7. Xander
XANDER
I couldn’t feel my legs.
My back pressed against the frigid metal of my locker, shirt still bunched in my fist. Everyone else had hustled out to the practice field, but I remained frozen. Brain offline.
Her touch lingered on my skin—methodical one second, weirdly intimate the next. How her fingers found that exact spot on my shoulder where old injuries had healed over deeper wounds. The shift in her eyes when she pressed into it, like she was x-raying straight through to my fucked-up soul.
I yanked my shirt over my head, flinching as my newly prodded muscles complained. Before common sense kicked in, I grabbed my phone and fired off a reply to the “Welcome home” message I was sure had been from Tara.
You felt it too.
The message zoomed away. Three dots popped up almost instantly, vanished, then reappeared. My heart knocked against my ribs while I waited.
Felt what?
Classic deflection. Pure Dr. Swanson mode. But I’d finished with the bullshit games. Done running from old ghosts. I was exhausted. So fucking exhausted.
That we’re both broken in exactly the same places.
I stared at the screen, waiting for the three dots to return. Nothing. Just dead air stretching forever.
Whatever. If she wanted to play pretend, I could join in. Nothing left to lose anyway. I typed: Tomorrow night. Team party at The Basement. I know you’ll be there.
I paused, then added:
Wear the green dress.
A direct challenge. A poke in the ribs. I knew she’d never do it, but I wanted her to know I remembered the dress that matched my eyes. Did she really give that much attention to detail that she dressed to match my eye color? Hmm. Maybe. If so, what did that say about her motives?
Her reply arrived faster this time.
I’ll wear whatever I want.
A smile crept onto my face despite everything. There she was—the fighter, the woman who refused to be pushed around.
Good. Surprise me.
I set the phone down, a weird rush replacing the empty ache in my chest. I’d thrown down the challenge. Her move now.
“McCrae! You planning on joining us this century?”
Coach Wilkes blocked the doorway, arms crossed. Behind him, the Florida sunshine blazed, and I heard the shouts and whistles from practice already underway.
“Sorry, Coach. Physical therapy ran long.”
He checked his watch. “Five minutes to get your ass on that field. Owner’s watching again today.”
Perfect. Just what I needed. Hank Swanson’s icy stare tracking my every move, hunting for weakness, for evidence that he’d been right about me being a drunken fuck-up.
“I’ll be right there.”
The practice field sparkled like a golf course on steroids, sunshine pouring over the grass while I hauled ass to join warm-ups. Same as yesterday, everyone watched me like I was the new zoo exhibit.
Ben Carter gave me a bro-nod as I lined up next to him.
“You okay?” he muttered.
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“Dr. Swanson seemed a little upset this morning.”
I shot him a look. “Yeah?”
He paused. “I’ve seen how you react with her. Just saying, if you needed to talk?—”
“How about we don’t?” I snapped.
Ben winced. “Got it.”
Fuck . The kid was just being nice. Before I could fix it, the coach’s whistle sounded across the field.
“Move your asses! First team west, second team in pinnies east. Scrimmage in fifteen!”
I jogged to first-team territory where Diego Mano stood waiting, eyeballing me like I’d keyed his car.
“McCrae,” he called. “You’re with me.”
The drill was simple—one player would send a ball in, and the other would control it, then lay it off to a third player making a run. Basic stuff we’d done a thousand times before. But as Diego sent the ball toward me, it came in hard and high, nowhere near my feet.
I brought it down with my chest, but before I could settle it, Diego was there, coming in with a tackle that was late and deliberate. His cleats raked down my shin as I tried to jump away, sending a shot of pain up my leg.
“Fuck!” I stumbled but stayed upright, blood already seeping through my sock where his studs had caught me.
“Oops,” Diego said with all the sincerity of a politician. He leaned in close. “I thought I told you to stay away from the doctor’s office? You’re not the only one getting ‘special treatment’.”
Bingo. There it was again. This wasn’t about soccer. This was about Tara.
“Everything cool over there?” Coach yelled.
“All good, Coach,” Diego chirped, suddenly Mr. Innocent. “Just miscommunication.”
Coach turned away, and Diego shot me one final death-glare before trotting off.
“You good?” Ben appeared beside me, eyeing my bloody sock.
“Peachy,” I tested my weight. Hurt like hell, but nothing busted. “Just a scratch.”
“He’s a total asshole,” Ben said. “Thinks he owns the place—and everyone in it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Not a fan, huh?”
Ben shrugged. “I hate bullies. Plus, I’ve seen how he looks at Dr. Swanson. Like she’s his property.”
Something ugly twisted in my gut. I squashed it. Tara wasn’t mine to get territorial over, no matter what weird energy buzzed between us in that PT room. She was still part of her father’s scheme to bring me to Miami.
“Thanks,” I nodded toward Diego. “For the warning.”
“No problem.” Ben hesitated. “Some of us are actually glad you’re here. Not everyone buys the ‘washed-up party boy’ bullshit.”
Coach’s whistle cut him off. “Enough gossip! Full-field scrimmage!”
I limped into position, shin throbbing.
Practice finished without more drama. By the end, my legs felt like concrete, and my shin pulsed with every heartbeat.
As we left, Coach grabbed my arm. “McCrae. Hold up.”
I braced for a lecture, but he surprised me. “Good work today.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
“Don’t get excited yet.” He nodded toward Hank, who was talking with Tara. “The boss wants to see you after your shower.”
My stomach dropped. “Again. Why?”
“No idea, didn’t ask.” Coach’s face softened. “Look, I don’t know what’s happening between you and the Swansons, and I don’t care. But after thirty years in MLS, I know talent, and you’ve got it in spades. Don’t let this bullshit derail that.”
I nodded, speechless, watching Hank and Tara walk away, wondering what fresh hell awaited in the owner’s office.
The shower did little to ease the tension knotting my shoulders. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting the hot water pound against my skin, trying to wash away the memory of Tara’s hands, of Diego’s threat, of Hank’s icy stare.
By the time I emerged, the locker room was mostly empty. A few stragglers were still getting dressed, including Ben, who gave me a small wave as he headed out.
“The party tonight at Basement,” he called over his shoulder. “You coming?”
I forced a smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Once I was alone, I checked my phone. No new messages from Tara. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting—an apology? A continuation of our tense exchange? Some acknowledgment of what had passed between us in that PT room?
Instead, there was nothing. Just the hollow silence of a conversation cut short.
I dressed quickly in jeans and a simple black t-shirt, still damp from the shower. I took the elevator to Hank’s office on the top floor.
His assistant gave me a tight smile as I approached. “Mr. McCrae, Mr. Swanson is expecting you.”
She buzzed me in without another word.
Hank was standing at the window, his back to the door, hands clasped behind him as he gazed out at the Miami skyline. He didn’t turn when I entered.
“Xander,” he said, my name sounding like an afterthought. “Have a seat.”
I remained standing. “I’ll stand, thanks.”
Now he turned, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Still defiant, I see. Some things never change.”
“What do you want, Hank?”
He moved to his desk, sitting down in a leather chair. “Direct, as always. I’ve always appreciated that about you.”
I said nothing, waiting him out.
“I wanted to discuss your... progress,” he said finally. “Dr. Swanson tells me your shoulder is still giving you trouble.”
The casual mention of Tara sent a spike of anger through me. “My shoulder is fine.”
“That’s not what her assessment says.” He tapped a folder on his desk. “She’s recommending continued physical therapy, now three times a week.”
Of course, she was. More opportunities to get me alone, vulnerable, under her hands. More chances to play whatever game we’d started.
“Is that all?” I asked, already turning to leave.
“Not quite.” Hank’s voice hardened. “I also wanted to remind you of the morality clause in your contract.”
I froze. “Excuse me?”
“Section 12, paragraph 3. Players are expected to maintain professional relationships with all team staff. Any violation of this clause is grounds for immediate termination.”
The implication was clear. Whatever Tara and I were doing, whatever we might do, Hank knew about it. And he was warning me off.
“I’m well aware of my contract,” I said, my voice tight. “Is there anything else?”
Hank studied me for a long moment. “Just one thing. The party tonight at Basement. I expect all my players to represent the organization with dignity and restraint.”
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
“See that you are.” He turned back to his window, a clear dismissal. “That will be all, Xander.”
I left without another word, the door swinging shut behind me with a soft click.
The chains were tightening.
The penthouse was quiet when I returned. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, casting long shadows across the minimalist furniture. I moved to the bar, poured myself two fingers of whisky before collapsing onto the couch.
The day’s events played on a loop in my head. That moment of electric connection with Tara, followed by her cold dismissal. Diego’s threat on the field. Hank’s thinly veiled warning in his office.
I was being played from all sides, caught in a web of manipulation and secrets that stretched back to a night I’d spent the better part of my adult life trying to forget.