15. Xander
XANDER
The memory of Tara’s whispered invitation played on a loop in my head as I tossed a soccer ball from hand to hand, my fidgety ass unable to sit still.
“My place. Tonight.”
Her voice had been low, dripping with want, the words tickling my ear as water trickled down our bodies in the hydrotherapy pool.
Hours later, I could still feel her body pressed against mine, wet fabric stuck to curves my hands knew by heart.
Shit, I’d turned into a horny sixteen-year-old, watching the clock like it might speed up if I stared hard enough.
I squeezed the ball with both hands, trying to compact my wild thoughts into something less stupid. Nine o’clock felt like a damn eternity away, but I could see myself walking up those back stairs.
Then I had a realization so obvious I almost laughed at myself.
I had no clue where Tara lived.
“Fuck,” I muttered, collapsing onto the sofa. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
She’d been clear about the time. About using the back entrance. But in that steamy moment with water swishing around us and horniness fogging my brain, we’d both forgotten the most basic detail—her fucking address.
I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over her contact. The fix was easy: text her and ask. Done. But something stopped me.
This wasn’t Tara forgetting. This was Tara being Tara.
Everything between us had been a calculated power game. Even our first hookup happened on her terms, in my space, when she decided it was time.
And now this—an invitation with a critical piece missing. Not a mistake. A goddamn test.
I hurled the ball at the wall, snatching it on the bounce.
Asking for her address felt like surrendering before our new game even started. If I wanted to be her equal—her partner in this dangerous fling—I needed to prove I could keep up, predict her moves, and beat her at her own game.
“Easy there, tiger. What’s up?”
I looked up to see Leo in the living room doorway, eyebrows raised. His hair was perfect, wearing his crisp button-down and slim chinos—his standard “babysitting Xander” uniform.
“Nothing,” I said automatically, then changed my mind. Leo was my friend, and I needed advice. “Actually, something. Tara invited me over to her place tonight.”
Leo’s face switched from curious to horrified faster than a ref pulling a red card. “Tell me you’re not actually considering this.”
I threw the ball again, harder. “Already decided. I’m going.”
“Xander,” Leo used the tone reserved for when he thinks I’m about to fuck up spectacularly, “did you forget who she is? That her dad owns the team? We’re talking about the woman who’s been quietly obsessed with you for over a decade?”
“I remember all that,” I said, putting the ball down. “But things are different now. We both know there’s more to Jimmy’s death. And there’s something between us, Leo. Something real.”
Leo dropped into the armchair, messing up his hair in frustration. “There’s something alright. Mutual destruction, maybe. Career suicide, definitely.”
He wasn’t wrong. I understood exactly how many boundaries we were smashing. But logic took a backseat when Tara Swanson walked back into my life.
“Look,” I said, leaning forward, “I know the risks. But I’m going. That’s not the problem.”
“What’s the problem, then?”
I paused, knowing how stupid this would sound. “She didn’t give me her address.”
Leo stared blankly before erupting with laughter. “That’s your issue? Just text her and ask, dumbass.”
“I can’t.”
“Why the fuck not?”
I stood, too jittery to stay seated. How could I explain the unwritten rules between Tara and me and the precise balance we’d built through every interaction?
“Because she left it out on purpose,” I said finally. “It’s a test.”
Leo’s face was pure skepticism. “A test. Sure. Or maybe—crazy thought here—she just forgot to mention it while you two were getting handsy.”
I shook my head. “You don’t know her like I do. This is classic Tara. She wants to see if I can figure it out myself.”
“And if you can’t?” Leo asked, his voice softening. “If this is some weird test and you fail by simply asking for directions like a normal person, then what? She cancels? Is that really the kind of fucked-up relationship you want?”
Fair question, one that made me stop. What kind of relationship did I want with Tara? Whatever we had was messy, intense, and potentially catastrophic. But it also made me feel more alive than ever.
“I need to do this,” I said firmly. “I need to show her I understand the game.”
Leo sighed, recognizing my stubborn expression. “Fine. How do you plan to find her address without asking?”
I checked my watch. Almost four. “I’ll start at the training facility. There must be staff records or emergency contacts somewhere.”
“And if there isn’t?”
I grabbed my car keys from the coffee table. “Then I’ll wing it.”
The training facility was quieter than usual when I arrived, most of the players and staff having gone home for the day. Perfect. The fewer people around to question my presence, the better.
I made my way past the empty practice fields and through the main building, nodding casually to a few maintenance workers. The facility was designed like a small campus, with different wings for various departments—medical, coaching, administration, and player development.
As I rounded the corner toward the administrative wing, I spotted Ben Carter coming out of the weight room, gym bag slung over his shoulder. His face lit up when he saw me.
“Xander! Didn’t expect to see you here this late.”
I smiled, slowing my pace. “Just wanted to get some extra work in. You know how it is.”
Ben nodded enthusiastically. “For sure. It never hurts to push harder, right?”
“Exactly.” I hesitated, trying to frame my next question carefully. “Hey, quick thing—is there some kind of team directory anywhere? I need to check something with Dr. Swanson about my therapy schedule, but I don’t have her contact details.”
Ben’s expression was open, without a hint of suspicion. “Oh, all the high-level staff information is kept in the admin office for emergencies. Phone numbers, addresses, everything. They should still be open if you want to head over there now.”
Bingo. I kept my expression neutral, even as satisfaction coursed through me. “Thanks, mate. I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” Ben replied. “Hey, a bunch of us are grabbing dinner at that Cuban place near the beach tomorrow. You should come. The team’s still getting to know you, and it’d be cool to hang out off the pitch.”
The invitation threw me. At Chelsea, especially after the rumors started, teammates avoided me like the plague. “I’ll check my schedule,” I said, genuinely touched. “Thanks for the invite.”
Ben grinned. “Cool. See you at practice tomorrow, then?”
“Definitely.”
Ben was a good kid, straight-up honest. He’d given me exactly what I needed without question, trusting me completely.
The administration wing sat at the far end of the building—corporate central where the suits handled the business side. Most doors were closed, but light leaked from a few. I approached the main office, where a middle-aged woman with short hair hammered away at her keyboard.
I knocked on the open door, flashing my million-dollar smile. “Excuse me. Sorry to bother you so late.”
She looked up, her smile dropping when she recognized me. “Mr. McCrae. How can I help you?”
“Please, call me Xander,” I said, stepping in. “I need to update my emergency contact info. My agent reminded me I never filled out that part.”
Believable enough. In the chaos of transferring to Miami, shit definitely fell through the cracks.
“Of course,” she said, turning to her computer. “I can pull up your file right now.”
“That would be great, thank you...” I checked her nameplate, “...Ms. Connor.”
She lit up at the personal touch, fingers dancing over keys. “It’ll just take a moment. We’ve had network issues today.”
Right on cue, her phone rang. She frowned at the caller ID. “Sorry, I need to take this. It’s about next week’s away game.”
“No problem,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “Take your time.”
She answered and jumped straight into hotel and bus talk. I waited until she was deep in conversation, half-turned away from me.
I slid over to the file cabinets along the wall. Standard office shit with neat labels. Top drawer: “Player Personnel.” Second: “Coaching Staff.” Third: “Medical and Support Staff.” Jackpot .
I eased the third drawer open, quiet as a cat burglar, hyper-aware of Ms. Connor yakking away feet from me. Files organized alphabetically. I flipped through: Peterson... Richards... Santos... Swanson.
I pulled Tara’s file just enough to see her info sheet. Boom—her address right there: 1800 Meridian Avenue, Apartment 1102. I burned it into my brain and carefully put everything back exactly as I found it.
I was closing the drawer when a man’s voice boomed down the hall, getting louder with each word.
“—just wanted to check if she’s still around. Had a question about my knee.”
Fuck. Diego Mano. His cocky voice was unmistakable, and he was heading straight here.
I looked around frantically. Ms. Connor was still on the phone, her back to me. No escape route. Then I spotted a door—a supply closet with a keypad lock.
Without thinking, I slipped across and tried the handle. It opened, and I ducked inside, leaving just a crack to peek through. Cramped as hell, stuffed with office crap. I flattened against the wall, barely breathing.
Diego appeared in the doorway, oozing with that dickhead confidence that made me want to punch him.
“Excuse me,” he interrupted Ms. Connor. “I’m looking for Dr. Swanson. Seen her?”
Ms. Connor covered the phone, her face cooling like a freezer door. “Dr. Swanson left over an hour ago, Mr. Mano. If you have a medical concern, schedule a proper appointment.”
Diego leaned against the doorframe, exactly where I’d stood. “It’s not urgent. Just wanted to ask her something... personal.”