22. Tara
TARA
The imagery played on loop in my mind—Xander’s fist connecting with Diego’s jaw, the sickening crack that could be heard across the practice field, the chaos that erupted afterward as Coach Wilkes’s furious shouts cut through the air.
I stood on the sideline, frozen, the tablet slipping from my numb fingers to hang by its strap against my hip.
I watched as two assistant coaches escorted a stone-faced Xander off the field, his eyes briefly finding mine.
I saw no anger in them, only a profound, hollow emptiness that somehow hurt more than rage would have.
My father’s words echoed in my head, a cold, prophetic mantra: Men like McCrae are walking liabilities. Trouble doesn’t find them, they invite it in for a drink.
I had just watched him prove it. A violent, uncontrolled outburst that had endangered a teammate and thrown the entire organization into chaos. The professional in me was horrified. The daughter in me was terrified that my father had been right all along.
“Dr. Swanson?”
The voice pulled me from my trance. It was Jess, my junior physical therapist, her eyes wide with concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, the lie tasting like ash.
I forced my body to move, retreating into the one identity that still made sense.
“Standard protocol. I need to check Mr. Mano for a possible concussion and treat that laceration. Then I have a follow-up with Carter on his hamstring. Get Mr. Mano into exam room one.”
Diego was already on the table when I walked in, a bloody towel pressed to his mouth and a smug, victorious glint in his eyes.
“Came to check out the damage, Doc?” he smirked, lowering the towel to reveal a split, already swelling lip. “Don’t worry. My face can take a punch.”
“I’m more concerned about your head,” I said, my voice clipped and professional as I snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Look at me. Follow my finger.”
I ran him through a basic concussion check. His eyes tracked perfectly, his answers were clear. He was fine, and he knew it. As I cleaned his split lip with an antiseptic wipe, he leaned in close, his breath hot and unwelcome.
“You know, now that you’re not messing with that charity case anymore, maybe you and I could…”
“Hold still,” I cut him off, dabbing the cut more forcefully than necessary. He winced.
“Feisty,” he murmured, his eyes roaming over my face. “I like that. He’s not man enough for you, Tara. You need someone who knows what he wants.”
It took every ounce of my professional training to keep my hands steady, to ignore the greasy feeling his words left on my skin. I placed a butterfly bandage on the cut. “Ice it for twenty-four hours and take an anti-inflammatory. You’re done here, Diego.”
I turned my back on him before he could say another word, stripping off my gloves and tossing them in the bin with a satisfying snap.
Next was Ben Carter. He was sitting on the edge of the table in exam room two, looking less like a patient and more like a kid waiting for the principal. Guilt was rolling off him in waves.
“Hamstring feels good, Doc,” he said quietly as I entered. “No tightness.”
I nodded, gently manipulating his leg through its range of motion. “Good. The ultrasound showed the tear has healed completely. I’m clearing you for regular practice, but continue the strengthening exercises for another week.”
“I will,” he promised. He watched me make notes in his file, his knee bouncing. “Dr. Swanson?”
“Yes?” I didn’t look up.
“What Xander did… it was wrong. He shouldn’t have hit him.” He hesitated, his voice dropping lower. “But Diego had it coming. You should know what he said.”
I stopped writing. The pen froze over the page. Slowly, I lifted my head to meet his gaze. “What did he say?”
Ben’s eyes dropped to the floor. “He was on him the whole scrimmage, whispering shit about the news stories. But then… he brought you into it.”
A cold dread coiled in my stomach.
“He told Xander…” Ben swallowed hard, clearly hating the words. “He said that now you were single, he was going to show you what a ‘real man’ feels like.”
The sterile air of the exam room seemed to vanish, sucked out by the vulgarity of the threat. It wasn’t just a taunt. It was a crude assertion of ownership.
The image in my head—of Xander’s fist connecting with Diego’s jaw—violently shifted. The lens changed. It wasn’t a random, uncontrolled outburst. It was a direct and calculated response.
A raw, primal, and utterly misguided defense of my honor.
“Thank you for telling me, Ben,” I said, my voice a hollow whisper.
He slid off the table and headed for the door, but paused with his hand on the frame. “For what it’s worth, Doc… I think Xander’s a good guy. He’s just… carrying a lot.”
The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the sudden, deafening silence. The horror I’d felt watching the punch was gone, replaced by a nauseating wave of guilt. I hadn't seen an out-of-control athlete. I'd seen a man pushed too far, and I had judged him for it.
My mind a whirlwind, I walked out of the exam room on autopilot. I found Jess and told her I was leaving for the day, ignoring her concerned questions. I couldn't be a doctor right now. I couldn’t be anything. I just needed to think.
The drive to my apartment was a blur. I paced the living room, unable to settle and quiet the riot in my head.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table—the third call from my father in the last hour. I let it ring, watching it vibrate against the glass surface until it finally went silent. No doubt he’d heard about what happened. No doubt he was calling to say he’d been right all along.
Maybe he was.
The fact that Xander hit Diego Mano because he was protecting my honor, doesn’t change the rest.
The evidence was mounting, piece by damning piece. The tabloid photos of him stumbling drunk outside London clubs. The string of failed relationships with models and socialites. The team-member conflicts, the suspensions, the fights.
Brittany Ashworth. Pregnant with his child.
My phone vibrated again. I glanced at the screen. Xander.
My heart lurched traitorously in my chest. I picked up the phone, my thumb hovering over the answer button.
What would I even say to him?
All empty platitudes that changed nothing. The man I thought I knew—the man I’d convinced myself I loved—had never existed. He was a fantasy I’d constructed, first as a teenage obsession, then as an adult delusion.
I set the phone down without answering, watching it go dark as the call went to voicemail.
A memory surfaced—Xander’s half-brother, Cory, on speakerphone in Xander’s living room. His voice clear and confident: “The Valdez Case. That’s the key to getting Morrison to talk.”
The Valdez Case. The one piece of information that didn’t fit into the neat, damning picture.
I stood frozen for a long moment. If I was going to walk away from Xander, I needed certainty. I needed to know beyond any doubt that I was making the right choice.
I marched into my home office with fire in my veins. This used to be command central for my Xander shrine. Now the naked wall just stood there like “Congrats, dumbass.” All those years playing detective, documenting his every breath, and I still couldn’t figure out who the hell he actually was.
I sat at my desk and opened my laptop. My hands hovered over the keyboard for a moment before I typed: Valdez Case + Detective Rick Morrison + Palo Alto.
The search returned several results. I clicked on the first one, a local newspaper article from eleven years ago.
CONTROVERSIAL DRUG CASE DISMISSED AMID ALLEGATIONS OF POLICE MISCONDUCT
I scanned the article quickly, my heartbeat accelerating as I absorbed the details.
Isabel Valdez, a 19-year-old Stanford student, had been arrested and charged with possession and intent to distribute cocaine.
The case against her had seemed airtight—until her attorney uncovered inconsistencies in the evidence log and witness statements.
The charges were eventually dropped, and the lead detective on the case, Richard Morrison, abruptly announced his retirement shortly afterward. The article hinted at broader allegations of corruption but provided few specifics.
The case had never gone to trial, the charges quietly dropped to avoid publicity. Morrison’s retirement was presented as unrelated, but the timing was suspicious.
With renewed urgency, I continued searching, looking for anything more recent about Isabel Valdez. Several pages into the results, I found what I was looking for—a human interest piece from just six months ago.
FROM WRONGFUL ACCUSATION TO ADVOCACY: ISABEL VALDEZ’S FIGHT FOR CRIMINAL JUSTICE REFORM
The article detailed how Isabel, now 30, had channeled her traumatic experience into a career as an advocate for criminal justice reform. She’d founded a small non-profit organization in San Francisco dedicated to helping victims of police misconduct.
At the bottom of the article was a contact number for the foundation.
I stared at the digits, my heart racing. It was late—past 8 PM in Miami, which meant it was after 5 PM in California. The foundation’s office would likely be closed.
But before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone and dialed the number. It rang four times, and I was preparing myself for voicemail when someone picked up.
“Justice Reform Initiative,” a female voice answered, sounding slightly harried.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, hello. I’m... I’m trying to reach Isabel Valdez.”
“This is she,” the woman replied, her tone shifting from professional to cautious. “Who’s calling?”
“My name is Tara Swanson,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m calling from Miami. I... I believe we have something in common.”
“And what would that be?” Isabel asked, the wariness in her voice unmistakable.
I took a deep breath. “Detective Richard Morrison. From Palo Alto.”