Page 11 of A Game of Deception

Except this wasn’t routine. Nothing about this situation was routine.

I could hear her voice through the closed door of an examination room, calmly discussing another player’s recovery protocol. It was the voice of a stranger, not the girl I remembered. That girl had been all raw emotion and wide eyes.

This woman sounded controlled.

Dangerous.

The door to the examination room opened, and a young midfielder limped out. Sánchez, if I remembered correctly from the roster Leo had shown me. He looked dazed but relieved, like he’d just escaped an IRS audit with both kidneys intact.

He spotted me, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He gave a weird, sympathetic half-smile. “Good luck in there, mate.”

What the hell does that mean?

Before I could ask, Tara appeared in the doorway. She wore fitted navy scrubs that somehow looked tailored, her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.

“Mr. McCrae,” she said, her voice crisp. “Come in.”

I stood, my legs feeling strangely unsteady.

The door clicked shut behind me. The examination room smelled of antiseptic and... vanilla. The combination was dizzying, triggering a sensory memory I’d spent years trying to bury.

Her hair smelled of vanilla when I leaned in. Her face tilted up to mine, eyes wet with tears but so trusting, so open...

“McCrae,” Tara said, interrupting my thoughts. “Let’s start with that hand.”

There was no preamble, no small talk. She gestured for me to sit on the edge of the table. I obeyed, my muscles tight, feeling like I was walking into a trap I couldn’t see.

She didn’t ask for permission, just took my injured hand in hers. Her touch was firm, but the heat of her skin radiated through mine. I noticed her nails—short, no polish.

Her fingers stilled for a second. She finally looked up, and our eyes locked. The air crackled with a volatile combination of anger and desire.

“You got this wet,” she observed, her tone mildly accusatory.

“Shower.”

“You need to keep it dry for at least twenty-four hours.” She removed the bandages and reached for a fresh packet of antiseptic wipes. “This might sting.”

It did, but I didn’t flinch. Pain was an old friend at this point.

Tara’s fingers, steady and sure, pressed the antiseptic-soaked gauze against the gash on my hand, each swipe sharp with something more than medicine, as if she were pouring all the years I’d left her behind into that sting.

She finished wrapping my hand, her touch lingering a beat too long, then stepped back, her hazel eyes unreadable. “Alright, McCrae. Full physical now. Standard for all new players. Shirt and shorts off.”

I stared, my pulse hammering. “You’re kidding.”

Her lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk. “You can have Dr. Mitchell do it instead. Sixty-three, hands like a freezer, and he’s got zero patience for cocky forwards.”

I stood, tugging my shirt over my head in one fluid motion, my eyes locked on hers. Her gaze stayed professional, but I caught the slight flare of her nostrils as it swept over my chest, the lean muscle honed from years in the gym. When my fingers paused at the waistband of my training shorts, her brow arched, daring me to hesitate.

“I’ve seen plenty of athletes in various states of undress, McCrae,” she said, her voice cool but edged with something softer, something that remembered us. “You’re not my first.”

But the faint catch in her breath told me I wasn’t just another player. Not to her.

I dropped the shorts, standing there in black briefs that left little to the imagination. My body was a machine, built for speed and power, but under her scrutiny, I felt like that 17-year-old kid again, half-hard, and fighting to keep my head straight. I tried to focus on anything else—corner kicks, ice baths, the smell of wet grass—anything but Tara, with her steady hands and eyes that saw too much.

She circled me, her sneakers soft on the tiled floor, like she was sizing me up for more than just a physical. “Any injuries I should know about?”

“Besides the ones from crashing into defenders?”