Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel) Page 5

  But for right now, it’s just me, the sky, and the sea. Some days, I think that’s all I really need… Though a new sports car every once in a while is pretty nice too.

  Chapter Six

  Poppy

  It’s surprisingly mild as I step out onto the deck of my borrowed seaside bungalow. This particular stretch of the Atlantic City boardwalk is pretty residential, and so quiet this time of year that I can enjoy a cup of coffee on the porch without being hit on by a bunch of drunken frat boys. I make it a rule to get hit on by as few bros in my life as possible, thanks. It must be at least 50 degrees, I decide as I sip my morning cup of joe—unheard of for February in New Jersey.

  Still, I’m not complaining. I even ventured to bring my yoga mat out here with me this morning. I could use a nice, good stretch before beginning my day in earnest. Today will be my first on the job with The Empire. I need to be ready for anything that comes my way. Taking one last big sip of coffee, I set down my mug and step onto my yoga mat, bringing my hands together over my heart.

  Yoga was a wonderful discovery for me after my soccer injury. Unable to run for extended periods, I found solace in being able to get in touch with my body in this new way. Actually, I find that I’m more in touch and in control of myself than ever, thanks in part to my yoga practice. It also probably has something to do with finally admitting that I was living a lie, staying hitched to my emotionally manipulative ex while secretly hating everything about my life. I try and be as honest with myself as possible these days, about what I need, what I want, what I think. I’ve worked so hard to listen to myself, it would be a shame to lose touch now.

  I breathe in deeply and start moving through my sun salutations, though the sun has yet to crest over the billowing clouds rolling over the horizon. I let my thoughts and worries drift away as they come up—this is as important a part of yoga as the asanas, or poses, themselves. I breathe out my parents’ continued disappointment in me. I breathe out the sexist nonsense my new boss keeps hurling my way. I breathe out my jitters about sharing space with Maddox Walcott once again. Soon, I’m feeling so energized about the day ahead that I stand up from my mat, step down off the front porch, and make my way across the boardwalk, toward the sea.

  I wrap my hands around the boardwalk railing, watching the waves roll in off the ocean. The sky is lightening with every passing moment, and in this moment it feels like anything is possible. An honest-to-god smile breaks across my face, and I lift my arms up to the sky, closing my eyes as I let the salty air cascade over me.

  “You waitin’ for someone to round out your Titanic fantasy?” someone calls to me from down the boardwalk, “Cause I sure wouldn’t mind getting behind you.”

  My arms turn to lead as I drop them to my sides, feeling my entire body going stock still. That voice is still seared into my memory—I’d know it anywhere. Should I ignore him, or confront him? I knew we’d have to come face-to-face sooner or later, but I was hoping it would be in a professional setting, surrounded by other people. Buffers. But now, it’s just the two of us, out on the boardwalk at the break of day. Alone. I’ve only been alone with this man once before, and we know how that worked out.

  At least check to make sure it’s actually him before you freak out, I urge myself.

  Inch by inch, I pivot toward the rich, gravelly voice. Tendrils of fog snake across the boardwalk, yet to be burned off by the sun. All along the shoreline, sleepy beach houses and hotels have yet to stir for the day. But the broad, balanced form emerging from the fog, advancing toward me with utter confidence, is awake and raring to go. And even though I knew it was Maddox from the second I heard him speak, the sight of him still hits me like a punch to the gut. He was a handsome young man when I last saw him in the flesh, but since then he has hardened. Evolved. In his late 20’s, there’s nothing pretty about Maddox Walcott, now. Just pure, distilled masculinity.

  He grins as I turn toward him, his face flushed with the exertion of his run. He’s clad in some high quality winter gear, though it’s barely necessary on a balmy morning like this. When you’re that hot to begin with, overheating must be a real risk, huh? I’m keenly aware of my own attire—some skin-tight yoga pants and a loose cotton tank. It doesn’t escape me that I was wearing almost exactly the same thing the last time we had a…um. Heart to heart. But as Maddox comes closer, his smile remains neutral. Unsurprised. Wait a second… does he seriously not even recognize me? My nerves give way to mounting indignation. I know it was a long time ago, but come on, buddy.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Walcott,” I call to him, leaning against the boardwalk railing.

  The sound of my voice wafts down the boardwalk and reaches his ears. By the time he registers my words, he’s barely ten feet away from me. Maddox stops dead in his tracks, his face finally transforming with the surprise of recognizing my voice. His full lips part slightly as he trains his gray eyes on my face, then my body. All at once, it hits him full on.

  “Abrams?!” he exclaims, completely astounded.

  “Hey, Mad,” I reply, charmed by his exuberant surprise, despite myself.

  “Holy fucking shit,” he crows, striding forward to close the space between us, “Am I dreamin’ right now? Is it seriously you?”

  “It seriously is,” I confirm, very aware of the fact that barely a foot of space separates us now. He’s almost too gorgeous to look at, full on. His transfixing eyes, the sheer enormity of his body, the staggering presence and confidence he exudes. It’s like I’ve got a contact high or something, and I haven’t even touched him yet.

  Yet?! I implore myself, What do you meant yet?!

  “What the hell are you even doing out here?” Maddox goes on, shamelessly raking his eyes along my body, “You look fucking amazing, but the way. Sexy as ever.”

  “Uh. Thanks, Maddox,” I say, trying my best not I stammer. “I’m actually living here now. Moved down from New York City for the job.”

  “No shit. I moved here for a job too,” he laughs, casually letting his hand brush my shoulder blade and he leans against the railing beside me. I have to swallow hard to keep from sighing with delight.

  “Yeah… I know you did,” I tell him, inching away just slightly to preserve my sanity. “I follow the news, you know.”

  “Ah. You’ve been tracking me then, have you?” he grins rakishly, his gray eyes flaring.

  “You’ve been all over the news, lately,” I remind him, annoyed by his presumption, “It’s not like I have a Maddox Walcott Google Alert set up on my phone.”

  “I wouldn’t judge you if you did,” he laughs, shifting to close the space I just put between us, “I’m pretty hard to forget.”

  “Just pretty good at forgetting, though,” I shoot back, before I can stop myself. Dammit. I didn’t want to get into any personal shit with him. Ever.

  “What’re you talkin’ about?” he snaps, straightening his back.

  “Nothing. Just forget I—”

  “Are you pissed at me or something?” he laughs, “For what, not sending you a box of chocolates after we—”

  “A text would have done the trick,” I reply coolly.

  “I don’t remember receiving any texts from you either, sweetheart,” he remarks, “It’s a two-way street, isn’t it?”

  I glare up at Maddox Walcott in the gathering daylight. I guess he’s technically right. I never did reach out to him either after our tryst in the exam room all those years ago. But he was off becoming an international soccer star. What was I supposed to do, see if we wanted to meet at Starbucks sometime? Our lives went in completely different directions. He skyrocketed into fame, fortune, and lifetime of fantastic sex, and I got married for all the wrong reasons and have basically written off relationships ever since. Getting in touch just seemed pointless.

  And yet here we are again. Just two people, standing on a boardwalk. With no one else around. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say I recognized that glint in his eye.

  “Hey, no hard feelings
on my end,” Maddox says, his voice low and smooth. “I’m just happy as hell to see you again. I mean it, Poppy. You look unbelievably incredible.”

  “Why unbelievably?” I ask, feeling my voice go raspy around the edges. Goddammit, why am I even engaging with him? Why can’t I help but respond to every little move he makes, every word, every touch?

  “Oh, you know,” he goes on, letting his eyes trail down my petite body once more as he subtly shifts to standing before me, “Life can take its toll on a person.”

  “On a body, you mean?” I challenge him, feeling my pulse pick up as he stands mere inches away from me. Even after all this time, being close to him feels familiar. It’s like it was just yesterday that we were nineteen and twenty-six, going at it on that exam table in the dead of night. A low, pounding pressure pulses in my core, and I press my back firmly against the railing to steady myself.

  “I suppose I am talking about bodies, yeah,” Maddox goes on, his voice getting closer to a growl with every syllable. Though we’re out here in the open, he’s looking at me with eyes that belong behind closed doors. “And yours in particular.”

  “Well. You’ve held up pretty well yourself,” I manage to whisper. My rational mind starts to come loose at the edges, like a tarp ripped away by a fierce wind. Only now, it’s Maddox Walcott’s fierce, fiery gaze that threatens to tear away my sense completely.

  “So. Poppy…” he murmurs, running a daring hand down my bare arm. “Are you staying down here with your husband?”

  “No, I’m not,” I breathe, my eyes locked onto his.

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Filthy pack of bastard children?”

  “No, you asshole,” I laugh, giving him a playful shove. I feel my breath stick in my throat as he catches my hands against his firm chest. My fingers rest against those hard panes, rising and falling with his every breath. Maddox wraps his fingers gently but decisively around my wrists, looking down at me with a hunger I know all too well.

  “So you’re saying there’s no one in that beach shack over there that would be opposed to me taking you inside and fucking you the second the door slammed behind us?”

  I have to clench my teeth together with all my might to keep my mouth from falling wide open. The world beyond Maddox’s gorgeous face goes fuzzy as I try and process what he’s just said. Who proposes an impromptu fuck after eight years of silence? And why am I so tempted to just give in and go for it? What the hell am I supposed to do now? Maddox guides my hands to his waist as I struggle to find words, placing his own hands firmly on my hips before sliding them down over the smooth rise of my ass…

  “Fucking hell!” he grunts, as I elbow him swiftly in the stomach, “What was that for?”

  “We can’t do this,” I tell him, shoving my hands through my hair. “We absolutely cannot, do you hear me?”

  “You could just say that, instead of trying to break a rib,” he says angrily, “In case you haven’t heard, I have to train for an entire MLS season in less than a month.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have heard,” I shoot back at him, “Do you want to venture a guess as to why?”

  “You follow the team…?” he shrugs, looking at me like I’m a crazy person.

  “I work for the team,” I say through gritted teeth, my hands balled into angry fists. Leave it to Maddox to not even know who’s on his coaching staff.

  He stares at me blankly for a long moment, trying and failing to process this information.

  “So you’re like…what…in marketing or something?” he guesses.

  “Sonofabitch,” I mutter, turning away from him for a second to take a breath. He doesn’t even remember that I was getting my PT doctorate when we last met?

  “What, not marketing then?” he goes on, “Social media or whatever the—”

  “I’m your trainer,” I snap, whirling back around to face him, “You know, just like I was when you fucked me last. I’m the Empire’s Assistant Athletic Trainer, you prick.”

  That one takes him quite a bit longer to wrap his head around. I can watch the cogs whirring in his brain—he’s a damn good striker, but doesn’t have much in the way of book smarts, if I remember correctly. Finally, he holds his hands up to me, as if keeping any more jarring information at bay.

  “So, let me get this straight,” he says slowly, pacing back and forth across the boardwalk, “You, Poppy Abrams, are a trainer for the Empire.”

  “Correct,” I confirm.

  “The Empire, meaning the club I just signed on to play for.”

  “Yes.”

  “OK. OK…” he says, pausing to mull things over.

  “You doing all right over there?” I ask him, folding my arms, “Do you need me to get a pen and paper so I can spell it out for you?”

  “Nah, it’s just…” he begins, the corner of his mouth twitching into a rakish smile, “That’s gonna make things difficult for you. Seeing as you’ve never been able to resist spreading your legs for me.”

  I wouldn’t be surprised if actual steam started pouring from my ears at Maddox’s shitty, arrogant, presumptuous remark. Without another word, I turn on my heel and march back toward my house, letting the screen door clatter shut behind me.

  “See you at practice, Ms. Abrams!” Maddox crows after me, finding this entire thing hilarious, of course.

  I storm off into my house, peering through the window as Maddox lopes away, chuckling to himself. The nerve of that man, assuming that something is going to happen between us. And all because I can’t resist him. Just because that happens to be true…

  “Oh god,” I whisper, sliding down along the wall until I land hard on the floor. “What have I gotten myself into?”

  Chapter Seven

  Poppy

  Thankfully, that’s the last time I end up alone with Maddox Walcott for the whole first week of training. Though the team is hard at work training on the pitch every day, I’m still getting a broad lay of the land behind the scenes from my boss, Barry, and the manager Chris Glover. I’m something of a last-minute hire, so I have to cram a year’s worth of research and training into a few short weeks. I guess Mad and I are in the same boat, in that sense. I’m so busy and distracted by my work that for the first week on the job, I barely have any time to think about Maddox Walcott, or our close encounter on the boardwalk last week. Already, that scene of Maddox walking out of the fog toward me on the deserted stretch of beachfront is starting to feel like a dream.

  On Friday afternoon, at the tail end of my first full week on the job, I’m sitting in my office in the Empire’s training facilities when I hear the heavy doors leading toward the pitch slam open. A chorus of raised voices ring out through the hallway, yelling and cursing angrily. I leap out of my chair and rush into the hallway to see what the hell is going on. At first, all I can make out is a pack of men, jostling and lunging down the hallway. The entire coaching staff and a good amount of the team seems to be involved in whatever is going on. But despite the commotion, I can still discern pretty quickly who the ringleader is.

  Maddox storms down the hallway, keeping a hand pressed to the side of his head. He’s been hurt—the entire left side of his face is streaked with blood. And he’s not the only one who’s been injured, either. Hadrian Barlow, the team’s captain, is marching alongside Maddox, clutching his own skull, but on the right side. The two men are shouting obscenities at each other as they barrel down the hallway, straight toward me. Their coaches and teammates try to keep them separated, but I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them came out swinging at any moment.

  “What happened?” I ask Barry, as he trots ahead of the pack to reach me.

  “These two cracked skulls going for the same header,” he tells me breathlessly. At sixty years old and sporting a burgeoning beer belly, Barry isn’t in the best shape to keep up with two brawling twenty-something athletes.

  “We should separate them,” I tell Barry, watching as Chris Glover places himself bod
ily between his two sparring players. The last thing he needs is for the coverage of our home opener next week to be dominated by how many black eyes the team is sporting.

  “That’s for fucking sure,” Barry replies, shaking his head, “I’ll grab Barlow and bring him into an exam room to wait for the medical team. You do the same with Walcott.”

  I whip around to face my boss, feeling my cheeks go red. “You sure you don’t want to deal with Walcott? I know how stoked you are to have him here—”

  “This is no time for going star-struck, Miss Abrams,” Barry snaps, hurrying over to the team’s captain, “Just grab Walcott and calm him the fuck down.”

  I square my shoulders and march toward the fray. Maddox Walcott is grinning devilishly at Hadrian Barlow, who looks like his head is about to explode—and not just because of his fiery orange hair, either. I can see in an instant that this isn’t a real two-sided fight. Maddox is just taunting Barlow. It’s a power move. This is classic Mad Man Walcott—he was pulling this shit all the time in the Premiere League. When he wasn’t busy breaking people’s noses, he was fucking with their heads like a pro. It figures he’s good at mind-fucking as he is actual fucking.

  “Come with me,” I order Maddox, grabbing hold of his ripped arm.

  He shakes off my hand without even glancing at me, watching as Barry tries to get a hold of Barlow. Undeterred, I reapply my grip, digging my fingers into his thick, muscled arm with a bit more intensity than is strictly called for. That gets his attention. He looks down and sees me standing beside him, and I will myself to stay focused even as I take in his gorgeous, sweaty face. He must have had one last growth spurt after I saw him last, because I don’t remember having to crane my neck quite this far to look him in the eye. He’s got to be 6’ 4” by now, an even foot taller than me. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let him get away with his usual bullshit. Not with me.