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

Me: Yeah, not so much. I’m glad you dropped a line. I’ve missed you all week.

  Her: You’ve seen me every day this week.

  Me: Not the way I want to see you.

  Those three little dots dance around in their bubble for a good long while as she slowly types her response.

  Her: What way do you want to see me, Mad?

  Me: Completely naked, lying in my bed with your legs spread wide open

  Her: I want you to see me like that too

  Me: And what do you want me to do to you, once I have you like that?

  Her: I want your hands on me.

  Me: You want me to run them along your body, all the way down to your wet pussy?

  Her: Yeah, that’s what I want. I’m so wet for you, Mad.

  Me: I can feel it. I’m running my fingers all along your slit. I’m slipping two fingers deep inside you.

  Her: I love that. I love how you touch me.

  Me: Do you love it when I bear down on your clit? I know you like it when I’m a little rough.

  Her: God, I love feeling you there. You know exactly how I like it.

  My fingers dig into the marble countertop as we go on. I can feel myself getting harder by the second. She knows exactly how I like it, too.

  Me: I could make you come this second, but I won’t. I want to take my time. I want you to beg me to let you come.

  Her: Fuck, I don’t know if I can take it much longer. I’m picturing you here with me, on top of me…

  Me: Soon, babe. But right now it’s all about you.

  Her: That might be the sexiest thing you’ve said yet.

  I laugh through my raging lust. Even in the middle of a round of dirty sexting she can still make me laugh.

  Me: I grab onto your hips and bring my mouth down to your pussy. I give it a nice, long lick before I suck your clit between my lips.

  Her: Oh, fuck…

  Me: My fingers move inside you as my tongue circles your clit, hard.

  Her: That’s perfect. You’re perfect. I dig my fingers into your hair and hold on for dear life.

  Me: You’re close aren’t you?

  Her: I’m so close.

  Me: I bring my fingers back to your clit as I lift my mouth to yours. I kiss you hard, deep. You can taste yourself all over my lips and tongue.

  Her: Can I come now? Please??

  Me: Yes. Come for me.

  I stand holding my phone, waiting for her response. Tense moments go by with no answer, as my cock very nearly tears through my jeans. Finally, she types back.

  Her: Holy shit.

  Me: Tell me about it.

  Her: I really did just want to tell you good luck.

  Me: Uh huh. I totally believe you.

  Her: Was that… OK? For you, I mean.

  Me: Are you kidding? It was fucking brilliant for me.

  Her: Well, good.

  Me: But you’re gonna have to excuse me for sec. You’ve got me wound up to ten over here. I need to go take care of myself or I won’t last the night.

  Her: You sure?

  Me: Very

  Her: I mean. I could take care of you. If you like.

  Just when I thought this exchange couldn’t get any better. Grabbing my scotch, I head for the bedroom. If this is going any further, I’m gonna need to get comfortable.

  Me: I’m listening…

  Chapter Nine

  Poppy

  Time itself breaks into a sprint as the Atlantic City Empire makes its big debut. Our home opener draws a crowd of 25 thousand people—not bad for an untested expansion team. I’m not even one of the players, but I still get the opening day jitters. I have to be on top of my game too, after all. Watching the club burst onto the scene is incredibly exciting. Our colors, navy and gold, are everywhere in this city. And on opening day, I’m amazed by the wave of fans that comes streaming into our brand new stadium. I don’t know how Tucker and his marketing team managed to garner so much interest, but they did a bang-up job.

  Of course, they did have a little help from one Maddox Walcott. Not only is he an international sensation in his own right, but the media blitz around his dismissal from the Premier League and recruitment by The Empire has made our fledgling club a household name. Maddox’s face is on every piece of merchandise, every press release—hell, I’m surprised they don’t paint his likeness onto the pitch itself. Avid soccer fans here in the States have known of Maddox Walcott for years, but since the sport is nowhere near as popular here as it is in the UK, lots of people are hearing about this compelling, talented, epically gorgeous player for the first time. To put it simply: America wants as much Maddox Walcott as it can get.

  And it isn’t just America jonesing for a taste of him.

  After Maddox manages to reduce me to a puddle on the floor through text message alone, I’m hooked. We spend the next few weeks sexting like fiends, at all hours of the day and night. Our mounting sexual tension has finally found a release. But I know that soon, this won’t be enough to hold me over. I desperately want this man, and I’m not afraid to go after what I want. But as the press coverage of Maddox kicks into high gear, I have to accept that any dalliance with him is likely to be global news.

  Every little detail of Maddox’s life is already being turned over in the name of “journalism”. There have been stories about his unlikely discovery as a mere kid, the way he fought to make a life for himself and his little sister. There’s been coverage of his reputation as a larger-than-life playboy, interviews with many of his seemingly innumerable ex-girlfriends. And amid all that, there are rumors about his possibly criminal past. From what I’ve read, Maddox is an associate of an East London gang called The Hackney Firm. “The Firm”, as it’s often referred to, is kind of like a club in and of itself. Mostly, it’s a band of men looking out for their own. But sometimes, that involves rather illegal activities. It’s impossible to say whether or not Maddox is responsible for some of the more unseemly things The Firm has been accused of, but still. I can’t forget that I know almost nothing about this person, other than that he’s an incredible sexting partner. I have to be careful.

  The Empire’s first couple of games go better than we have any right to hope for. We win our home opener with two expert goals by the one and only Mad Man Walcott and draw at our first match on the road. And it’s not the results that I’m happy about—I’m also really enjoying my job. Most of what I do involves working one-on-one with the players themselves, and they really are a great group of guys. They come from all over the world, and have fascinating stories to tell. All of the players are at different points in their lives and careers, but they have one thing in common: they’re super enthusiastic about getting to be a part of this club’s first ever roster.

  I even find that I get along well with Hadrian Barlow, Maddox’s nemesis. As the team captain, he has a lot of leadership responsibilities placed on his shoulders, but he handles the pressure well. Sometimes I swear that I catch Maddox keeping an eye on Barlow when I’m working with him. Call me crazy, but I think Mad Man gets a little jealous when I pay attention to Barlow. Barlow gets plenty jealous of Maddox, too, but for different reasons. All of the guys on the team are totally bonkers for Maddox, and defer to him at every turn even though Barlow is technically their captain. Maddox tends to do whatever he likes as a striker, and though he makes incredible split-second decisions that usually push The Empire toward victory, he’s still a loose cannon.

  But as another win comes in for us, this time on the road, we all start to accept that the risks involved with keeping a loose cannon around are well worth it.

  Though Maddox and I are carrying on with our as-yet text-based filthiness, we make a game out of being super professional at work. It’s thrilling, actually, having this secret between us. Interacting with him on the job is like one huge role playing session, now that we’re being open with our desire for each other. I catch myself getting worked up just from a seemingly casual conversation with him at work. We’re in the middle of our t
wisted game while everyone looks on, acting as our unwitting audience. And with every passing day I can feel my need to up the ante in our game skyrocket.

  The day of our second home game at the end of March, I’m making the rounds with the players as they start to warm up. I’m diligent about checking in with each and every one of them about their physical fitness. It’s my job to know exactly how they’re doing at any given moment, after all. I’m just wrapping up with Hans Orbach, our gigantic German goalkeeper.

  “So you’re feeling good then?” I ask him, probably looking like a mouse giving medical advice to an elephant as I stand here talking to him.

  “All good,” he nods, giving me one of his signature toothy grins.

  Orbach is a gentle giant off the pitch, but in goal he is an absolute monster. He has no fear when it comes to throwing his gigantic body around to stop a ball in its tracks, and I’ve never seen someone as simultaneously agile and enormous as him. He keeps his area of the locker room filled with pictures of his wife and two young daughters—I think we spend more time talking about their wellbeing than we do his.

  I give Orbach a thumbs up and head on out to the pitch, where Barlow is moving through some stretches. I watch him closely as I approach, and see that he’s still slightly favoring his right leg. His left knee was giving him a little trouble after the last game, and it looks like it might still be bugging him.

  “Hey there,” I call to him, breaking into a light jog as I cross the pitch. I’m wearing my favorite pair of boyfriend jeans and a slouchy black tee shirt—not exactly business casual, but hey, it’s a physical job. Gotta be as comfortable as possible.

  “Hey Pops,” Hadrian calls back, raising a shovel-sized hand to block the sun from his eyes as I approach. “Coming to check up on me?”

  “You know it,” I reply, planting my hands on my hips as I step up next to him. “How’s that knee treating you?”

  “It’s decent,” he tells me, catching his foot in his hand and giving the joint a good stretch.

  “Just decent?” I press. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Maddox leading a few other players through his own sequence of warm ups. Even as he works with his teammates, he’s got an eye on me and Hadrian. I don’t think he likes another player getting on my good side. Well, tough shit.

  “It’s fine,” Barlow goes on, rubbing a hand through his thick beard, “Chris was a little hesitant to play me today, but Barry took a look at me and said I was good to go. If they’re not worried, I’m not worried.”

  Well, that makes one of us, I think to myself. Barry O’Leary is a great trainer, and has many decades more experience than I do, but as the head trainer, he has a lot less time to work one-on-one with the guys. A lot of the day-to-day stuff falls on me, not him. And from what I’m seeing on this particular day, Barlow might not be in great shape to start.

  “Speak of the devil,” Barlow says, glancing over my shoulder. I look to see Barry and our manager Chris Glover walking across the pitch toward us, deep in conversation. I’ve barely gotten any face time with Glover just yet—most of my orders come through Barry. But now, the two of them are headed right in my direction. Well, Barlow’s direction.

  “Hey Boss,” I say to O’Leary as he and Glover walk up to us, “Just making the rounds. I was noticing that—”

  “Everyone’s looking good, right?” Barry cuts me off, looking out across the pitch.

  “For the most part,” I continue. If I let myself get upset every time Barry O’Leary cuts me off in the middle of sentence, I’d never get anything done.

  “I like this starting 11,” Barlow nods, referring to the first 11 players who are set take the field at the top of the game. You only get three substitutions per match in soccer, as opposed to other sports where players can come and go with much more frequency. So nailing your starting 11 is crucial.

  But even though I think also our starting lineup is strong, I can’t put Barlow’s knee out of my mind. I just don’t have a good feeling about him playing a full 90 minutes today.

  “One thing,” I say to my bosses before they can walk away, “I was noticing that Barlow’s left knee is looking a little touchy. Barry, do you want to take another look?”

  “I’ve already checked him out,” Barry replies, “He’s fine to play.”

  “I’m not so sure,” I tell him, “I know it looked fine during practice, but I was watching him just now and—”

  “Are you suggesting that he might not be fit to play?” Glover asks, his eyes hard on my face. My burly, former MLS star manager is pretty intimidating, but I have to give my professional opinion.

  “Barlow’s played the last three games,” I point out, “He has to rest sometime. I’m worried that he might get injured if he overdoes it today.”

  “We’ve already got our lineup for today,” Barry cuts in testily. “I’m telling you, Poppy. Barlow is fine.”

  “Is that true, Hadrian?” Glover asks the captain, “Or has the knee gotten worse?”

  “I mean…It did feel better yesterday,” Barlow allows.

  Glover takes a deep breath, looking back and forth between me and O’Leary. “Well, which is it? Is he fit to play or not?”

  “I’m telling you he is, goddammit!” O’Leary shouts suddenly, taking me off guard. “What’re you, gonna listen to her over me?”

  “I’m just doing my job, Barry,” I tell him evenly.

  “Your job is to do what I tell you,” he growls back.

  I feel my blood heating to a boil as the rest of the players on the pitch look over to see what the commotion’s all about—Maddox included.

  “With all due respect,” I tell Barry, my fists clenched at my sides, “My job is to make sure none of these men get hurt. And I think that Barlow is at risk of getting hurt if he plays the full 90 minutes today.”

  “See, this is the problem with having a woman on staff,” Barry rants on, “You’re too busy trying to nurture everyone that you can’t see the big picture!”

  “Excuse me?” I shoot back, astonished by his ignorance.

  “Enough, both of you,” Glover shouts, his jaw clenched. “I don’t need you squabbling like children in front of the team and bringing down morale. Barlow will start today, as planned, but we’ll sub him after the first 60 minutes. Can you both live with that?”

  Barry throws up his hands and stalks off the pitch, throwing a good old fashioned man-tantrum for the whole team to see. I nod my head in agreement with Glover. It’s not safe to open my mouth when I’m this livid.

  “Good,” Glover says curtly, turning to Barlow. “I have some things to go over with you before the match. Let’s talk in my office.”

  Barlow shoots me a look of solidarity as he accompanies Glover back inside. I’m left standing alone at the center of the pitch as the players turn back to their warm ups. All of the players except one, that is. I look up to see Maddox staring at me from across the field, his own fists balled up just like mine. His staggering body is wound up like a spring, ready to be released. His entire form is arranged almost in a fighting stance. Was he about to come over here and leap to my defense? That would have been a dead giveaway that something is going on between us.

  But as I hold Maddox’s gaze across the field, see the protectiveness and desire shining in his eyes, there’s no use denying it. There is something going on between us. Something deep, and overwhelming, and potent. I felt it the second he stepped out of the fog that morning on the boardwalk. It’s like I’ve been pulled into his orbit. And I’ve been pushing back against that gravitational pull because…why? Because Barry-fucking-O’Leary might think less of me if I hook up with one of the players? Barry O’Leary is a sexist asshole who’s never taken me seriously. That’s his problem, not mine.

  Sure, sleeping with Maddox would be risky. The press could find out, the club would most likely frown on it, to make the understatement of the year. But is that really why I’m keeping Maddox at arm’s length? Or have I just been too scared to give mysel
f over to the irresistible pull of him? I’ve been avoiding feeling much of anything since Jason demolished my heart two years ago. But right now, my heart and body have the majority over my skeptical brain. The “ayes” have it, it would seem.

  As scary as it is, I give myself permission to want what I want. And what I want more than anything is another night with Maddox Walcott.

  Chapter Ten

  Maddox

  The first loss of a season never goes down easy, and this one’s no exception. We all got a little cocky out there. And after three great results right out of the gate, who wouldn’t? None of us gave our opponents enough credit going into this one, not to mention that Captain Ginger had to be dragged off after the first half of the game on account of his wonky knee. I think the guy’s an uptight boy scout, but he’s still a damn good player. Without him to shoulder at least some of the weight, I’m too overburdened to do what I do best on the pitch. So, we blew this one. But luckily, I have an excellent cure-all for our fallen spirits.

  “All right, you lot,” I say to the squad as they all mope about the locker room, “Enough of this whiny bullshit. You’re all coming back to the Tangier with me tonight and gettin’ nice and hammered. How’s that sound?”

  “Fine, as long as you’re paying,” says Diego Carrera, our best defender. We have him on loan from La Liga, the top football association in Spain. Of all the guys on the team, I have the most respect for Diego. He’s been playing his entire life, just like me, and is always the first one on hand with a good joke when we need it. And something tells me he’s the least likely of all these guys to keep up.