Page 87 of A Game of Deception

I changed in the empty locker room, moving like a robot, pulling on street clothes, gathering my stuff, my mind a static buzz of self-hatred.

You’ve ruined everything. When will you fucking learn?

As I pushed through the door, gym bag over my shoulder, I half-expected to find Hank waiting to gloat. Instead, it was Leo, his face grim as he took in my disheveled state.

“I got a call from the team office,” he said simply.

I nodded mutely, following him toward the exit.

Outside, the sun hit like a spotlight. I squinted against it, feeling exposed as Leo led me to the waiting car.

“What happens now?” I asked, voice like gravel.

Leo sighed, opening the car door. “Now we do damage control. The lawyer’s still coming this afternoon. We’ll figure out a statement about both the Brittany situation and... this.”

I collapsed into the back seat, suddenly exhausted to my bones. “What’s the point? It’s over, Leo. Hank won.”

Leo slid in beside me, his expression unusually fierce. “It’s not over until you say it’s over. Are you really going to let him win like this? After everything?”

I leaned back, closing my eyes. In my mind, I saw Tara’s face—not as it had been on the field, full of disappointment, but as it had been that morning in her apartment, soft with sleep and trust, her eyes full of a future I’d barely dared to imagine.

“No,” I said finally, barely audible. “No, I’m not.”

But who was I kidding? I may finally have played a hand I couldn’t win.

22

TARA

The imagery playedon loop in my mind—Xander’s fist connecting with Diego’s jaw, the sickening crack that could be heard across the practice field, the chaos that erupted afterward as Coach Wilkes’s furious shouts cut through the air.

I stood on the sideline, frozen, the tablet slipping from my numb fingers to hang by its strap against my hip. I watched as two assistant coaches escorted a stone-faced Xander off the field, his eyes briefly finding mine. I saw no anger in them, only a profound, hollow emptiness that somehow hurt more than rage would have.

My father’s words echoed in my head, a cold, prophetic mantra:Men like McCrae are walking liabilities. Trouble doesn’t find them, they invite it in for a drink.

I had just watched him prove it. A violent, uncontrolled outburst that had endangered a teammate and thrown the entire organization into chaos. The professional in me was horrified. The daughter in me was terrified that my father had been right all along.

“Dr. Swanson?”

The voice pulled me from my trance. It was Jess, my junior physical therapist, her eyes wide with concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said, the lie tasting like ash. I forced my body to move, retreating into the one identity that still made sense. “Standard protocol. I need to check Mr. Mano for a possible concussion and treat that laceration. Then I have a follow-up with Carter on his hamstring. Get Mr. Mano into exam room one.”

Diego was already on the table when I walked in, a bloody towel pressed to his mouth and a smug, victorious glint in his eyes.

“Came to check out the damage, Doc?” he smirked, lowering the towel to reveal a split, already swelling lip. “Don’t worry. My face can take a punch.”

“I’m more concerned about your head,” I said, my voice clipped and professional as I snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Look at me. Follow my finger.”

I ran him through a basic concussion check. His eyes tracked perfectly, his answers were clear. He was fine, and he knew it. As I cleaned his split lip with an antiseptic wipe, he leaned in close, his breath hot and unwelcome.

“You know, now that you’re not messing with that charity case anymore, maybe you and I could…”

“Hold still,” I cut him off, dabbing the cut more forcefully than necessary. He winced.

“Feisty,” he murmured, his eyes roaming over my face. “I like that. He’s not man enough for you, Tara. You need someone who knows what he wants.”

It took every ounce of my professional training to keep my hands steady, to ignore the greasy feeling his words left on my skin. I placed a butterfly bandage on the cut. “Ice it for twenty-four hours and take an anti-inflammatory. You’re done here, Diego.”