21. Xander
XANDER
The sound of Brittany’s fake sobbing filled the penthouse like a bad porno soundtrack—overacted and making me want to hurl.
I stood in the middle of my living room, a tumbler of scotch dangling from my fingers, watching her face on the enormous TV screen.
God, she was good at this shit, I’ll give her that.
Those big blue eyes welling up just right, not a single tear daring to streak her war paint.
“It’s been so difficult,” she sniffled. “For months, I’ve wanted Xander to take responsibility. Our baby deserves a father.”
The interviewer—some blonde vulture from a gossip sports channel faking sympathy—nodded like she was auditioning for an Emmy. “And how has Xander responded to the news?”
Brittany’s lower lip trembled on cue. “He... he said he needed time. That he wasn’t ready.” Her hand moved protectively to her rounded belly, stroking it like it was a goddamn prop. “But this little one isn’t going to wait.”
I hurled my glass at the wall with a snarl.
It shattered spectacularly, scotch splashing across the pristine white surface.
“That’s a fucking lie!” I roared at the TV, my voice bouncing off the high ceilings.
“You ambushed me in that bastard’s office, you scheming bitch!
That was the first I’d heard of your little ‘miracle’—and we both know it ain’t mine! ”
Leo appeared from the kitchen, taking in the broken glass and the scotch dripping down the wall without so much as a flinch. The man’s seen worse from me over the years. Without a word, he grabbed the remote and muted the TV, cutting off Brittany’s crocodile tears mid-sniffle.
“That’s enough of that bollocks,” he said firmly, though his eyes were gentle with that annoying concern he always showed. “You’re just torturing yourself, mate. And the wall didn’t deserve it.”
I ran a hand through my hair, my fingers shaking like I’d just come off a bender—which, let’s be honest, I was itching for.
“Did you hear the crap that woman’s spewing?
That I abandoned her? That I’ve known for months?
” I paced the length of the room, unable to stand still, my blood boiling.
“She waltzes into Hank’s office like it’s a bloody stage, drops this bomb, and now she’s playing the victim card on every channel?
Fuck me, Leo, it’s a masterclass in bullshit. ”
Leo sighed, moving to clean up the broken glass. “I know, Xander. But shouting at the telly won’t change the narrative she’s spinning. It’ll just give you a headache.”
My phone buzzed for the hundredth time that day, vibrating angrily on the coffee table. Leo plucked it up before I could snatch it and smash that too.
“ESPN,” he reported after checking the screen, his tone flat. “Third time they’ve called in the last hour. Persistent wankers.”
“Tell them to fuck off,” I muttered, stalking to the bar to pour another drink. My hands were still trembling, making the bottle clink against the glass like a drunk’s Morse code. “Or better yet, tell ‘em I’ve got a paternity test lined up that’ll blow this fairy tale to hell.”
“Already did,” Leo replied, declining the call with a swipe. “Along with TMZ, Sports Illustrated, and that slimy bloke from the Daily Mail who keeps texting like we’re old pals. ‘Exclusive interview, Xander? Spill the tea on your baby mama drama?’ Cheeky bastard.”
I knocked back half the fresh drink in one swallow, the burn sliding down my throat.
The last twenty-four hours had been a nightmare straight out of Dante’s Inferno, Miami edition.
After Tara had driven away from me in the parking lot, leaving me standing there like a gutted fish, I’d tried calling her repeatedly, each unanswered ring twisting the knife deeper.
I’d even gone to her apartment, pounding on the door like a desperate fool, but she wouldn’t open up—though I could hear her moving around inside.
Meanwhile, Brittany had launched a full-scale media assault, her sob story spreading.
Somehow, she’d booked interviews with every major gossip outlet, each one featuring her tearful account of our “relationship” and my supposed abandonment of her and our unborn child.
That we’d never actually been in a relationship, and that I’d only slept with her a handful of times—always drunk off my ass, always meaningless, regrettable romps in some hazy club bathroom or hotel suite—was conveniently omitted.
She was a pro at this game and probably had a publicist on speed dial.
“I need to make a statement,” I said, more to myself than to Leo. “Set the record straight. ‘Ladies and gents, the kid ain’t mine—it’s probably half of Chelsea’s backline’s love child.’”
Leo shook his head, dumping the glass shards into the bin with a clink. “Not without a lawyer present, you daft Yank. She’s making serious allegations, Xander. One wrong word from you, and she could sue for defamation. You’d be handing her the rope to hang you with.”
“But she’s the one lying!” I protested, my voice rising as I resumed pacing, the room feeling smaller by the second. “She’s dragging my name through the mud, and I’m just supposed to sit here and take it up the ass?”
“For now, yes,” Leo said firmly, straightening up to meet my glare. “The lawyer’s coming tomorrow. Until then, radio silence. No tweets, no rants, no more glasses meeting their maker.”
I leaned against the bar, suddenly exhausted, the scotch settling. “This is Hank’s doing,” I said quietly. “All of it. He’s orchestrated this whole circus—the blonde bombshell, the baby bump, the media frenzy. Bastard’s probably popping champagne right now.”
Leo didn’t disagree, just crossed his arms and nodded. “It does seem too convenient. The timing, especially. And just when you and Tara were getting close? Smells like Hank Swanson’s cologne: expensive and rotten.”
I took another swig. It had been a week since I’d had more than a beer or two—trying to clean up my act, be the man Tara deserved, the one who didn’t drown his demons in a bottle. But what was the point now? She wouldn’t even look at me.
“He’s winning, Leo,” I said, hearing the defeat in my voice. “He’s always been ten steps ahead of me, the wily old prick. Even when I think I’m making progress—sobering up, scoring on the pitch, winning her over—he finds a way to rip it all away. I’m just a pawn in his twisted game.”
Leo watched me pour a third drink, concern in his eyes, but he knew better than to lecture. “Maybe you should slow down on the sauce,” he suggested gently anyway, because that’s Leo—ever the optimist.
I laughed bitterly. “Why? This is who I am, isn’t it? The drunk, the screw-up, the man who destroys everything he touches… and apparently knocks up gold-diggers in his spare time. Isn’t that what everyone’s saying? Might as well live up to the hype.”
“That’s not who you are,” Leo said firmly, stepping closer.
“That’s who you let people think you are…
big difference, mate. The real Xander? He’s the one who dragged his arse out of bed at dawn for practice, the one who’s been fighting tooth and nail for the truth about Jimmy. Don’t let this bollocks define you.”
I didn’t answer, just stared at the scotch in my glass, swirling it like it held answers at the bottom.
It was easier this way—to let the alcohol blur the edges of my thoughts until Tara’s devastated face, Jimmy’s ghost, Brittany’s lies all faded into a manageable haze.
But even through the buzz, I knew Leo was right.
Drowning myself wouldn’t fix this; it’d just prove Hank’s point.
On the muted TV, Brittany was now showing the interviewer a sonogram, waving it like a trophy. I couldn’t bear to watch anymore, the sight twisting my gut.
“Turn it off,” I said hoarsely, setting the glass down untouched—for now.
Leo complied with a nod, the screen going black, reflecting my haggard face back at me. “You should try to get some sleep. You’ve got practice tomorrow… can’t show up looking like you lost a fight with a bottle.”
The thought of facing the team, of enduring their judgment, the whispers in the locker room, Diego’s smug face grinning, made my stomach turn.
But I nodded anyway, pushing off the bar.
Leo was right—hiding in my penthouse, drinking myself into oblivion, would only prove Hank right.
And I’d be damned if I gave that bastard the satisfaction.
“Yeah,” I said, draining the last of my glass in defiance before setting it down with a thunk. “Early night. Tomorrow, we fight back.”
The locker room went dead silent when I staggered in the next morning. Conversations were replaced with side-eyes and whispers that weren’t nearly as subtle as they thought. I kept my gaze forward, zeroing in on my locker in the distance like it was the promised land.
When I passed Diego’s locker, the asshole deliberately raised his voice to his neighbor.
“So I told her, ‘Honey, I’m always careful. No surprise babies from this guy.’”
Larson snickered, checking to see if I’d caught their little performance.
I clenched my teeth and kept moving. Don’t take the bait. Don’t give these dickheads what they want.
Thank god my locker was at the row’s end, as far away as possible. I yanked my practice gear on, keeping my eyes glued to my shit. The entire time, I could feel eyeballs drilling into me from every angle, each packed with its own premium blend of judgment.
“Heard you’re gonna be a daddy, McCrae!” Diego shouted across the now-quiet room. “Hope the kid has better aim than you do!”
Laughter exploded around him. I kept my back turned, focusing on tying my cleats.
One, two, three, four, five... breathe. Ignore the fucker.
“What’s the matter, superstar?” Diego pushed, getting cocky from my silence. “No smart comeback today?”
I stood up, grabbed my water bottle, and turned to face him. Everyone went quiet again, watching for the fireworks.
“Not for you,” I said, ice in my voice, then headed for the exit.