Page 75 of A Game of Deception

“Leo is gay,” she said, eyes sparkling with humor. “You’ve known him since Glasgow and you didn’t know he was gay?”

I blinked, brain buffering. Leo? Gay? I looked at my best friend—his perfect hair, his spotless designer clothes, his smooth charm. I’d always thought his fashion knowledge came from being European, but suddenly, other things clicked. How he set me up with women but dodged when I suggested girls for him.

“Huh,” I said brilliantly. “I guess it never came up.”

Tara shot me a droll look. “Never came up? Xander, he’s wearing a pink shirt with flamingos on it.”

“I thought that was just... you know, Miami fashion.”

She shook her head, dark hair bouncing around her shoulders. “You are hopelessly oblivious sometimes.”

“In my defense, I’ve been a little busy for the last decade,” I said, half-joking. “Trying to outrun my demons and shit.”

Her smile softened, and she reached for my hand. “Well, you don’t have to run anymore.”

Her words hit home and I squeezed her hand, my throat tightening as I tried to swallow it down.

“Anyway,” she continued, mercifully changing topics, “Leo and Chloe aren’t flirting. They’re bonding over a mutual love of judging people.”

I looked back at them. Now that she mentioned it, they did have more of a “partners in crime” energy than a romantic one. Leo showed Chloe something on his phone, both hunched over it, cackling like evil masterminds.

“They’re probably rating men on Tinder,” Tara said.

“How did you know? About Leo, I mean.”

“Gaydar,” she said with a shrug. “Also, he checked out the server’s ass when he walked away earlier.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “I can’t believe I never noticed.”

“To be fair, I don’t think he was trying to hide it. It just wasn’t relevant to your friendship.” She sipped her wine, watching me. “Does it change anything for you?”

“No,” I said instantly, surprised she’d even ask. “Of course not. He’s still Leo. Still my best friend.”

She smiled, genuinely this time. “Good answer.”

The conversation shifted as our food arrived—a feast of ropa vieja, lechon asado, tostones, and black beans and rice. Miami’s Cuban food scene was one of the few bright spots in my unexpected relocation, and this restaurant, tucked on a side street, was quickly becoming my go-to spot.

“So, McCrae,” Chloe said after a while, pointing her fork at me, “Tara tells me you’re quite the soccer superstar.”

I glanced at Tara, who looked slightly embarrassed. “I wouldn’t say superstar,” I replied.

“Don’t be humble,” Leo jumped in. “Three-time top scorer in the Premier League, two Champions League titles, Sports Illustrated cover...”

“Alright, alright,” I laughed, hands up in surrender. “I did okay.”

“More than okay,” Tara murmured, and something about her proud tone made my chest tighten again.

“What about you, Chloe?” I asked, desperate to shift focus. “Tara mentioned you’re an artist?”

“Mixed media, mostly,” she nodded, eyes lighting up. “I create immersive installations that challenge perceptions of space and identity. Or at least that’s what my gallery bio says.” She grinned. “Really, I just like making weird shit that makes people uncomfortable.”

“She’s being modest,” Tara said. “Her last exhibition was written up in Artforum. She’s kind of a big deal in the Miami art scene.”

“Stop it,” Chloe waved her off, but looked pleased. “Anyway, it pays the bills and lets me spend my days covered in paint and resin instead of stuck in an office. Can’t complain.”

“I’ve always envied that creative freedom,” I admitted. “Soccer’s been my whole life since I was a kid. Never really had the chance to explore other interests.”

“It’s never too late,” Chloe said. “What are you into besides kicking balls around?”