Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel) Read online

  By Colleen Masters

  Copyright © 2016 Hearts Collective

  All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

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  SHOT CALLER

  A Bad Boy’s Baby Novel

  by Colleen Masters

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Prologue

  Poppy

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  Spring, 2008

  The athletic training facilities are eerily quiet as I hurry through the glass front doors, gathering my wavy brown hair into a big, messy top knot. All of fifteen minutes ago, I was snuggled up in my tiny studio apartment, exhausted after a long day’s work at the university where I’m completing the clinical component of my doctorate in physical therapy. That is, until I received a frantic phone call that landed me here—back at work. If I can just make it through this last leg of my education, I’ll be free to start practicing in the field. But making it through my final assignment as a trainer for this collegiate men’s soccer team in one piece has started to seem more and more unlikely.

  I hustle down the long hallway of examination rooms toward the single light still burning at this late hour. The team’s manager called me up at a little past midnight, alerting me that there was an emergency with one of the players. He was injured during practice today, on the eve of the team’s big playoff game. I’ve been summoned to give my professional opinion about whether this guy should be allowed to play tomorrow morning.

  Raised voices echo through the deserted facility, growing louder as I approach. I nearly stop in my tracks and head back to bed as I recognize the louder of the two voices. The louder, decidedly British voice I’d recognize anywhere.

  “I don’t give a damn about your bloody concerns, mate,” a young man shouts vehemently from the exam room, “Quit wringing your hands like a grieving widow and give me the go-ahead to play tomorrow!”

  Oh, for the love of god. Of course the player I’ve been dragged out of bed to treat is none other than Maddox Walcott. Though he’s only a sophomore here, Walcott is the team’s star player by a long shot—and he knows it, too. He came across the pond from what he calls “the dodgy part” of London on a full ride scholarship to play soccer at this university. And he never tires of reminding us all that he could “piss off and go pro” any time he likes. Maddox Walcott is an arrogant, hot-tempered, devil-may-care bad boy… but he also happens to be an unbelievably talented striker. The best I’ve ever seen, and not just at the college level. Our team needs him tomorrow, which means he needs me tonight.

  You’re lucky you’ve got Beckham’s right foot, ‘wanker’, I think to myself, steeling my nerves before entering the exam room.

  “I’m here,” I announce, stepping through the open doorway. I get exactly two paces into the room before my heart lodges itself in my throat.

  Maddox Walcott is standing next to the examination table, in the midst of having it out with the team’s manager. His hands are balled into tight fists, his impeccably fit body poised for a fight. Each sculpted muscle stands out in sharp relief in this heightened state. And I can see just about every muscle, too. The only clothing Maddox has on is a pair of tight black athletic shorts, barely hiding one particular muscle from view. Still, that doesn’t keep my eyes from darting downward and noting the impressive outline of his—

  “Finally,” the team’s manager says, looking frustrated and spent after trying to wrangle Walcott’s stubborn ego into submission. “Thanks for coming in, Poppy.”

  “No problem,” I reply, quickly averting my eyes from Walcott’s package. And abs. And biceps. And jawline…

  “This is who you called?” Maddox scoffs, crossing his thickly muscled arms as he looks me up and down.

  I feel an uncharacteristic wave of self-consciousness go through me as I think of my messy hair, my makeup-free face, the embarrassingly threadbare leggings I threw on before leaving the house. What does it matter? I ask myself sternly. I’m a trainer, not a ring girl. I don’t need to get dolled up to do my job, no matter how fine a specimen my patient is. Besides, it’s not like he’s a viable option for me or anything. He’s still in college. The college I currently work for. And something tells me that Mr. Big Shot prefers blonde haired, blue-eyed, leggy models to petite, freckled, brown-eyed athletic trainers.

  Not that I give a damn, of course.

  “Poppy’s the best trainer we’ve got at the moment, Mad,” the manager explains, cutting into my smutty inner monologue.

  Maddox rakes his eyes along my 5’ 4” frame, cocking a skeptical eyebrow.

  “With a name like ‘Poppy’, shouldn’t you be off teaching kindergarten or somethin’?” he asks, none-too-kindly.

  “I’m sure your kindergarten-level of maturity will do the trick, thanks,” I reply, lifting my chin defiantly.

  Maddox’s broad, handsome face changes entirely as my comeback lands. Instead of brushing aside my remark, he takes a second to actually look me in the eye. And if I didn’t know better, I’d think that what I see in his gray-eyed gaze is…intere
st. In me. He’s never granted me more than a passing glance in the time I’ve known him, but now…

  Thankfully, the manager cuts in before I can get too flustered.

  “Could you please just take a look at Mad and tell me whether you think he’s fit enough to play tomorrow?” he asks, stepping around me toward the exit. “I’ll go with whatever you think is best.”

  “You’re not staying?” I ask, trying to slow my racing heart. The prospect of being alone with a half-naked Maddox Walcott in the dead of night suddenly feels too risky. Or too exciting. Or both.

  “I need to go get some damn sleep,” the manager grumbles, “I have a whole team that needs my attention tomorrow, you know. It’s not all about the Great Maddox Walcott.”

  “Sure,” Maddox laughs sarcastically, “You just keep tellin’ yourself that, mate.”

  The manager’s pudgy face goes red with futile anger. Maddox is unfortunately right. He carries this entire team on his back, every single game. Not playing him tomorrow would basically ensure that we don’t make it any further in the playoffs. And now the decision of whether or not he starts rests firmly on my shoulders.

  But no pressure or anything.

  I hear the front doors to the training facility swing shut as the manager takes his leave. Now it’s just me and Maddox, totally alone. Though I’ve been on staff here for the entire semester, I’ve barely traded a dozen words with this guy. He tends to treat the trainers and sports therapists as “the help”. Such an endearing quality. But despite his terrible attitude, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t stolen a long glance or two at his impeccable form. Or that I hadn’t occasionally wondered what it would be like to run my hands over that body of his in something other than a cursory, professional way.

  As soon as the older man has cleared the room, Mad’s hostility level returns to its normal simmer. His square, well defined jaw relaxes as a cocky smile spreads across his face.

  “Now that the old bastard is gone,” Maddox says, reaching for his jeans where they’ve been slung over a chair, “Why don’t you just give me the thumbs up and we can both be on our way, yeah?”

  “I haven’t even examined you yet,” I reply, setting my bag down right on top of his clothes and blocking his way. His corded, inked arm brushes against mine as I turn to face him, sending a tendril of heat winding down the entire right side of my body.

  “Don’t bother, I’m fine,” Maddox replies, an annoyed furrow appearing between his brows. Christ, even his corrugator muscles are sexy. How is that even a thing?!

  “I believe I’m to be the judge of that,” I tell him, nodding at the table. “Hop up.”

  For a long moment, Maddox simply stares at me. I have to crane my neck slightly to look him in the eye, but I do. If he thinks he’s going to push me around just because I’m a young woman, he’s got another thing coming to him. I may be little, but I am not the shit-taking type. And the sooner Maddox Walcott gets that through his (admittedly gorgeous) head, the better.

  “Jesus. All right,” he grunts, begrudgingly sitting down on the edge of the exam table.

  “Thank you,” I reply, rolling my eyes, “If you’re really good, maybe I’ll even give you a lollipop before you go.”

  “Is ‘lollipop’ American for ‘blowjob’? Because if so, count me in,” he grins wickedly, swinging his legs up onto the table.

  “You know that stereotype about women not being able to keep their legs together when they hear an English accent is bull, right?” I shoot back, shucking off my zip-up hoodie and approaching the table. Hopefully, he won’t notice the heat rising in my cheeks at the mere mention of sucking him off.

  If I were to meet a man like Maddox at a club or a bar, I’d be first in line to jump into bed with him. I love a good one-night-stand as much as any girl, and Maddox Walcott is as fine as they come. His body is perfectly balanced—lean but muscular in true footballer fashion. He’s got his fair share of tattoos, and even a few suspicious-looking scars. But for me, it’s the face that does it. His wide, shapely nose, high cheekbones, and scruffy, cut jaw; those gray eyes that can go from stormy to blazing in a heartbeat; the sheer expressiveness he exudes, especially on the field. He’s not afraid to hide his passion—be it angry or triumphant. Imagine how a man who’s that passionate about a game would be as a lover?

  On second thought, better not think about that at the moment. At least not until I’m safely at home with my favorite vibe. Something tells me I’m gonna need it.

  “Tell me about your injury,” I say to Maddox, hoisting my mind out of the gutter.

  “Some bloody asshole of a freshman slammed his boot right into my knee,” Maddox shrugs. “Hurt like a bitch, but it’s nothin’ serious.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” I reply, glancing down at his impeccable legs. Those perfect calves and thighs could only belong to a soccer player, that’s for sure.

  Maddox extends his right leg and looks up at me impatiently. Right. Better get to it. I move around to the other side of the table and take a look at the trouble knee. There’s a little bruising starting to color his skin, but hardly any swelling. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I lay my hands on his knee.

  “How does that feel?” I ask him, feeling for any internal swelling.

  “Great, actually,” he replies, his crooked grin widening, “But that’s probably just because a sexy girl’s got her hands on me.”

  I shoot him a look that I hope reads as annoyed. Really, I have to struggle to contain the battalion of butterflies that let loose in my stomach the second Maddox calls me sexy.

  “Please,” I say sharply, “Could you set the schoolboy shit aside for a minute and give me a straight answer?”

  “S’hard to think straight with your tits staring me down,” Maddox replies, nodding toward my chest.

  I glance down and feel my blush deepen. In my rush to get to the training facility, I completely forgot to put on a bra underneath my white tank top. In the cool examination room, my nipples are standing straight at attention, making themselves known through the thin fabric of my shirt. I’m at once mortified and exhilarated that my assets are on such blatant display for Maddox. I may be short, but I’ve been blessed with some lovely curves, if I do say so myself. Besides, I’m not one for being ashamed of my womanly body. If someone can’t help but sexualize it out of context, that’s their problem, not mine. Though by the look in Maddox’s eye, I can’t help but wonder about whether his comments really are out of context.

  From the second I talked back to him, his energy toward me has shifted. His disinterest in me has given way to an attention I’ve felt from men plenty of times before. It’s attraction. Desire. And I’d be lying through my teeth if I said the feeling wasn’t mutual. Am I crazy, or is something about to go down, here? As he sits forward on the exam table and lays his strong hand over mine where it rests on his knee, the context of this situation becomes crystal clear.

  Maddox Walcott is trying to seduce me.

  “Try and tell me you didn’t roll in here barely dressed on purpose,” Maddox says, his voice dropping deep in chest as his eyes lock onto mine.

  “You should talk about being barely dressed,” I reply, letting him keep his hand over mine as I feel for damage. “Didn’t they make those shorts in big boy sizes?”

  “Been checkin’ out my ass, then?” he grins, “Or maybe…”

  He guides my hand up toward his crotch, and I have to clench my own thighs together as a pang of intense want swells between my legs. Maddox drops my hand just short of his crotch, inviting me to keep going on my own and find out what a “big boy” he really is. But despite the inviting swell in those shorts of his, I won’t give him what he wants just yet. Not until I’m one hundred percent sure what it is he’s initiating. Feigning passivity, I take both of my hands off his body and take a step away from him.

  “It doesn’t feel like there’s been any serious damage done to your knee,” I say coolly, relishing the way Mad’s jaw pulse
s with unmet want. “But I still don’t know if I can give you the go-ahead to play.”

  “Oh, come on,” he shoots back, jumping off the table and stepping briskly toward me. Is that frustration rippling through his body due to the prospect of not playing tomorrow, or the fact that I haven’t thrown myself at him… yet?

  “I’m not convinced that you’re 100% just now,” I tell him, struggling to breathe normally as Maddox towers over me. His muscles ripple with every move he makes, the perfect rows of his abs standing out in neat formation. Everything about this body is disciplined, purposeful. There isn’t a spare bit of body fat to be found. Every inch of him serves a purpose. Though if I’m honest with myself, there are a few inches I’m particularly interested in.

  “Why don’t you let me prove it to you, then?” he all but growls, backing me into the foot of the examination table. “Let me prove just how fit I am.”

  “How?” I breathe, grabbing the edge of the table with quivering hands.

  “I’m sure I can think of something,” he murmurs, planting his hands on the table to either side of my body, effectively boxing me in.

  My mind and body square off to do battle in this moment of truth. Every fiber of my being is screaming to let Maddox have his way with me, right here and now. Consequences be damned. But my mind is right there to remind me that he’s still a student at the university that’s technically employing me. We’re both consenting adults, but I’d still be way out of line on a professional level were I to fuck him. I could get kicked out of my program for a transgression like this, easily. But then…it isn’t as though there’s any particular rule forbidding something like this. It’s more of a…taboo. And what are taboos for if not breaking? We’ve got the place to ourselves for hours, yet. Nobody would ever need to know. And now Maddox is very nearly naked and standing mere inches away from me, so close that I can feel the heat rising off his perfect body.

  And I am only human, after all.