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

  “Let’s go, Mad,” I go on, tugging him down the hallway, “I won’t say it again.”

  “Aw, come on. We’re just havin’ a friendly little spat,” Maddox grins, jerking his head toward Hadrian, “Isn’t that right, mate?”

  “Fuck you, Walcott!” the captain bellows, fuming as Barry leads him away, “You cockney piece of shit.”

  “The only proper kind of shit to be, my friend,” Maddox calls, flipping him off while the coaches have their backs turned. Just before Barlow can come charging back at Mad, Barry wrangles him into an exam room and closes the door.

  “Real fucking mature,” I mutter to Maddox, who strides down the hall toward a room of his own.

  “What? It’s not my fault if the prick can’t handle a little bump on the head,” Maddox shrugs, shucking off his tee shirt and letting it fall to the ground.

  “You know we don’t have any maids on staff, right?” I say coolly, nodding at his dirty laundry, “What, did you never learn how to pick up after yourself?”

  “By the time I had anything to pick up, I could already pay someone else to do it for me,” he grins, sitting down on the exam table as the medical team arrives.

  I step back to let the doctors do their work. Maddox has a nasty cut on the side of his head, and definitely needs stitches. He is absolutely unperturbed as the medical team fixes him up. I don’t see him wince even once. I let my eyes wander along his bare torso, telling myself that my gaze is purely professional. As if. Maddox is far more built than when I last knew him. He’s an absolute tank these days, made entirely of pure, hard muscle. It’s clear that his strength comes from living and playing hard, not spending hours toiling away in the gym.

  That’s the kind of body my ex-husband Jason had—all superficial strength, nothing that ran deep. No strength of character to speak of, either. He kept himself just fit enough to attract a lady on the side whenever he wasn’t “getting enough” from me. I wasn’t even all that surprised when I found out that he’d spent the four years we’d been together sleeping with other women. Just disappointed, in him and myself both. I’d married him to try and attain the normal life my parents always wanted for me. I wanted to show the world that I was capable of “having it all”—that shitty myth we women are taught to buy into. Nobody ever asks men how they balance their work and home lives, but no one is surprised when a husband cheats because his wife “works too much”.

  But any thought of Jason is pushed from my mind as Maddox arches his back, sending a ripple through his impeccably cut muscles. He’s far more heavily tattooed now, too—with full sleeves and additional pieces inked across his chest and back. I’m seized with the desire to memorize each and every one of those tattoos, study them up close. As close as I can get…

  “There we go,” Becca, one of the medics, says as she packs up her bag, “Good as new.”

  I stand up straight, snapping myself out of my daydreams. “Great. Thanks so much for patching him up.”

  Becca and her assistant take their leave, letting the door shut behind them. It’s just me and Maddox alone again. He swings his legs over the side of the table, facing me straight on.

  “So. You were dispatched to babysit me then, is that it?” he grins, “Make sure I stay on my best behavior?”

  “Something like that,” I tell him honestly, “You and Barlow both needed a time out.”

  “What Barlow needs is for someone to pry that steel rod out of his arse,” Maddox barks, “How he expects to play in that state is fuckin’ mystery to me.”

  “Cut the shit, Mad,” I shoot back, taking a step toward him. “You’ve been antagonizing Hadrian since the second you got here. I’ve been watching you guys all week, remember? You’re trying to prove that you’re better than he is.”

  “I am better than he is,” Maddox points out.

  “You’re teammates, Walcott,” I go on, “Don’t you get that? Trying to put him in his place is just exhausting the both of you. You’re going to end up playing worse if you keep wasting energy bullying your captain.”

  “My worst is still good enough to outdo these MLS twats,” he scoffs.

  “I hate to break it to you,” I reply, planting my hands on my hips, “But you’re one of these MLS twats now, too. Thanks to your illegal extracurricular activities, this is your league now. And you know what? It’s an awesome league. Better than ever. You should be grateful that MLS even agreed to take your gangster ass. God, are you so fucking pompous that you don’t even realize what a miracle it is that you even get to play professional soccer? Some people would kill for that opportunity. Myself included.”

  “What’re you talkin’ about?” he shoots back, brow furrowed, “You’re a physio.”

  “It’s…Nothing,” I tell him, shaking my head. “I’m not here to lay my life story out for you, I’m here to make sure you didn’t injure anything else out there. Apart from Barlow’s dignity, that is.”

  “Yeah. I did do a number on the poor kid,” Maddox laughs.

  “Aren’t you two the same age?” I ask, stepping up to the table.

  “Technically speakin’, sure. But he ain’t seen half of what I have in life,” Mad tells me.

  I glance up at his face, and watch as a dark cloud rolls through his gray eyes. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard him mention his troubled past. I wonder what the story is? No time to pry now. Forcing myself to stay professional, I give him a good, thorough examination, checking to see that he’s in good shape. Well, of course he’s in good shape, but… you know what I mean. And though I make it through my physical without grabbing hold of that fine, chiseled ass of his, I’d be lying if I said that my mind was fully present. Maybe I should try and find a local booty call and work through some of this pent-up sexual energy? It has been a minute since I’ve gotten off with anything but my trusty vibe.

  “Does anything else feel bruised? Sprained?” I ask Maddox, reluctantly taking my hands off his body.

  “Nah,” he says, “Fit as a fiddle.”

  “Except for the stitches in your skull,” I remind him, cocking an eyebrow.

  “It’s nothing,” he shrugs, “So am I free to go, or what?”

  “Sure,” I tell him, “Just let me know if anything starts to hurt.”

  “Will you come kiss it better if it does?” Maddox asks, “Cause if so, I can suggest a couple places that need tending to.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can,” I roll my eyes.

  “I’m serious, Poppy,” Maddox goes on, rising to his feet, “What’ve I got to do to get your lips on me again?”

  I try and suppress the shudder of sensation that runs through me as Maddox takes a step my way. I lean back against the counter, staring up into his suddenly ravenous face.

  “You’re not gonna let this drop, are you?” I murmur, glancing over to make sure the door is securely closed. I can still hear the team and staff moving along through the facilities. Someone could walk in on us at any second.

  “Don’t plan on dropping it, no,” he growls, running his hands down my arms. “I’d back off if I knew you didn’t want me. But since that’s clearly not the case…”

  “How can you be so sure?” I shoot back, feeling goosebumps rise along my arms in the wake of his touch.

  “Because I can feel it in you,” he says, “Fuck, I can practically taste it…”

  In one swift motion, he’s grabbed me by the waist and tugged me forward. He pulls my hips to his as he wraps his hands around the small of my back. I plant my hands on his hard chest, trying to catch my breath.

  “Say it,” Maddox urges, holding me tightly against him, “Say you still want me.”

  “Of course I still want you,” I whisper. There’s no use lying to this man—he can see right through me. “You have no idea the things I want to do to you…”

  A low groan rises up from his throat, and I nearly give in right then and there as I feel his cock hardening against my eager body.

  “So what the fuck are we still doing
here?” he growls, running his hands up under my tee shirt, letting me feel his hands against my bare skin. “Let me take you back to my place and we can start making up for lost time.”

  “That wouldn’t be suspicious at all,” I laugh breathlessly, “The two of us leaving practice together for all the team to see…”

  “Come over later then,” he urges, bringing his lips to my throat. I let my eyes flutter closed as he kisses along my neck. “I’ll send a car. Shit, I’ll send a fucking helicopter if I have to. Anything to have you again.”

  “We can’t just…What about…” I mutter, struggling to put one word in front of another, “We have to be careful, Mad. We’re work for the same team now. No one could ever know…”

  “I didn’t tell anyone last time, did I?” he murmurs, “If I can keep from bragging about the hot older chick I fucked as a randy teenage boy, don’t you think I can keep a secret now?”

  “You didn’t have the press following every facet of your life when you were a randy teenage boy,” I remind him, letting my fingertips trail down his fine abs. “Your secrets aren’t so safe anymore. Isn’t that why you got kicked out of your old league in the first place?”

  “I know how to cover my tracks, Poppy. I’ve got loads of practice by now,” he says, moving to slip his hands up under my bra. But the reminder of his prolific sex life and criminal ties is not exactly a selling point, to be frank. I guide his hands off my body and step back, composing myself.

  “I…I need to go. I need to think,” I tell him, running my fingers through my hair as I turn to go.

  “What’s there to think about?” he says, striding after me. “You want me. I want you. Why shouldn’t we both get what we want?”

  “You don’t understand, Mad,” I tell him, “Some of us actually have to face consequences for our actions.”

  “I know all about consequences,” he says, taking my hand firmly in his, “But I’d rather regret something I’ve done, instead of something I was too afraid to do.”

  “I…I just…” I stammer, heart racing as he catches my face in his hands.

  “I’m going to kiss you now, Poppy,” he says, brushing his thumbs against my cheekbones. “OK?”

  “…Yeah. I think you’d better,” I breathe.

  He brings his mouth swiftly to mine, pressing his lips against my own. Our mouths move insatiably as we taste each other again after all this time. His strong tongue sweeps into my mouth as he catches me up in his arms. His full lips press against mine, at once full and impossibly soft. I press my body flush against his, marveling at the enormity of him, the precise intensity of his kiss. He’s not only bigger and stronger, now. He’s also better. More experienced. If he knew how to rock me back when he was only nineteen, what incredible things could he do to me now? I don’t know if I can wait to find out.

  Before my imagination has a chance to go wild, I hear heavy footsteps approaching swiftly along the hall, heading straight for this exam room door. Maddox and I pull away from each other by just an inch, listening as the voices of our manager and head trainer come closer. The instant before the door swings open, we leap away from each other—I to one side of the room and Mad to the other, where he thankfully has time to sit down and hide his raging erection before our bosses barrel inside.

  “Well?” Barry says, “What’s the story?”

  “He’s fine, apart from the head wound,” I say, busying myself with some charts on the counter. Anything not to look my boss in the eye.

  “You have anything to say for yourself, Walcott?” Chris Glover says to Mad, his jaw pulsing with ire.

  “Not really, mate,” Maddox shrugs, looking composed as hell. How does he do that? I feel like I’m going to dissolve into a puddle in about two minutes.

  “How about, ‘I’ll quit being a showoff so we can all do our jobs and win some games’?” Glover suggests, “That was a routine drill we were running out there. Barlow called the header for himself. You need to learn to leave well enough alone.”

  “I always have been a very persistent man,” Maddox says, “And I have a way of getting what I want.”

  Something tells me he’s not talking about soccer anymore. I swallow hard, feeling his words hit me right in the solar plexus.

  “Well then, try and figure out how to want a spot on this team for longer than one game,” Glover snaps, turning on his heel. “Because you’re pushing my patience, Walcott. You’re a good player, but you’re not untouchable.”

  No, I think to myself, On the contrary, he’s very touchable.

  O’Leary goes out after Glover, and I glance over at Maddox. He stays where he is, watching me as I collect my things. He’s not going to try and stop me from leaving now, or rush me into anything. I know that. He doesn’t have to. There’s only so much longer I’ll be able to keep myself from Maddox Walcott, and he knows it. All he has to do is wait.

  “See you soon, Ms. Abrams,” he says after me as I head for the door. “All of you, I hope,” he adds, softly so only I can hear.

  “You are persistent, aren’t you?” I ask, pausing in the doorway to take one last look at his muscled form before I go.

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” he grins, giving me a lingering once-over.

  Before I lose it completely and throw myself into his inked-up arms, I hurry down the hallway and back into the world as I know it. This is the last weekend before our big home opener next Friday, here at our stadium in Atlantic City. Maybe I can go on a Maddox Walcott detox cleanse this weekend and get him out of my system? Or maybe, just maybe, I should do as he says and go after what I want. God knows I want it, him, more than ever.

  But I guess I should wait to see if he really does get kicked off the team after his first game to make any hard decisions. Why put all that decision-making to waste, right?

  Chapter Eight

  Maddox

  I’m not gonna lie, I totally expected Poppy to show up on my doorstep that very night in nothing but a trench coat. But I guess I underestimated her self-control. That woman is disciplined as fuck. I’ve grown unaccustomed to waiting for a woman. These past few years, the action has been pretty non-stop. I can tap a few keys on my mobile and have a lady at my side in about ten minutes flat. But frankly, the fact that women want me more than ever these days actually makes things pretty boring for me. There’s no suspense, no effort, no surprise. I’m more intrigued by this little standoff with Poppy than I have been by anything, or anyone, all year.

  Still, that doesn’t make this whole waiting around thing any easier. The entire weekend goes by without a visit from the elusive Ms. Abrams. And when I see her again at the stadium, she’s acting downright cordial. I don’t know what to make of it. On the bright side, trying to figure out the enigma that is Poppy Abrams takes my focus away from fucking around with Captain Ginger (my new favorite nickname for Barlow. I know, I’m hilarious), so at least Glover gets off my back a bit. Don’t want to give the new manager a heart attack before our season even starts.

  In all fairness, the squad isn’t half bad. As I spend this final week training with them, I’m pleasantly surprised by how competent they are. I mean, sure they’re nowhere near the level of some of the legends I got to play with back in Europe, but it could be much worse. Not that I’d ever tell them that. Especially not Captain Ginger. I don’t give that kind of satisfaction to anyone outside of the bedroom.

  The night before our big home opener against another new East Coast expansion team, I actually decide to be a good boy and not hit the casino before turning in. I do have my customary bottle of Johnnie Walker Red to keep me company, of course. (I said I’d be good, not a bloody saint.) My room here at the Tangier is nicer than I expected it to be. Everything is super modern, with clean lines and edges. There’s a king sized bed, a tub the size of a swimming pool, and a well-stocked bar. Nothing frilly. I like that.

  I pour myself a few fingers of scotch and make my way over the sliding door that leads out onto the balcony. I push op
en the glass door and lean against the threshold, looking out across the water from my bird’s eye view. I wonder what eight-year-old Mad would think of this life—playing professional football by day, chilling out in top notch hotels by night. If the Hackney Firm hadn’t found me playing in a grubby neighborhood park and got me into a youth football academy with our local East London club, I never would have made anything of myself. I owe all of this to them, in a way, which is why I’ll always be loyal to the Firm. These days I’m more of a patron than anything, anyway—lending other members money if they need it, helping out when my celebrity status can be useful. I’m glad that what I’m good at can be of use to The Firm, ‘cause there’s nothing else I know how to do, besides play football.

  As much as I try to brush off my bad fortune, I know I very nearly lost everything when I got kicked out of the BPL. That’s why I’m not going to give these Americans any reason to question how much they need me. I’m leaving everything on the field tomorrow. I’ll show these people that Maddox Walcott is not a force to be taken lightly.

  My mobile vibrates on the kitchen counter across the room, and I go over to see who it is. There’s a new text message waiting for me, from a number I don’t recognize. It reads:

  Good luck tomorrow, Mad. I know you’re gonna kill it.

  I snatch up the phone, punching in a quick response.

  Who the hell is this?

  I sip my scotch, waiting for my secret admirer to reveal their identity.

  It’s Poppy. Lifted your number from your team file.

  A wide grin spreads across my face. This is the most contact I’ve had with my sexy ex-lover all week. I lean against the counter and shoot over a response.

  Me: Feeling naughty, are you?

  Her: Ha ha. Just wanted to wish you luck. I feel like “break a leg” might not be appropriate in this circumstance.