine. “Well, when you put it that way.”
A whistle blew from the corridor outside, signaling it was time to head to the pitch. Ben bounced on his toes, still grinning.
“Anyway, I just wanted to welcome you. I’ve only been here a month, but if you need anything, or have questions about the city or whatever...” He trailed off, suddenly self-conscious.
“Thanks, Ben. I appreciate it.” And I did, more than the kid could know. In a locker room full of cold shoulders and thinly veiled hostility, his friendly overture felt like finding water in a desert.
We headed out together, joining the stream of players moving toward the indoor pitch. Ben kept up a steady stream of chatter about the team, the coaches, the tactical system they’d been working on. I let his words wash over me, grateful for the distraction from my darker thoughts.
The practice facility had a full-sized pitch under a soaring dome, the artificial turf a perfect replica of the stadium playing surface. Coach Wilkes, a grizzled veteran of the MLS, stood at the center circle with his assistants, clipboard in hand.
“Gentlemen,” he called as we gathered around him. “As you know, we’re just two weeks away from our season opener. Today we focus on integrating our new players into the system.” His gaze found me in the crowd. “McCrae, you’ll start with the first team. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I nodded as dozens of eyeballs bored into me. Nothing new here—the classic “show us you’re worth the money” moment. Football made sense to me. I could handle this shit.
We kicked off with basic warm-ups, then passing drills and mini-games. My body went through the motions automatically while my brain took a vacation. My hangover still knocked around in my skull, but it backed off once I got into the flow.
During a water break, I spotted a group watching from the edge—coaches, medical team, and slightly removed from the pack, Hank Swanson in the flesh. Our eyes connected for a hot second before he turned to chat with some lackey. Message received, boss: I’m under the microscope.
Practice wrapped with a full-team scrimmage, starters versus backups. They stuck me in attacking midfield, just behind Mano and another forward. As we lined up, Mano bumped past me.
“Don’t count on getting the ball,” he hissed. “New hotshots don’t get the VIP treatment here.”
I ignored him. Fuck it. My game would do the talking.
When the whistle shrieked, everything played out exactly how Mano promised—my so-called teammates deliberately froze me out, testing how long before I’d crack.
Amateur hour bullshit I’d seen before. I stayed patient, kept finding open space, making myself an option, waiting for their competitive nature to overpower their petty crap.
It came as a loose ball in midfield. I jumped on it before the other guy could get there, spinning away from pressure like I was dodging an ex at the grocery store.
The field in front of me? Wide open. Mano sprinted right, his face screaming, “PASS ME THE BALL, ASSHOLE.” Instead, I gunned it forward, the ball stuck to my feet while I danced between two defenders.
The keeper charged out straight at me. Out of the corner of my eye, Mano stood there waving his arms, completely unmarked. The old Xander would’ve blasted it himself, because of ego, and to make a point. But that wasn’t me anymore.
I slipped Mano a perfect pass. All he had to do was tap it in. When the ball hit the net, everyone shut up for a beat. Then Ben Carter broke the silence with a “HELL YEAH!” and a few others clapped.
Mano looked like he’d swallowed something sour but tasty—happy about the goal, pissed the opportunity came from me. He gave me the world’s most reluctant nod as he jogged past me.
“Nice vision,” he mumbled.
“Nice finish,” I shot back.
For the rest of the scrimmage, guys actually passed to me. I kept it simple, showing I could control the game’s heartbeat rather than just showing off tricks. When Coach Wilkes blew his whistle, I’d dished three assists and created enough scoring chances to fill a highlight reel.
“Good work today, gentlemen,” Wilkes announced to our circle. “Especially you, McCrae. That’s the kind of unselfish play we need.”
I nodded at the compliment, feeling the vibe around me change just a little. I hadn’t won these fuckers over—not even close—but I’d earned a sliver of professional respect. Baby steps.
As the team dispersed toward the locker rooms, Wilkes approached me. “Hank needs you in his office,” he said, his expression giving nothing away. “And don’t forget the team dinner tonight. Seven sharp at La Mar.”
“Yes, Coach.”
Getting called to Hank’s office? About as promising as a prostate exam from Edward Scissorhands. And tonight’s team dinner meant another round of psychological warfare with the Swansons.
Fucking perfect.
One battle at a time, I told myself. Handle Hank first. Dinner drama later.
I found my way through the building to the executive section, where Hank’s corner office commanded a view of the training grounds. His secretary—a woman who reminded me of my old tax audit—flicked her hand toward the door without speaking.
Hank stood at the window, back turned like the rich snob he’d always been. He didn’t bother turning around when I walked in.
“Close the door, Xander.”
I shut it and stood like an idiot, not daring to sit uninvited.
“Impressive session out there,” he said to the window. “You haven’t lost your touch.”
“Thank you, sir.” The word “sir” came out of my mouth before I could stop it.
He finally turned, fixing me with those X-ray eyes. Time had worked him over—silver hair replaced the brown, his face more creased and worn. But those eyes? Still cut right through you.
“I wanted to see how you’re settling in.” He pointed to a chair. “Please, sit.”
I perched on the edge. “I’m settling in fine.”
“Good, good.” Hank lowered himself into his throne behind an enormous desk. “And the accommodations? The penthouse is to your liking?”
“It’s very nice.”
“I’m glad.” He examined briefly. “You know, when I brought you to Miami, there were those who questioned my judgment. Your reputation precedes you, after all.”
I kept my mouth shut, waiting for whatever trap he’d laid.
“But I told them, ‘I know Xander McCrae. I know what he’s capable of, both the good and the bad’.” He leaned forward, eyes on mine. “I believe in second chances, Xander. Even for those who may not deserve them.”
“I appreciate the opportunity,” I said carefully.
“I’m sure you do.” His smile remained cold. “One thing I’ve always admired about you, Xander, is your resilience. Most people wouldn’t have recovered from the trauma that night. The guilt alone would have destroyed them.”
My fingernails dug into my palms. “Is there something specific you wanted to discuss, Mr. Swanson?”
“Just making conversation.” He reclined in his chair. “And call me Hank. We’re practically family, after all.”
The jab cut deep. I fought to keep my face blank while my insides twisted.
“Now, about tonight’s dinner,” Hank continued. “It’s a tradition with new signings—a chance for the team to bond off the pitch. I expect you to be on your best behavior.”
“Of course.”
“Good.” He checked his watch. “That’s all for now. I’ve kept you long enough. I’m sure you want to rest before tonight.”
I stood up, taking the hint. “I appreciate your time.”
At the door, Hank called out: “Oh, and Xander? I’ve asked Tara to keep a close eye on your physical condition. Your medical history shows some concerning patterns with alcohol. We wouldn’t want any... accidents.”
I stopped dead, hand on the doorknob.
“No,” I said without looking back. “We wouldn’t.”
La Mar was “pretentious as fuck” just as I expected—all modern edges, giant windows flaunting magnificent sweeping views, and a private room where the Pirates could pretend to like each other over fancy cutlery.
I showed up at seven on the dot. No way I’d give Hank ammunition by being late. Most of the team was already there, playing nice with drinks. I grabbed a soda water with lime at the bar. After last night’s binge and today’s hangover, alcohol was the last thing I craved.
“Xander McCrae, choosing sobriety?” The gossip rags would be stunned.
Tara materialized beside me, wine in hand, rocking a black dress that walked the tightrope between “respectable” and “holy shit.” Her dark hair tumbled loose, red lips turned in a half-smile.
“Dr. Swanson,” I said, voice tight. “You bailed on me this morning.”
“Emergency with a defender.” She took a sip of her wine, her eyes staying on mine. “We’ll fix your shoulder soon. That knot isn’t going anywhere.”
The server interrupted before I could respond. “Mr. McCrae? Your seat awaits.”
Of course, they’d put me next to Tara. But at least Ben Carter sat on my other side—one friendly face in this shark tank.
“Lucky me,” Tara whispered as she sat. “The golden boy all to myself.”
Pure torture followed. Every move she made brushed against me. Her perfume hijacked my brain. I tried to bury my attention in the menu, in Ben’s football talk—anything but the woman whose elbow kept bumping mine.
Dinner dragged on with fake laughs and team-bonding bullshit. I fielded questions about Europe, keeping everything light. Across the table, Mano glared daggers at every interaction between me and Tara.
As the plates disappeared, Hank rose with champagne in hand. The room went quiet.
“A toast,” he announced, commanding attention without effort. “To new beginnings, new challenges, and new family.”
Agreement rippled around us.
“When I brought a team to Miami, I wanted something special. Not just winners, but family. Legacy.” His eyes found me like heat-seeking missiles. “Some of you just joined us. Others have been here from day one. But you’re all part of something bigger now.”
He raised his glass higher. “It’s been twelve years since we lost my son, Jimmy, in a tragic accident.”
Holy shit, is he really going there?
The name dropped like a bomb. Tara froze beside me.
“But I built a new legacy in his memory, a new family.” Hank’s eyes burned into mine. “Welcome to it, Xander.”
Silence crushed the room. Players squirmed, sensing the weird vibe but clueless about why. Twenty-something curious stares weighed on me.
Tara shoved back her chair. “Excuse me,” she muttered, barely audible. She bolted toward the exit, cracking at the seams.
I sat paralyzed between rage at Hank’s calculated bullshit and worry for Tara. Bringing up Jimmy—so deliberate, so public—was a strike meant to wound us both.
“You okay, man?” Ben whispered. “You look like death warmed over.”
In a way, yeah. Jimmy Swanson’s ghost now haunted this fancy dinner, courtesy of my new boss.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Need air.”
I followed Tara’s escape route and found her tucked in an alcove by the bathrooms, back against the wall, eyes closed, fighting for breath.
“Tara.”
Her eyes popped open, wet with unshed tears. “Go away, Xander.”
“Are you alright?”
She barked a harsh laugh. “Can you believe it? My father wants a new family. He already has a family he ignores. Me. And then he dares to bring Jimmy into this, although he knows it hurts me.”
I moved closer, pulled by something primal—guilt, shared pain, or some toxic cocktail of both.
“He’s trying to break us both,” I hissed.
“It’s working.” Tara looked up, facade crumbling. “You left,” she said, voice cracking. “You just left me. I’ve been frozen at sixteen, waiting?—”
Her raw pain gutted me. Without thinking, I stepped closer, cupped her cheek. Her skin felt soft, her breath warm.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, though for what exactly—leaving, returning, or this whole fucking mess—I couldn’t say.
She leaned into my touch, eyes closing briefly. When they opened, they burned with a need matching mine. I leaned in, pulled by forces I couldn’t fight, didn’t want to fight.
Our lips hovered inches apart when a kitchen crash yanked us back to reality. We jumped apart like guilty teenagers.
Tara recovered first, smoothing her dress with shaky hands. “This never happened,” she declared with surprising steadiness. “None of it.”
She brushed past me, heading back with her chin up, leaving me to wonder how the fuck I screwed up so badly to end here.