Epilogue
Xander
The mariachi band cranked up another tune as I scribbled my fifteenth autograph of the night, this one for a kid barely twelve who gazed at me like I’d just walked off Mount fucking Olympus.
“Could you make it out to Sofia?” she asked in careful English, her eyes huge with that hero-worship shit that still throws me off balance, even now.
“Of course, sweetheart.” I grabbed the soccer ball she’d shoved at me and found a clean spot. To Sofia—Chase your dreams with the same fire you showed tonight. Xander McCrae. “Here you go.”
She hugged that ball like it was made of pure gold, bouncing like a pogo stick. “Gracias, Senor McCrae! You’re the best player in the world!”
In the world. Jesus, kids really don’t bullshit, do they?
But her absolute certainty lit something warm in my chest. A month ago, I was persona non grata, suspended and disgraced.
Now I’m signing autographs at a quinceanera for the daughter of a guy who runs half the illegal gambling in South Florida.
Fucking bizarre how life works out.
“She’s not wrong, you know,” Tara whispered next to me, quiet enough for my ears only.
She looked knockout gorgeous in that midnight blue dress that clung to every curve I’d traced with my hands, her dark hair pulled up to show off her neck.
The same neck I’d kissed that morning when she tried sneaking out for her run.
I looked over, catching that little smile playing at her lips. “About what?”
“Being the best.” Her fingers found mine with a gentle squeeze. “You scored Saturday, plus two assists. That’s practically a hat trick. And Diego’s been telling everyone you’re the most unselfish forward he’s ever played with.”
Diego’s name still caught me off guard. Three weeks back, he was my worst enemy on the team. Now we had this weird almost-friendship thing going, forged when I wouldn’t let Torres’s thugs beat him to death over those gambling debts. Nothing bonds guys like almost dying together.
“Diego’s just happy to be breathing,” I said, but couldn’t hide my pride. What we’d built on the field was magic—his aggressive runs creating space for my technical play, my passes finding him perfectly positioned to score. We topped the league in goals, and better yet, we kept winning.
Another pack of teenagers approached, and I slipped back into the photo-and-autograph routine. The quinceanera was exactly as over-the-top as expected—Coral Gables Country Club, enough flowers to fill a botanical garden, and a seven-tier cake. Vicente Torres had gone all out for his princess.
Weird as hell being here. But a promise is a promise, and this particular one saved Diego’s life. Plus, Isabella Torres was actually pretty cool, more interested in talking about her soccer team than begging for selfies.
“Mr. McCrae!” The birthday girl herself popped up beside me, rocking a pink gown straight out of Disney. “My dad wants to introduce you to some of his business associates. They’re really big fans.”
I shot Tara a look, and she raised an eyebrow. Vicente’s “business associates” were definitely other criminals, but they were keeping their word about treating this as a legit family celebration. No shop talk, no threats, just a dad showing off to his daughter’s party.
“Lead the way, birthday girl.”
The guys Vicente introduced as his “business associates” looked like they’d walked straight out of central casting—thick necks, silk suits, and handshakes that were a quiet test of nerve.
But they were die-hard soccer fans, and the conversation quickly turned to strategy, formations, and the Miami Pirates’ real shot at the championship.
“Good thing we didn’t have to make-an-example out of that Mano kid,” a guy named Tony said with a wry grin, gesturing with his cigar. “The chemistry you two got on the field is somethin’ else. We’d have been robbing ourselves.”
“Tell me about it,” another one chimed in. “My bookie’s crying every time you guys step on the field. That pass you fed him last week? Beautiful.”
“Diego makes it easy,” I said honestly. “He’s got an instinct for finding space. My job is just getting him the ball where he can use it.”
“You look good,” Tony observed, his gaze shifting to where Tara was laughing with Isabella and her friends. “Happy to see it, after all that mess with your old boss.”
He meant Hank, of course. “That’s all behind us.”
“Good riddance,” the other guy grunted. “A man who’d use his own kid’s suicide like that… there’s no honor in it. It’s one thing to ruin your enemy. But to do that to your own daughter? To steal her grief so you can use it as a weapon? That’s a whole other kind of sickness.”
No honor. Coming from them, the words landed with a different kind of weight.
They weren't wrong. What Hank did—the manipulation, the lies—wasn’t just about revenge.
It was about a complete perversion of family, a sickness that rotted everything it touched.
He hadn't just let Tara believe a lie; he had actively prevented her from mourning her brother, keeping her trapped in a cage of rage he had built just for her.
The Feds were still picking through the bones of his empire. His lawyers were angling for a deal—probation, forfeitures, a slap on the wrist that would still cost him everything that mattered. He’d dodge a cell, but he’d lose the team, his reputation, and his daughter.
“Mr. McCrae!” Isabella bounced back over, tiara slightly crooked from dancing. “Will you take a picture with the whole family? Please?”
I spent the next twenty minutes in what felt like hundreds of photos—with Isabella, her parents, every cousin and aunt and family friend who’d made the trip.
The photographer, a nervous little dude constantly wiping sweat from his forehead, directed us through pose after pose until my face hurt from smiling.
It was totally worth it though, seeing Isabella’s joy, watching her glow with pride at having her hero at her party. At fifteen, she was just figuring out who she wanted to be, and if my presence helped her believe dreams come true, I’d smile until my face fell off.
“You’re really good at this,” Tara said when we finally escaped the photo marathon. We found a quiet corner by the dessert table, temporarily free from autograph hunters.
“At what?”
“Being someone’s hero.” She straightened my tie, her fingers lingering against my chest. “You’ve got this natural way with kids. Like you actually remember what it felt like to be their age.”
I did remember, more clearly than I sometimes wanted. That desperate hunger for approval, how one word from someone you admired could make or break your entire week. I’d been lucky to have coaches who understood that power, who built kids up instead of tearing them down.
“Speaking of kids,” I nodded toward the dance floor where Leo was teaching Isabella’s younger cousins some complicated line dance. “How’s our boy doing?”
Tara laughed, the sound cutting through the mariachi music. “He’s been flirting with that server for an hour. The one with the dimples who keeps finding excuses to refill his wine glass.”
I spotted Leo getting very attentive service from a young guy who looked like a romance novel cover model. Good for him. About time he found someone who appreciated what a catch he was.
“Think he’ll ask for the guy’s number?” I asked.
“Already did, he told me. They’re going to brunch tomorrow.”
“Fast worker.”
“I think he’s making up for lost time.”
Before I could ask what she meant, a cymbal crash announced the cake’s arrival, all seven tiers wheeled in on a cart requiring three people to maneuver. Isabella squealed with delight as the crowd pressed closer, Vicente grabbing the microphone for a toast.
“My beautiful daughter,” he began, voice thick with emotion, “fifteen years ago, you made me the luckiest man in the world. Tonight, you become a woman, and I couldn’t be prouder of the person you’re becoming.”
Tara took my hand, her fingers fitting perfectly between mine. I looked at her, catching her soft smile. We were both thinking of Jimmy, I realized. All the celebrations he missed. But also everything we’d survived.
Here we stood, together, having weathered the worst. That counted for something.
The cake cutting turned into organized chaos as two hundred guests lined up for their slice of tres leches with raspberry filling. I got cornered by Isabella’s school friends, all wanting to know if I was dating anyone and whether they were too young for pro soccer tryouts.
“Focus on your grades first,” I told them, falling back on the same advice every adult gave me at their age. “Soccer will always be there, but you can’t get your education back once you’ve missed it.”
“But you left school to play professionally,” pointed out a girl with braces and enough confidence to suggest she’d be trouble soon.
“I did,” I admitted. “And I got lucky. For every player who makes it, thousands don’t. Having a backup plan isn’t giving up—it’s being smart about your dreams.”
“Mr. McCrae!” Isabella appeared again, dragging a boy her age. “This is Miguel, my boyfriend. He plays forward just like you.”
Miguel looked ready to die from embarrassment, but managed a strangled, “Nice to meet you, sir. I’m your biggest fan.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his sweaty hand. “So, Miguel, what do you love most about playing forward?”
The question broke the ice, and soon Miguel was explaining his team’s formation. These kids knew the game inside out, studied it like scholars.
“You should come watch one of our games,” Isabella said. “Miguel scored two goals last week.”
“I’d like that,” I said, meaning it. “Text Leo your schedule, and we’ll see what works.”
Miguel’s jaw dropped. “You’d really come watch us play?”
“Why not? Good soccer is good soccer, no matter what level.”