20. Tara
TARA
I stared at the rows of PT schedules on my laptop screen, the cursor blinking mockingly at me like it knew my mind was a million miles away.
The gentle soreness between my thighs—a delicious, lingering ache—served as a constant reminder of the weekend with Xander.
His rough hands gripping my hips as he thrust deep, his mouth hot and demanding on my neck, the way he’d pinned me against the shower wall yesterday morning, water cascading over our slick bodies while he growled my name like a curse and a prayer.
And later, across the breakfast table, those moss-green eyes locking on mine with an intensity that made my core clench, like I was something he couldn’t get enough of. God, the man knew how to unravel me.
But now? The Valdez Case.
The phrase kept circling in my thoughts like a shark in chummed waters, pulling me under.
Whatever this mysterious case was, it might be the key to unlocking the truth about Jimmy’s death—about the accident that had shattered us all.
I shook my head, forcing myself to focus on the rehabilitation plan for Ben Carter’s hamstring injury.
With proper care, he’d be good to go for Saturday’s kickoff, his explosive speed back on the field.
I actually managed to get some work done for about fifteen minutes, typing notes, before someone banged on my office door like they were serving a warrant.
“Come in,” I called, not looking up from my laptop, my fingers hovering over the keys.
The door swung open with a whoosh, and Jess, one of the junior physical therapists, burst in. Her eyes were wide as saucers, her phone clutched in her hand like a lifeline. “Dr. Swanson, have you seen this?” she asked breathlessly, thrusting her phone toward me.
I frowned, taking the device from her, my thumb brushing the screen. “Seen what?”
The display lit up with a celebrity gossip site, the kind that thrived on scandal and half-truths.
My stomach dropped as I registered the headline screaming in bold, lurid font: SOCCER BAD BOY XANDER MCCRAE EXPECTING FIRST CHILD WITH MODEL GIRLFRIEND.
Below it was a photo of a stunningly beautiful blonde woman—flawless skin, lips curved in a coy smile, perfect makeup that screamed “camera-ready.” Her hand rested protectively on a visibly pregnant belly, the swell unmistakable under her form-fitting dress.
She stood outside our training facility, looking both vulnerable and victorious, like she’d just won some twisted game.
“They’re saying she flew in from London yesterday,” Jess was babbling, her voice distant as blood rushed in my ears, drowning out everything but the pounding of my heart. “Apparently, they’ve been together for a while. Like, on-and-off secret romance or something.”
I couldn’t tear my eyes from the image. The woman—Brittany Ashworth, according to the caption—was exactly the type I’d seen Xander with in countless paparazzi shots over the years, the ones I’d obsessively collected in my digital dossier of his downfall.
Tall, blonde, model-thin except for that undeniable baby bump, her curves engineered for maximum allure.
My throat tightened, a cold sweat prickling my skin as I scrolled down, skimming the article’s salacious details.
“Dr. Swanson? Are you okay?” Jess’s voice cut through the fog, concern etching her young features.
I blinked, realizing I’d been staring silently at the phone for too long, my grip white-knuckled.
I handed it back to her, hiding behind the same cool front I used with my father.
“I’m fine,” I said, my voice steady, even as my insides twisted like a wet rag.
“But we shouldn’t be gossiping about team members, Jess. It’s unprofessional.”
Her face fell slightly, cheeks flushing. “Oh, right. Sorry. I just thought... with you working so closely with him...”
“Thank you for your concern,” I cut her off, turning back to my laptop. “Could you close the door on your way out? I need to finish these schedules.”
She nodded, mumbling another apology before slipping out.
Once alone, I sat perfectly still, yet the room seemed to tilt around me, the air thickening like humidity before a storm.
With trembling fingers, I picked up my phone and opened my browser, typing “Xander McCrae Brittany Ashworth pregnant” into the search bar, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The results flooded in like a tidal wave.
Every major sports and entertainment site had the story, splashed across their homepages with gleeful abandon.
Some included quotes from “sources close to the couple” claiming they were “overjoyed” and “working through some issues but committed to co-parenting.” Others had paparazzi shots of them together in London clubs months ago—his arm slung possessively around her waist, her face turned up to his, both laughing in that hazy, alcohol-fueled glow.
Five months ago, according to one article’s meticulous timeline.
Five months ago, when I was still secretly following his every move online, cataloging his exploits like a deranged archivist in my hidden wall of obsession.
Five months ago, when I was plotting my revenge against the man I believed had killed my brother, running past his penthouse at dawn to unsettle him.
Five months ago, when he had no idea I even existed anymore, lost in his spiral of self-destruction.
A cold, sickening feeling spread through my chest, coiling like nausea.
I’d known about his reputation, of course—the drinking, the partying, the endless parade of beautiful women who’d grace his arm for a night or two before being discarded.
I’d seen the photos, analyzed them like evidence in a trial.
There was nothing wrong with that; we weren’t together then.
Hell, I was the one who’d hated him. But somehow, in the whirlwind of our reconnection—the stolen kisses, the heated nights where he’d worshipped my body like I was his salvation—I’d convinced myself that was all in the past. That he’d changed. That we were different.
Yet here was living, breathing proof—curved and swollen—that his old life was about to collide spectacularly with whatever fragile thing we’d been building these past weeks.
My fingers itched to text him, to demand answers, but then doubt crept in like fog. The timing was a little too perfect, a voice in my head whispered. This has my father’s fingerprints all over it—another calculated strike to shatter us.
The thought should’ve given me some peace, a lifeline to cling to.
If Daddy Dearest was pulling strings again, maybe there was an explanation for all this, a way to unravel the lie.
But damn if those photos from five months ago weren’t burned into my brain—Xander standing next to Miss Perfect, the timeline matching up with every tabloid snapshot of their “dates.” God, what a mess.
My chest tightened, breaths coming shallow as I forced myself to close the browser, shoving the phone away like it burned.
My phone buzzed again, this time with a text from my father’s assistant: Mr. Swanson requests your presence in his office immediately regarding an urgent team matter.
I closed my eyes, drawing a deep, steadying breath.
Of course he wanted to see me. This was probably exactly what he’d been waiting for—the perfect opportunity to drive a wedge between Xander and me, to prove he’d been right all along about the “toxic” man who’d “destroyed” our family.
Part of me wanted to ignore the summons, to march straight to Xander’s locker and demand the truth from his lips, watch those green eyes as he explained.
But that wasn’t an option. Whatever my personal feelings, I was still the head of Sports Medicine for this team, and my father was still my boss.
I stood, smoothed the wrinkles from my top, and headed for my father’s office, each step feeling like I was walking through quicksand, the weight of betrayal and suspicion dragging me down.
He was on the phone when I entered, but he gestured for me to take a seat. I perched on one of the sleek leather chairs, back ramrod straight, face neutral—the same posture I’d adopted in this office countless times, a shield against his probing gaze.
“Yes, I understand the PR implications,” he was saying, his voice calm and authoritative. “We’ll issue a statement by end of day... No, I don’t want him doing interviews yet... Yes, that’s exactly right. Thank you, Davis.”
He hung up with a decisive click and turned his attention to me, his expression a false picture of perfect paternal concern—eyes softening at the edges, mouth curving in what passed for sympathy. “Tara,” he said softly, leaning forward slightly. “I’m so sorry you’ve been caught up in this mess.”
The genuine-sounding sympathy in his voice almost fooled me. He was good—had always been good—at modulating his tone to get exactly the response he wanted, like a conductor leading an orchestra of emotions.
“I’m not ‘caught up’ in anything,” I replied, my voice cool and clipped, refusing to give him an inch. “I’m here because you summoned me.”
He sighed, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated weariness, steepling his fingers. “I know things have been... strained between us lately. But I’m still your father, and I still care about you. When Ms. Ashworth told me the news this morning, my first thought was of you.”
“How thoughtful,” I said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my words. “And did you invite Ms. Ashworth to Miami, or did she come on her own initiative?”