CHAPTER ONE

Xander

The champagne bubbles tickled my nose, tiny explosions of overpriced bubbles that did absolutely nothing to dull the edge. Three glasses in and still painfully sober. Still painfully me.

“Christ, you’re not going to believe this shite.” Leo’s face was pressed against the Gulfstream’s window, his breath fogging the glass like an excited kid on Christmas morning. “Look at those beaches. Look at the water. Miami’s going to be bloody brilliant.”

I lowered my drink. “You said the same thing about London.”

“London was cold and full of stuck-up models.” He turned to me, blue eyes bright. “Miami is different. It’s paradise.”

Paradise. Right.

Leo’s phone buzzed. “Mystery billionaire buys expansion team, immediately drops twenty million on Scottish bad boy...” he read, scrolling through what looked like ESPN. “They’re really leaning into that angle.”

Bad boy. The label clung to me like tar. Maybe not without reason: Five months ago, some dickhead with a press badge ambushed me outside the bar in Chelsea, jammed his phone in my face and talked shit about my family. A scandal about my twin brother, Sean McCrae, getting mixed up with a Scottish socialite. I told him to fuck off with his lies—Sean would’ve called me if he was even in the country. But this press asshole just wouldn’t quit. He kept pushing and pushing until—bam—I decked him.

Unfortunately, a photographer documented the entire showdown.

The pictures made me look like a complete jackass, plastered all over the news and gossip sites, and just like that, my Chelsea career went straight into the gutter. Banished to the reserves like some rookie fuck-up, I needed an escape hatch. Then thirty days ago, this absurdly fat offer from Miami appeared out of nowhere. Too perfect, too convenient, but hey—new continent, clean slate, and all that bullshit.

“They still won’t say who’s financing the team,” Leo said. “Some oil tycoon probably. Somebody who thinks football is played with their hands.”

“As long as the checks clear and they keep me away from California,” I said, my tone deliberately casual despite the sudden tightness in my chest.

Leo didn’t notice the change. He never did. That was why I kept him around as my assistant—that and the fact that he was the only person who’d stuck by me demanding nothing but proximity to the mess that was my life.

“Another?” He gestured to my empty glass.

“Why not?” It wasn’t like I had anywhere important to be. Just a new team. A new city. A new place to disappoint people who expected the eighteen-year-old wonder kid I once was instead of the burnout adult I’d become.

The flight attendant—Melanie, probably—swooped in with another champagne, flashing a smile that could outshine the Miami sun. Unlike most airplane staff who blend into the cabin walls, this one wanted to be noticed.

“Fresh drink for Mr. McCrae,” she announced, leaning close enough that her citrus-flower perfume hit my nostrils. “Getting the Miami party started early?”

My autopilot charm kicked in without permission. “You could say that,” I replied, my face arranging itself into a practiced half-grin. “Or just making this flight more bearable.”

Her blue eyes locked onto mine for one Mississippi too many. “If you need any other... comforts during your journey, just flag me down.” Her fingers grazed my arm while setting down the glass—a move straight out of the “I’m interested” playbook.

“Noted,” I said between sips, throwing her a wink. Just my default setting with hot women who showed interest. No effort required. No thought needed. Just what I do.

She turned with a promising look, hips doing that calculated rhythm down the aisle. I tracked her exit, my brain already running its tired program: grab number, hotel bar meetup, lose myself for a night between expensive sheets and unfamiliar perfume.

I cut my stare short, pivoting from the aisle to face the window. Miami’s coastline approached—a dazzling ribbon of white and turquoise that supposedly represented my do-over. The whole point of this transfer, the one vow I’d made to myself after I’d torched my Chelsea career, was to knock off the bullshit. To pump the brakes. No more 3 AM “Leo, I’m in trouble” phone calls, no more mornings where my skull felt like someone took a hammer to it while shame crashed over me in waves. This was my shot to dominate on the field.

Beyond the glass, Miami stretched out like a billboard for second chances. White buildings, turquoise water, palm trees dancing in what had to be a breeze warm enough to make you forget your mistakes.

I remembered my last Florida trip. A high school tournament when I was sixteen. Jimmy stood right beside me. We’d crushed it. Just a year before everything exploded in our faces.

That memory stuck. Jimmy’s victory-red face. His arm draped across my shoulders. That trophy weighing down our hands. The moment he locked eyes with me: “We’re unstoppable, man. Fucking unstoppable.”

But reality check—we weren’t. Just dumb teenagers who thought death and consequences were for other people.

I finished half of the champagne in one gulp.

“...and there’s this club on South Beach that has underwater speakers, so you can feel the bass while you’re in the pool,” Leo was saying, still scrolling through his phone. “And during Art Basel, they have these parties where everyone’s basically naked but covered in body paint. And the Brazilian models, bro. They do yoga on the beach at sunrise.”

“Sounds great,” I said, with little interest. “We should check it out.”

Leo beamed, satisfied with my response. “Hell yeah, we should. Miami’s going to be epic.”

The captain’s voice crackled over the intercom, announcing our descent into Miami International. Leo buckled his seatbelt without pausing his monologue about South Beach nightlife. I finished my drink and handed the empty glass to Melanie, who took it with another seductive smile.

Miami, forty-five hundred miles from Palo Alto—from the ghost of Jimmy. A different coast. A different climate. A different life.

It should have felt like enough distance.

For some strange reason, it didn’t.

***

The penthouse the team had provided us was obscene.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of water so blue it looked artificial. The furniture was all cream leather and glass, the stuff that showed every fingerprint, every stain. Not exactly practical for someone who spends half his time covered in grass and mud, but I supposed that was what cleaning services were for.

Leo whistled as he wandered through the open-concept living area. “They’re not fuckin’ around, are they?”

“Guess not.”

The Miami heat nearly knocked me over as I walked onto the balcony.

Below me, thirty floors down, cars crawled along the streets like brightly colored insects. People moved in and out of shops, restaurants, and office buildings. Normal people with normal lives, untouched by the guilt that had shaped mine.

“Mate, come and look at all this booze!”

I followed Leo’s voice to one of the giant bedrooms. King-sized bed, more windows, another balcony. A bathroom bigger than my first apartment in Glasgow.

“Check out the welcome basket.” Leo gestured to a ridiculous arrangement on the dresser—a giant wicker basket wrapped in cellophane and tied with a navy blue ribbon in the team’s colors.

I approached it warily, half-fearing to find a severed horse’s head. But it was just expensive booze—Dom Perignon, Macallan 18, Grey Goose—along with some fancy snacks and...

“Is that Throat Coat tea?” I grabbed the distinctive yellow box, turning it over in my hands.

“What’s Throat Coat tea?” Leo asked, already opening the Macallan.

“It’s this herbal tea I started drinking after my voice cracked during that post-game interview in Glasgow seven years ago. The one where I sounded like I was going through puberty again.”

“Aye, I remember that. That was fuckin’ brilliant.”

I wasn’t laughing. That specific brand—not something you’d guess at. It wasn’t something you’d include in a standard welcome basket, unless you were welcoming a singer, or motivational speaker like Sean.

Someone knew me. Someone had been studying me.

“Weird coincidence,” Leo said, pouring himself a generous measure of scotch.

But I didn’t believe in coincidences. Not anymore.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Unknown Miami number. A text: Welcome home, Xander.

My eyes were fixed on the screen, and goose bumps prickled my skin.

Miami wasn’t home. Palo Alto had been home. Glasgow and then Chelsea were my exiles. Miami was just a big paycheck.

“You look like someone just pissed in your cornflakes,” Leo said, scotch sloshing in his glass. “What is it? A ghost pop out of your phone or something?”

Maybe it fucking did. But I just mumbled, “Just the jet lag making me tired.”

“It’s only a five-hour time difference, you daft git.”

“I’m old. My body’s betraying me at every turn.”

Leo snorted. “You’re twenty-nine, not collecting Social Security. Have a drink, mate. We’ve got that team thing tonight.”

Right. The team event. Some fancy party at the owner’s mansion, where I’d meet my new teammates, coaching staff, and the rich clown who’d decided I was worth twenty million despite my game going to shit lately.

“What time is that again?”

“Eight. The car is picking us up at seven-thirty.” Leo sipped his scotch. “You’ve got an hour. Plenty of time to settle in.”

I nodded, still reading the text message.

Welcome home, Xander.

Who the fuck would send that? Who even had my number?

The team, obviously. Management. PR. But something about the wording—home—turned my blood cold.

I deleted the message without responding.

“I’m going to shower,” I said, heading for the bathroom.

I closed the door before he answered, slumped against it, and let out a breath. This bathroom was ridiculous—marble and chrome everywhere, a rainfall shower big enough for the entire starting lineup, and a tub that could host a water polo match.

Just another luxury space wasted on my undeserving ass.

The mirror didn’t lie. I looked like complete garbage—a human dumpster fire running on empty, held together with duct tape and bullshit.

I cranked the shower until it was practically boiling, turning my skin lobster-red and making my muscles throb in that weird, not-quite-pain way.

I stood there cooking myself until I felt somewhat like a person again.

When I stepped out into the fog, I found the suit Leo had picked out. Tom Ford. Black on black. Not an outfit—a goddamn shield. By the time I buttoned up, my “couldn’t-give-less-of-a-fuck” face was locked and loaded.

Leo was waiting by the door. “Car’s downstairs,” he said, giving my suit an approving nod. 

I straightened my cuffs, the motion feeling strangely final. “Good. Let’s go meet the rich motherfucker who bought me for twenty million.”

***

The house—mansion, really—was precisely the over-the-top display of wealth I’d expected. Mediterranean-inspired architecture, a circular driveway lined with palm trees, valets in crisp uniforms taking keys from guests who arrived in luxurious cars.

Our driver pulled up to the entrance, and Leo bounced out of the car. “Are ye ready to meet the man who built a whole team just tae sign ye?”

“Can’t wait,” I said, my tone flat.

The foyer was marble and gold, a chandelier the size of my first car hanging from a ceiling at least twenty feet high. Staff in black and white circulated with trays of champagne and canapés. A string quartet played something classical in one corner. The whole thing screamed new money trying very hard to look like old money.

I grabbed champagne from a server and checked out the crowd. A parade of power players—MLS bigwigs, politicians, C-list celebrities, and every soccer VIP with a pulse, all crammed in to witness this franchise’s big, expensive birth.

“That’s Diego Mano,” Leo pointed to a tall guy wearing what looked like a designer suit that fit him like a trash bag. “Columbian striker. They brought him over a few months ago. Word from trainin’ is he’s a right hothead with a massive ego, but the lad can play. He’s been outperforming everyone.”

I knew the type. Talented but a total ball hog, the type of player who’d rather blast it into row Z than pass to an open teammate. Mano caught me staring and lifted his glass, a smug smirk on his face. I did the same, mentally preparing for the dick-measuring contest that was definitely on the horizon.

“And there’s Ben Carter,” Leo pointed to some baby-faced kid chatting up a reporter. “Last year’s number one draft pick.”

“Anyone else I need to fake interest in?” I asked, gulping my champagne.

“The entire roster, and—”

The screech of microphone feedback shut him up. Everyone went quiet as the MLS commissioner waddled up to a podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome!” the Commissioner said. “For years, one man has pursued a singular vision: to bring another world-class soccer team to the heart of Miami. Tonight, that dream becomes a reality. It is my distinct honor to celebrate the official launch of Miami’s new MLS franchise, the Miami Pirates FC!”

The room exploded with applause. Miami’s mayor stood up front, pumping the senator’s hand, both grinning like they’d won the lottery. This wasn’t a party—it was a goddamn coronation built on cash mountains and ego. And I was the priciest bauble in their collection. I focused on my champagne bubbles, the only thing not screaming for attention.

“And now, the man who bankrolled it all,” the Commissioner bellowed. “Please welcome your team owner, Hank Swanson, and the team’s new head of sports medicine, Dr. Tara Swanson!”

My glass didn’t drop—it fucking detonated with glass chunks stabbing into my palm, blood and champagne creating a modern art piece on the marble.

“Shite, Xander, you alright?” Leo jumped in, snatching napkins, jamming them against my bleeding hand.

But I couldn’t hear him over the roaring in my ears. Couldn’t feel the pain in my hand. Couldn’t focus on anything but the two figures now standing at the podium.

Hank Swanson. Older, grayer, but those eyes—those cold, accusing eyes—were exactly the same as they’d been twelve years ago at his son’s funeral.

And beside him...

Fuck.

Tara.

Not sixteen-year-old Tara with braces and tears at a funeral.

Twenty-eight-year-old Tara in a dress that was professional but also absolutely not, with Jimmy’s eyes and Jimmy’s stubborn jaw but also curves that made my mouth go dry and my cock shamefully hard.

She was looking right at me; her expression perfectly composed despite the scene I was making. And her eyes. Her eyes said: Gotcha.

The room came back into focus slowly, sound filtering in past the rushing in my ears. Leo was still fussing over my hand. A server had appeared with a dustpan and brush for the broken glass. People were staring, whispering.

And then Hank was walking toward me, his steps deliberate, as if he were an executioner approaching the block.

“Xander McCrae,” he said, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “Welcome to Miami.”

He glanced down at my bleeding hand, his expression unreadable. “Someone get a first aid kit,” he called over his shoulder. “Dr. Swanson, perhaps you could assist?”

Tara grabbed my bloody hand.

“We need to wash this out,” she said, her voice deeper than memory served. “Could have glass bits stuck in there.”

I gaped at her, brain short-circuiting as I tried to connect this grown woman to the teenager from twelve years back. The teenager I’d nearly...

The cemetery was quiet except for the soft sound of sobbing. Tara in the black dress that was too big for her stood across from me, Jimmy’s coffin between us like a barrier.

I found her alone behind the church afterward, her face streaked with tears, her thin shoulders shaking. I didn’t know what to say, what to do. I just knew I couldn’t leave her alone.

“Tara,” I said, and she looked up at me. And for one insane second, one grief-drunk, pain-filled second, I almost kissed her...

“Mr. McCrae?” Tara’s voice cut through my thoughts, all business and ice-cold distance. “If you’ll follow me, we can get this taken care of.”

I nodded, my mouth suddenly useless. Leo moved to tag along, but Hank blocked him.

“I’m sure your friend is in good hands with Dr. Swanson,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me about your first impressions of Miami?”

Leo froze, his eyes finding mine for direction. I gave him the tiniest nod. I’m fine. Go.

He surrendered to Hank’s guidance, throwing worried looks over his shoulder as he went. I trailed behind Tara through the crowd, feeling every damn eyeball in the room drilling into my back.

She brought me to a small study off the main foyer, shutting the door with a click that might as well have been a prison cell locking. The whole place reeked of dusty books and unspoken accusations.

“Sit,” she said, gesturing to a leather armchair.

I obeyed, dropping into the chair while she dug through a desk drawer and pulled out a first aid kit. She snapped on latex gloves, then kneeled in front of me and took my bleeding hand.

“This might hurt,” she said, finally looking me in the eye.

“I’ve had worse,” I said, my voice coming out like I’d gargled gravel.

Her mouth twitched with what might’ve been a smile—gone so fast I questioned if I’d seen it at all. “I’m sure you have.”

She started cleaning the cut with antiseptic wipes. Her touch was gentle, but as the alcohol bit into my open wound, I flinched.

“Sorry,” she said, not sounding remotely apologetic.

I couldn’t help staring at her while she worked. Everything about her had blossomed with age—no more braces, just perfect teeth. Her hair stopped at her shoulders now instead of flowing down her back. But those eyes hadn’t changed a bit. Same shade as Jimmy’s.

“There’s a piece of glass,” she announced, picking up tweezers. “This is gonna sting.”

I nodded and braced myself. She leaned over my hand, focused entirely on her task. The scent of vanilla drifted from her skin—subtle but unmistakable.

The tweezers dug into my cut, and I sucked air through my teeth.

“Almost got it,” she said, her voice unexpectedly soft. “There.”

She held up a bloody glass shard like a trophy before dropping it into a dish and returning to clean my wound.

“So,” I said. “Sports medicine.”

“Yes.” She kept her eyes on my hand. “I’ve been on staff for three months, getting everything ready for the launch.”

“And your father bought the team.”

That got me a quick look, amusement flashing in her eyes. “He didn’t buy it, Mr. McCrae. He created it.”

The correction dangled between us, and my jaw clenched. “Quite a coincidence,” I said. “Me being hunted for this team. Not to mention becoming available at the exact moment your father was completing his roster.”

She dabbed antiseptic cream on the cut, her touch businesslike, completely unbothered by my accusation. “I don’t believe in coincidences, Mr. McCrae.”

Neither did I.

She wrapped gauze around my hand, taping it with mechanical efficiency. Her fingers burned hot against my skin.

“So,” I said. “How long have you known?” I blurted out the question that’d been stuck in my throat since I spotted her at that podium.

“Known what?” Her voice played innocent, but when her eyes locked on mine, they told a completely different story.

“That I was coming to Miami.”

She finished my bandage and rocked back, stripping off her gloves. “About as long as you have, I imagine.”

“Bullshit.”

A tiny smile crept across her face. “Keep this clean and dry. New bandage every day.”

She stood, collecting the first aid supplies while turning her back on me. I pushed myself up from the chair.

“Why?” I demanded. I wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily.

She spun around, face blank. But her eyes held something I couldn’t decode.

“Why what, Mr. McCrae?”

“Why am I here? Why are you here? Why did your father create this team?”

She dropped the first-aid kit on the desk. “Why am I here? This is my home, Mr. McCrae. My dad moved us from California right after the funeral. I finished high school here, got my doctorate at U-Miami.”

She took a breath, letting that bomb detonate before switching back to Dr. Professional. “So, I’m here because I’m the best at my job, and my father created the team because he loves football. And you’re here because you’ve got talent. That’s all.”

Total bullshit answer. Maybe she spent half her life in this humidity hell, but that changed exactly dick.

“Twelve years,” I growled. “Twelve years, and now we’re all magically on the same team. That’s not random, and it’s not about scoring goals.”

She moved closer, near enough that I spotted tiny freckles scattered across her nose.

“What do you think it’s about, then?” She whispered so quietly I had to lean in.

Before I could answer, the door opened, and Hank Swanson stepped into the room. He glanced between us, his eyes narrowing, sizing up the situation.

“Everything alright in here?” he asked, his tone pleasant but his eyes cold.

Tara stepped back. “Just finishing up, Dad. Mr. McCrae should be fine, but he’ll need to keep the wound clean and change the bandage daily.”

Hank nodded, his gaze shifting to me. “Ugly gash,” he said. “Accidents happen though, right, Xander? Especially when booze enters the picture.”

The words were innocent enough, but the implied meaning was clear. A reference to that night and Jimmy.

I met his gaze steadily. “I’d better get back to the party.”

He stepped aside, gesturing for me to precede him out of the study. As I passed him, he added, “I hope your hand heals quickly. We have a lot of work to do, you and I.”

I didn’t respond, didn’t trust myself to. Instead, I walked back into the crowd, searching for Leo, for a drink, for anything that might anchor me in this surreal reality I’d stepped into.