Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel) Page 3

  “Nah, just a bunch of rumors,” I tell her, wrenching open the fridge and grabbing a beer. “You want one of these?”

  “You jokin’?” she says, wrinkling her nose, “Not all of us can guzzle beer and still have abs like yours, Mad. Not to mention that it’s ten in the morning.”

  “With the morning I’m having, I’d say I’m past due for a drink,” I mutter, slamming off the bottle cap against the countertop. I don’t even flinch as a bit of granite chips off. Living the Premier League lifestyle for the last eight years has done a bit to make me forget what being dirt poor is like. I’m not ashamed of my roots, but I can’t say I miss the bad old days before I got scouted during a university football match over in the States.

  The fact that I got into university at all is still hilarious to me. I got terrible marks as a kid, all through high school. I was too busy hustling for The Firm and playing pickup football to give a shit about maths and what have you. But schools were shitting themselves trying to get me to come play for them all the same. I decided to piss off to America, not least of all because I knew my accent alone would keep me rich in tail the whole time I was there. If American men played football half as well as American women fuck, I may have just stayed over there. But the second the Premiere League came calling, I was back on the plane to the UK.

  Taking a deep swig of beer, I think back to that fateful university match in Philadelphia. The one that got me noticed by the big guns. I’d almost been barred from playing that day, after some wanker tripped over me in practice and did a number on my knee. My manager couldn’t take the pressure of making his own decision—pussy that he is—so it all came down to our trainer. Poppy Abrams, her name was. Fine as hell, and not one to put up with my shit for long. I liked that about her, I did. I also liked the fact that she was down to fuck whenever, wherever—including on the exam table the night before my big game.

  Christ, I still get worked up just thinking about it. I wish I could have gotten a few more fucks in with Ms. Abrams, truth be told. But I got my arse out of that school the second my first Premier League offer came through. As it were, we only got that one night. She was a few—several—years older than me. If I’m 27 now, she must be in her thirties. Probably married to some fat American bloke and lugging a pram around the suburbs by now. What a fucking waste of talent. On the job and in the sack.

  “Are you listenin’ to me at all?” Rose huffs, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

  “Nah,” I reply, sitting down on my leather sofa. The wall of windows in front of me looks out across the whole of London. My city.

  “I’m asking you what exactly you plan to do now that you’ve been kicked out of the league,” she says, coming to a stop in front of me.

  “You’re blocking the view,” I tell her, draining my beer.

  “Mad!” she cries, “Be serious for once in your bloody life!”

  “I don’t fucking know, Rose!” I shout back, chucking my bottle across the room.

  It smashes against one of the windows, shattering into a million pieces and leaving a nice crack in its wake. Rose just rolls her eyes at me. She knows I would never hurt a hair on her head. Or any woman’s, for that matter. I’ll mess a man up if he steps out of line, but I’m not a fucking monster. I watched my Dad drive Mom out of the family with that kind of shit, and clobbered him right back the second I was old enough. Prick never laid a finger on Rosie because of me. That must balance out some of the bad I’ve done, yeah?

  “I’m sure somethin’ will come through,” my sister says, sitting next to me on the couch. “If all else fails, you can model boxers or something like all the other washed-up footballers.”

  “Bite your fuckin’ tongue,” I growl.

  Before Rosie can get another word in, my mobile starts going off. I stand up and glance down at the screen, stepping over bits of broken glass as I walk toward the window. The damn thing’s been ringing off the hook since the news of my banishment broke this morning. Gossip mongers have been calling all day trying to get a quote, and I’ve mostly been screening their calls. But as I look down at yet another anonymous number of someone trying to get a piece of me, I lose it. With boiling blood and a choice word on two at the ready, I take the call.

  “Listen up you bleeding piece of shit,” I fume into the phone, “You lot can back the fuck off me right quick, all right? I’ve got nothing to say to you, so—”

  “Hey! Whoa! Slow down there!” a male American voice chuckles over the line, “I’m not a reporter, Mad Man. I promise.”

  “Right,” I scoff. My football nickname, Maddox “Mad Man” Walcott, sounds totally ridiculous when Americans say it. “I totally believe you, mate.”

  “God as my witness,” the man replies, “My name is Tucker. Dale Tucker.”

  Jesus, I think to myself, May as well call yourself Tex McMuffin or some shit.

  “And who the fuck are you, Dale Tucker?” I say his name with an exaggerated American accent, shrugging at Rosie’s questioning look.

  “Well, I just happen to be the owner of a soccer club over here in the States,” Tucker replies cheerfully.

  Soccer club. Give me a fucking break.

  “How nice for you,” I drawl, “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “From what I hear on the news, you’re newly team-less. Isn’t that right, Mr. Walcott?” Tucker goes on.

  “Don’t sound so giddy about it, you prat,” I snap at him.

  “Sorry, sorry. You’re right,” he backpedals, “I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me just cut right to the chase, here. I’d like to invite you to come play for the most exciting club in American soccer.”

  “What club is that?” I laugh, “You want me to grow a hipster beard and join up with the Timbers, is that it?”

  “No, no. Our team is actually brand new,” he replies.

  “An expansion team?” I scoff, “You’re out of your bleeding mind.”

  “Out of my mind with excitement, maybe!” he barrels on, “This season marks the debut of my club— the Atlantic City Empire.”

  “How precious,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “We are poised to be the next big thing in the Major League Soccer Eastern Conference here in America, my friend.”

  “Doesn’t New Jersey already have a team?” I ask him absentmindedly, looking out across the panoramic view of my hometown.

  “Nope!” he says. “The Red Bulls and NYCFC are both New York. The Union is Philly. That’s where you first came up, right son?”

  “I was in Philly for about three seconds, mate. But nice attempt at research.”

  “The Empire would be New Jersey’s first bona-fide FC,” Tucker says, his voice hushed and almost reverent. “And I want to bring you on as our star player.”

  This man is straight-up delusional. MLS may be the States’ most prestigious league, but it’s still a far cry from the BPL. The quality of play in America is abysmal compared with what we do here in England. I’d be skipping circles around those American teams. It wouldn’t even be fair to the poor twats.

  “No offense, mate,” I say to Tucker, “But why the fuck would I want to come play with a bunch of bumbling MLS idiots out in the swamps of bloody New Jersey?”

  “No offense to you, Mad Man,” Tucker counters, “But from what I understand, you don’t really have any other offers right now, do you?”

  I clench my jaw, seeing red. As much as I hate to admit it, the wanker is right. I’ve been blacklisted from the Premier League. No manager in the UK is going to sign me now. Hell, I don’t even know what European manager would touch me with a ten-foot pole, what with my ties to The Firm. Those allegations may be mostly bullshit, just an excuse to run the BPL’s “resident bad boy” out of town, but there’s a nugget of truth to them. And they’ve stuck to me like dog shit to a trainer. My only way forward is down to the bottom of the bloody barrel.

  “So?” Tucker prods me over the phone, “What do you think, Mr. Walcott? Do I have your att
ention now?”

  “I’m listening,” I growl, storming across the apartment as Rose looks on, bewildered. I yank an entire six pack out of the fridge and set to work on it as Dale Tucker goes on with his sales pitch. Never in my life did I think I’d even consider leaving the Premier League for MLS. Not until I aged out, anyway. But now my hand is being forced by a bunch of uptight pricks who have a problem with where I come from. Well, fuck ‘em. They may be able to keep me out of their precious Premier League, but they can’t stop me from playing football altogether.

  I’m used to life knocking me down by now. But that just means I’ve become a master of picking myself up again. No matter what it takes.

  Chapter Two

  Poppy

  New York, New York

  One week later

  “Well. Look who’s decided to grace us with her presence,” my mother says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

  “Sorry I’m a couple minutes late,” I mutter, shucking off my trench coat and slinging it over the back of my chair, “I got held up at the office for a second.

  “It’s fine, Sweetheart,” my dad replies, barely looking up from the scotch menu as I join them at their table. “We know to expect this kind of thing from you, by now.”

  For once, my parents’ barbs don’t puncture my good mood. I’ve been grinning like an idiot for the last hour, ever since I got the most exciting phone call of my professional life. Usually, these monthly dinners with my parents at their favorite (way too expensive) restaurant in New York City’s West Village leave me furious, frustrated, or just damn depressed. But tonight, I finally have some news that even they can’t dismiss or make little of.

  And that may actually be a first.

  “Oh,” my mother says, glancing between me and the front door, “Are you alone tonight?”

  “Um… Yes, I’m alone,” I reply, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  My mother, Cora Abrams, gestures for the waiter to remove a fourth place setting from the table. A place setting that is permanently reserved for my new significant other. My as-yet imaginary significant other, that is.

  “I suppose I should stop hoping that one of these days you’ll bring a nice man along with you to dinner,” Mom sighs, taking a long sip of her martini.

  “The guy who owns the bodega beneath my apartment is pretty chummy,” I offer, “I could see if he’d like to come along to our next get-together if you like.”

  Mom shudders in response and decides to ignore me until I say something sensible. That’s fine. I think I’d have a heart attack if she suddenly started being all warm and cuddly and motherly with me. I wouldn’t be able to adjust after all these years of icy disdain.

  “It’s been two years since the divorce, Poppy,” Oscar, my dad, points out. Helpful as ever. “Your mother and I thought that you’d be dating by now.

  Thankfully, the waiter hands me my customary Pinot Noir—one of the perks of being a regular—before I can accidentally laugh in my father’s face. While there have certainly been men in my life since my marriage fell spectacularly apart, I wouldn’t exactly describe my activities with them as “dating”. More like, “Tinder-assisted-booty-calling”. Trying to start another long-term, serious relationship after getting my heart blasted to smithereens by Jason, my ex-husband, is inconceivable. As a single 34-year-old New Yorker who can pass for 28 in a pinch, I don’t have any trouble finding companionship, even if it’s only for an evening or two. And right now, that’s all I want. Anything beyond that is too painful to even consider.

  “You still have time, you know,” my mother adds as our food is delivered. Dad always orders the entire party, no matter what.

  “Time for… what, exactly?” I ask.

  “Children, of course!” she replies, her eyes going with disbelief that I even had to ask. “You’re pushing it, but there have been incredible advances in fertility technology. I was talking to Eleanor Fischer—you know, Becky’s mom? Becky, the girl you went to high school with? She has two adorable little girls now, and she—”

  “Wow, what is this? Monkfish?” I cut in loudly, trying to act impressed by the tiny portions of artfully arranged food placed before us, “Let’s maybe talk about the Monkfish instead of my uterus, OK?”

  Mom clucks her tongue at me. “I’m just trying to be helpful, dear. I worry about your priorities sometimes.”

  “We both do,” Dad nods sagely, skewering a bit of fish onto his fork.

  I take a deep breath, leaning back from the table and considering my parents—Oscar and Cora. The WASPiest of WASPs. And, like their acronymic namesakes, just as willing to land a good sting at any cost. Though I may be a highly regarded athletic trainer and physical therapist among my colleagues and clients, my work will always seem trashy to my surgeon father and dumb-as-rocks queen bee mother. They’ve never understood why I care so much about my career, given that it isn’t “real medicine” in their eyes. If I had become a doctor like my father, or set my sights on being a society woman like my mother, they would have been able to understand me. But a 34-year-old, childless, career-driven daughter? No dice. I may as well be a literal Martian, given how puzzling and unlikely I seem to them.

  Still, with no siblings or family of my own, they’re all I’ve got. No matter how crazy they make me, I know I’ll keep trying. What else am I supposed to do?

  “So, Mom. Dad. I actually have some pretty good news to share with you,” I begin, clasping my hands on the table.

  “Oh?” Mom perks up.

  “Do tell,” Dad adds.

  “The reason I was a little late tonight was that I got a very exciting phone call,” I go on.

  “A personal phone call? Or a work phone call?” Mom asks.

  “Work,” I tell her, my smile fading by a hair as she slumps dejectedly in her seat.

  “Who was it, a client?” Dad asks.

  “Sort of,” I go on, “It was the owner of a sports team. A brand new sports team, actually. And not just any sport, either. My favorite sport.”

  “What’s that, dear?” Mom asks, fishing out the olive from the bottom of her glass.

  “Soccer, Mom,” I reply shortly, “You know, that thing I devoted my entire childhood and adolescence to?”

  “Until you gave it up,” she says.

  “Until I demolished my ankle during a game and had to quit,” I correct her. How does my own mother not remember my career-ending injury? I’d been talking about trying to play college soccer for years when a totally out-of-line slide tackle ended my chances for good.

  “What did you say this team was called?” Dad asks, his brow furrowing.

  “I didn’t. But it’s the Atlantic City Empire,” I reply.

  “Huh. Never heard of it,” Dad replies.

  “That’s because they’re new. Like I just said,” I press, losing my patience.

  “Do they even have professional soccer in America?” Mom asks, raising an eyebrow.

  “Of course they have professional soccer in America!” I exclaim, a little louder than I mean to. “You have been to professional soccer matches in America!”

  “Are you sure that wasn’t one of the nannies?” Mom asks skeptically. “It doesn’t sound like the sort of thing I’d be interested in.”

  “Yeah, I got that,” I mutter.

  “Keep your voices down, ladies,” Dad scolds me and my mother alike. Ah, patriarchy. Gotta love it. “People are starting to stare. Poppy, dear. Why don’t you finish your story?”

  “I was offered a job,” I tell them outright, “And I think I’m going to accept. I’ll finally be part of an MLS team.”

  “Well. In a sense,” Mom allows.

  “What would your new title be?” Dad asks.

  “Assistant Athletic Trainer,” I tell them, proud despite their belittling comments. The only people above me would be the Head Athletic Trainer and the Head Coach himself. It’s an incredible position for someone my age. And after practicing on my own for all these years, being back on
board with a team would be a welcome change of pace. I watch my parents’ faces, waiting for them to respond to my news. Finally, my dad speaks.

  “Huh,” he says, “Assistant Athletic Trainer.”

  “Why ‘Assistant’?” Mom asks, cocking her head to the side.

  “What you do mean, why?” I ask, feeling my blood starting to boil, “Because that’s the job I was offered. It’s actually a huge deal to be—”

  “After all that schooling, all that experience, I thought you’d be above the assistant level by now,” Dad grumbles, digging back into this food.

  “I’m not—It’s more than—” I sputter, gripping the arms of my chair so tightly that my knuckles start to go white. If I don’t get a hold of myself, I’m going to flip this table over in no time flat. “I’m…going to use the ladies. Be back in a sec,” I finally manage to say through gritted teeth, rising from my chair on shaky legs.

  “No need to announce it, dear,” Mom says, wrinkling her nose. “A little discretion never hurt anyone.”

  I literally hold my tongue between my teeth as I hurry toward the bathroom, lest I let out the swirling symphony of expletives that is raging through my mind. Pushing open the heavy bathroom door, I barricade myself in one of the stalls, shove my fingers into my hair, and wedge my head between my knees. I draw in huge calming breaths, trying to shake off the disappointment and rage I feel toward Cora and Oscar. I just never learn to guard my heart around those two, no matter how many times they break it.

  After a few long moments, the storm of negative feelings hanging over me starts to subside. Still wanting to stall as long as I can before returning to the table, I pull out my phone and start scrolling through my various social media feeds. I don’t do a lot of personal sharing online, so my Facebook and Twitter feeds are mostly comprised of sports news. I try to stay up-to-date with my favorite teams, having always been a big sports fan. But that’s come with some interesting complications of late, since the entire sports news cycle this week has been dominated by a man I know quite intimately: