Page 57 of A Game of Deception

Ben nodded enthusiastically. “For sure. It never hurts to push harder, right?”

“Exactly.” I hesitated, trying to frame my next question carefully. “Hey, quick thing—is there some kind of team directory anywhere? I need to check something with Dr. Swanson about my therapy schedule, but I don’t have her contact details.”

Ben’s expression was open, without a hint of suspicion. “Oh, all the high-level staff information is kept in the admin office for emergencies. Phone numbers, addresses, everything. They should still be open if you want to head over there now.”

Bingo. I kept my expression neutral, even as satisfaction coursed through me. “Thanks, mate. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Ben replied. “Hey, a bunch of us are grabbing dinner at that Cuban place near the beach tomorrow. You shouldcome. The team’s still getting to know you, and it’d be cool to hang out off the pitch.”

The invitation threw me. At Chelsea, especially after the rumors started, teammates avoided me like the plague. “I’ll check my schedule,” I said, genuinely touched. “Thanks for the invite.”

Ben grinned. “Cool. See you at practice tomorrow, then?”

“Definitely.”

Ben was a good kid, straight-up honest. He’d given me exactly what I needed without question, trusting me completely.

The administration wing sat at the far end of the building—corporate central where the suits handled the business side. Most doors were closed, but light leaked from a few. I approached the main office, where a middle-aged woman with short hair hammered away at her keyboard.

I knocked on the open door, flashing my million-dollar smile. “Excuse me. Sorry to bother you so late.”

She looked up, her smile dropping when she recognized me. “Mr. McCrae. How can I help you?”

“Please, call me Xander,” I said, stepping in. “I need to update my emergency contact info. My agent reminded me I never filled out that part.”

Believable enough. In the chaos of transferring to Miami, shit definitely fell through the cracks.

“Of course,” she said, turning to her computer. “I can pull up your file right now.”

“That would be great, thank you...” I checked her nameplate, “...Ms. Connor.”

She lit up at the personal touch, fingers dancing over keys. “It’ll just take a moment. We’ve had network issues today.”

Right on cue, her phone rang. She frowned at the caller ID. “Sorry, I need to take this. It’s about next week’s away game.”

“No problem,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “Take your time.”

She answered and jumped straight into hotel and bus talk. I waited until she was deep in conversation, half-turned away from me.

I slid over to the file cabinets along the wall. Standard office shit with neat labels. Top drawer: “Player Personnel.” Second: “Coaching Staff.” Third: “Medical and Support Staff.”Jackpot.

I eased the third drawer open, quiet as a cat burglar, hyper-aware of Ms. Connor yakking away feet from me. Files organized alphabetically. I flipped through: Peterson... Richards... Santos... Swanson.

I pulled Tara’s file just enough to see her info sheet. Boom—her address right there: 1800 Meridian Avenue, Apartment 1102. I burned it into my brain and carefully put everything back exactly as I found it.

I was closing the drawer when a man’s voice boomed down the hall, getting louder with each word.

“—just wanted to check if she’s still around. Had a question about my knee.”

Fuck. Diego Mano. His cocky voice was unmistakable, and he was heading straight here.

I looked around frantically. Ms. Connor was still on the phone, her back to me. No escape route. Then I spotted a door—a supply closet with a keypad lock.

Without thinking, I slipped across and tried the handle. It opened, and I ducked inside, leaving just a crack to peek through. Cramped as hell, stuffed with office crap. I flattened against the wall, barely breathing.

Diego appeared in the doorway, oozing with that dickhead confidence that made me want to punch him.

“Excuse me,” he interrupted Ms. Connor. “I’m looking for Dr. Swanson. Seen her?”