Page 86 of A Game of Deception

“You’re letting him get to you,” a quiet voice said beside me.

I turned to find Ben, his hamstring now free of the wrap, pulling on his practice jersey.

“Doc cleared you to play?” I asked, ignoring his comment.

He nodded. “Limited minutes. But yeah, I can join the scrimmage now.”

I capped my water bottle, wiping sweat from my forehead. “Good for you.”

Ben hesitated, then added, “Look, I know Diego’s being a dick. He’s always like that when he feels threatened. But don’t let him?—”

“I’m fine,” I cut him off, harsher than intended.

Ben raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, man. Just trying to help.”

I sighed, immediately regretting my tone. “Sorry. I appreciate it. Just... got a lot on my mind.”

“No kidding,” Ben said with a sympathetic grimace. “If you want to grab a beer after practice, talk it out...”

The offer was genuine, and for a moment, I considered it. But the thought of adding another person to the collateral damage of Hurricane Xander made me pause. Ben was a good kid. He didn’t deserve to get sucked into my mess.

“Thanks,” I said instead. “But I’ve got some things to take care of.”

Coach’s whistle ended the break. As we jogged back onto the field, I spotted Tara standing near the facility entrance, clipboard in hand, apparently watching Ben’s return to practice.

My heart did a painful flip. Even from a distance, I could see how rigid her shoulders were. She didn’t glance my way once, her attention locked entirely on Ben as he rejoined the scrimmage.

“Second half!” Coach called. “Same teams, full intensity. Let’s go!”

The scrimmage started again, but my mind wasn’t on the game. All I could think about was Tara, standing yards away, deliberately avoiding me. Was she here for Ben, or was she watching me too? Did she believe Brittany’s bullshit?

“McCrae!” Coach bellowed. “Pay attention!”

Too late, I realized the ball was coming my way. I scrambled to position myself, but Diego was already there, intercepting the pass meant for me.

“Still daydreaming about the baby mama?” he taunted as he dribbled past. “Or is it the good doctor over there you can’t get out of your head?”

I charged after him, all technique forgotten in a red haze of rage. Diego easily dodged my clumsy approach, laughing as he kept the ball.

“Since she’s available now,” he called over his shoulder, “I’ll give her another shot. Show the Doc what a real man feels like.”

Something inside me snapped. The guilt and self-hatred, the public humiliation, and the raw, aching loss of Tara’s trust—it all exploded into one blinding moment of fury.

I don’t remember deciding to hit him. Next, my fist connected with his jaw with a sickening crack that vibrated up my arm.

Diego went down hard, clutching his face. Blood leaked between his fingers from a split lip. The practice field erupted—players rushing toward us, coaches blowing whistles, everyone shouting at once.

Through the chaos, my eyes found Tara. She stood frozen at the sideline, her clipboard forgotten, her face scrunched into horror and disappointment. I’d just proven her father right. I was exactly what Hank and everyone thought I was, a violent, out-of-control disaster.

Coach Wilkes grabbed my arm, his face purple with rage. “McCrae! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I couldn’t answer, couldn’t tear my gaze from Tara’s stricken expression. Someone was helping Diego up. Blood stained the front of his jersey.

“You’re suspended!” Coach roared right in my face. “Get off my field! NOW!”

Two assistant coaches appeared, flanking me. As they escorted me off, I finally looked away from Tara, unable to bear her judgment anymore.

The walk back to the locker room passed in a blur. My hand throbbed where it hit Diego’s face, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. I’d lost control. Again.