Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel)

by Masters, Colleen

  Maddox “Mad Man” Walcott.

  I first met Maddox when he was a cocky 19-year-old college kid. And a rising soccer star, to boot. Against my better judgement, I even ended up sleeping with him the night before his career-making collegiate match. Since then, I’ve watched his career take off from afar. He rose through the ranks of the British Premier League—though thankfully he never played for my BPL team, Arsenal. Cheering on a former one-night stand who I never heard from again would be a bit odd. But I no longer have to worry about that eventuality. Earlier this week, it was announced that Maddox is officially banned from the BPL. The league higher-ups cited his ties to some gang or other as justification of their decision, but everyone knows that they gave him the axe for his unapologetic, outrageous, admittedly badass behavior.

  Mad Man Walcott staked his claim as the bad boy of BPL the day he was first signed on as a 19-year-old. With his penchant for partying, tattoos, motorcycles, and leggy blondes (called it), he is everything the league doesn’t want to be known for. Add to the mix his stunning number of red cards and affinity for breaking his opponents’ noses with well-placed head butts, and you can understand why the BPL decided to give him the boot. He was a handful back when I knew him eight years ago. I can only imagine what a raging, intolerable asshole he is today.

  Just as I’m about to close out of my Twitter app and head back to dinner, a newly published headline catches my eye:

  Ousted Footballer Maddox Walcott Signs With MLS Club

  I stare at the phone, trying to comprehend what I’m reading. The Mighty Maddox Walcott actually deigning to give American soccer his time of day? Color me amazed. He had nothing but disdain for his American teammates and coaches when he was playing at the university level. But I guess if the BPL won’t let him on the pitch, this is his only option. I click through the article and read on.

  BREAKING: Maddox Walcott, the English footballer who was infamously dismissed from the British Premier League just days ago, has found himself a new club. The notoriously difficult and confident Mad Man will be the first Designated Player for the Atlantic City Empire, a new expansion team with…

  I can’t go on reading the article. Putting one word in front of another is suddenly an impossible task. My entire body goes still as stone as I let the news settle over me. Maddox Walcott is coming here. To the United States. To play for the very same team that just offered me my dream job. He’ll be back in my life, after all these years. Him and that impeccable, delicious body that I still remember every inch of.

  “Shit!” I exclaim, fumbling to catch my phone as I very nearly drop it into the toilet. Clutching the device to my heaving chest, I force myself to consider this information with as clear (and clean) a mind as I can manage.

  So. Maddox, a man I happen to have slept with, will be playing with The Empire. I’ve run into past lovers before, albeit not on the job. What’s the worst that could possibly happen? I’m not looking for any romantic entanglements. And he probably has scads of notches on his bedpost. He probably won’t even remember that one night we had together. Just because it was some of the best sex I’ve ever had, before or since…

  “Stop it, Abrams!” I mutter, shaking the memory of Maddox Walcott’s glorious rippling muscles out of my head.

  I can’t let my decision-making be clouded by a man I barely even know. I spent four years of my life letting my decisions be swayed by my husband, a man I thought I knew right to the core. I don’t need any more of that kind of interference in my life. Whatever I decide to do about this job with The Empire, I’m going to make my decision for me. Now, I just have to actually make a decision.

  Somehow…

  Chapter Three

  Maddox

  Atlantic City, New Jersey

  February

  I stand in front of my new teammates, trying not to sneer at their grimacing mugs. They look like a bunch of six-year-olds in bad need of a nap. Guess they’re not too happy to see me. I don’t much blame them. These blokes have been training together for the better part of a year under the watchful eyes of club owner Dale Tucker and manager Chris Glover, a former MLS player himself. We’re only a month away from our opening match, which makes me fashionably late, I suppose. Makes sense that no one’s pleased with the big reveal of Mad Man Walcott on their roster. I wouldn’t be too thrilled if someone came along at the last minute and stole my thunder, either.

  “All right, gather up,” our manager Chris Glover says to his assembled squad, clapping me on the shoulder. He and Tucker dragged me into the locker room to meet my new teammates the second I got off the plane. They stand flanking me even now, like they’re afraid I’m gonna bolt or something. To be fair, they might be right. “I want you to meet the latest addition to The Empire, Mr. Maddox Walcott.”

  Tucker claps his meaty hands together enthusiastically, and the rest of the team begrudgingly follows suit. There is one notable exception—team captain Hadrian Barlow. He’s apparently a big deal over here, and Tucker somehow managed to drag his bearded, ginger arse all the way over from the West Coast. Barlow stands with his feet rooted into the ground, glowering straight at me with his arms tightly crossed. Looks like someone’s grumpy about having some competition for best player on the squad.

  Ah, who am I kidding. As if there’s any competition between me and this motherfucker. I could wipe the pitch with that crusty-arse beard of his.

  “Maddox here will be joining us at practice first thing tomorrow,” Glover goes on in his slight New Jersey accent. He’s a real hometown hero, here. One of the first big MLS players to come out of this state, back when the league started in the ’90s. So far, I’ve got nothing against him. As long as he gives me plenty of room to do whatever the fuck I want, we won’t have any problems between us. It’s when people try to handle me that things go south.

  “You’d better rest up tonight,” Hadrian Barlow calls to me from his place in the pack, “We won’t go easy on you tomorrow just because you’re new.”

  “All right, then,” I reply, grinning back at my new captain, “Then I won’t go easy on you just because you’re an American.”

  A laugh goes up from my new teammates, bouncing off the locker room walls. Everyone loves to watch a tight-arse get his own shit lobbed back at him. And I can tell just by looking at him that Barlow’s sphincter is a goddamn vice grip. He glares back at me as the team disperses, and I shoot him a wink while the manager’s back is turned. Oh, man. Fucking with this guy is going to be way too much fun.

  “Got everything you need to settle in here, Mr. Walcott?” Tucker asks as he and Glover trail me out of the locker room. “Found a place to stay and everything?”

  “Sure,” I tell him, “I’ve got a room at the Tangier. Ocean views.”

  “You’re staying at…a casino?” Glover asks, stopping in his tracks.

  “Yeah,” I reply, “What of it?”

  “Doesn’t seem like a great place to focus,” Glover says sternly, “Or keep out of trouble.”

  “Can’t focus in anything but chaos, mate,” I grin, “And as for trouble, I’ve given up trying to keep it away from me. It always finds a way back, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m sure what Mr. Walcott means,” Tucker cuts in, smarmy as shit, “Is that he’ll we too busy training to do much else but order room service and hit the hay! Isn’t that right?”

  “Oh yeah,” I nod solemnly, “Scout’s honor.”

  Glover gives me a long, hard look, his thick black brows furrowed. “Make no mistake, Walcott. This isn’t college. Just because you’re back in the States doesn’t mean you’re going to be this team’s Crown Princess. If you fuck this up, you’re out. And good luck finding another league after that…”

  The manager rambles on with his lecture, but my attention has already been snagged by something over his shoulder. Down the hall from the locker room, lingering at one of the staff office doorways, is one of the finest bums I’ve seen in recent memory. It’s wrapped up in dark wash skinny j
eans, only halfway trying to hide in plain sight. But I’ve got an eyeful of it, all right. And I’m having trouble tearing my gaze away. By sheer force of will, I make myself zoom out and take in the big picture.

  There’s a woman standing at the end of the hallway, talking to the Head Athletic Trainer. Her back is turned, so I can’t see her face, but her layered light-brown hair is cropped just past her shoulders, and a well-cut blazer is stretched across her wing-like shoulder blades. She’s shorter than the women I usually go for, and way too young to be here for our Athletic Trainer. Maybe it’s take your fine-as-fuck grown daughter to work day? That would be one way to make an impression on the coaching staff—bedding all their eligible offspring. I’ve always been a man who’s known how to make an entrance.

  “I said, do we have an understanding?” Glover’s voice cuts through my sexed-up reverie.

  “Sure thing, boss,” I reply, glancing back over at the surly Italian-American.

  “Good,” he grumbles, walking past me toward his office, “I’ll be holding you to that.”

  “Glad to have you here, Mad Man!” Tucker drawls happily, practically skipping off after the manager. I swear, that man is like a real-life Winnie the fucking Pooh, only much slimier. I guess that makes Glover that brooding donkey that Pooh hangs out with. Eeyore. Yeah, that fits.

  With the fat teddy bear and grumpy arse off my back, I turn back to the hot piece I just had my eye on. But she’s already disappeared, like some kind of bodacious mirage. I’m more disappointed than makes any damn sense that I didn’t get to go up and introduce myself to her… and her grade-A assets. I shake off the feeling and head for the exit. I’m back in America now, after all. And unlike the last time I was here, I’m a world-famous troublemaker and professional athlete. No use getting hung up on a single minge-piece these days. The world is my bucket of oysters, now. And I’m gonna lick up as many as I can.

  Chapter Four

  Poppy

  Barry O’Leary, the Empire’s Head Athletic Trainer, stares blankly across his desk at me, as if unsure of how to proceed. Something tells me that good ol’ Barry is unaccustomed to holding full conversations with women. Or even conversations that go further than, “Make me a damn sandwich, woman.”

  That’s not fair, I chastise myself internally, shifting in my chair, you don’t know anything about this guy. Don’t jump to—

  “So what’s a pretty girl like you doing hanging around a bunch of sweaty young bucks for a living?” O’Leary smirks, “There are easier ways to land a husband, Miss Abrams.”

  Would you look at that? I’ve never had a conclusion jump to me before. There’s a first time for everything, I guess.

  “I’ve wanted to be a trainer since I was in high school,” I inform my new boss, “I actually played soccer myself up until I got a nasty injury. The trainers and PTs who helped put me back together were a huge inspiration to me.”

  “That’s sweet,” O’Leary chuckles, “But I hope you understand that these are no little girls with boo-boos you’re going to be dealing with, here. These are full-grown, testosterone-pumping men. And they’re not going to appreciate being coddled by a young, attractive woman. At least, not outside of the bedroom.”

  “Mr. O’Leary, I’ve been treating professional athletes for years now,” I snap, “And I assure you, none of them have had any problem respecting me just because I happen to be a young woman.”

  “Hey, whoa. Don’t get all Femi-Nazi on me,” O’Leary laughs, holding up his hands, “I’m just being straight with you. You’ve only ever worked with athletes one-on-one before, right?”

  “I worked in a team setting during my doctorate program,” I tell him.

  “So you know that things can get a little more…personal, when you’re right up close to the action?” O’Leary presses.

  Unbidden, a memory of Maddox Walcott’s cock hardening against my eager tongue bursts into my mind’s eye. I cross my legs a little tighter and try to collect myself.

  “I can handle it,” I tell O’Leary shortly, “Trust me.”

  “We’ll see whether you’re trustworthy or not,” he says, leaning back in his chair, “I didn’t hire you. I don’t know you from Eve. Tucker wanted to make sure we added some diversity to our coaching staff. Didn’t want the Internet getting in a tizzy on account of there being too many white guys on our payroll. When being white and male became a crime, I do not know…”

  “Are you implying that I only got this job because I’m a woman?” I ask him heatedly.

  “I’m just saying, it didn’t hurt your case,” he smiles condescendingly.

  “Well, I’ll be on my way, then,” I tell him, standing up to leave, “I still have a lot of unpacking to do.”

  “You girls. Always over packing,” Barry chuckles, following me out the door and into the hallway beyond.

  “I did relocate my entire life for this job,” I remind him, “So, yes. I do have a few things I need to—”

  “Oh, look at that!” Barry cuts me off, glancing over my shoulder, “It’s the other last-minute recruit.”

  “What?” I reply, glancing over my shoulder. I spot the club’s manager and owner standing at the end of the hallway talking to a tall, broad-shouldered man. He’s facing away from me, but even so it only takes a second for my brain to put the pieces together. His stance, his cropped umber hair, the sleeves of tattoos trailing down his incredibly cut arms. Not to mention the fact that O’Leary called him the “last minute-recruit”. I knew that this moment would come around sooner or later, but I fooled myself into thinking that I could work up to it. Soften the blow of seeing Maddox again after all these years.

  No such luck. The second after my brain recognizes my long-ago lover, my body senses him, too. A wave a heat washes from my core to the tips of my fingers and toes, gathering at last between my denim-clad legs. He’s just a few yards away from me, a fact of which every cell in my body is keenly aware. Before I can rush down the hall and jump Maddox’s bones right then and there, my brain manages to rein in my hormone-crazy body. I force myself to turn back to O’Leary, who’s been gushing about Maddox Walcott the whole time I’ve been quietly losing my damn mind.

  “Mark my words, that boy is gonna be a game-changer for us,” Barry says.

  “Oh. Yeah,” I agree, grinning manically. “So. Anyway. I really gotta run. But I’ll see you tomorrow OK bye!”

  And with that I all but sprint out of the training facility, nestled deep in the underbelly of our new stadium, desperate for some fresh sea air. I burst through the front doors, drawing huge breaths into my lungs. Leaning back against the exterior of the building, I’m amazed at what an insanely powerful effect one glance of Maddox had on me back there. I’m gonna need to rethink my strategy for how to deal with him, starting tomorrow. O’Leary clearly already thinks of me as nothing more than a frivolous little girl. I can’t give him a single scrap of evidence to back up that hypothesis, or he’ll never learn to take me seriously. And if there’s one thing I absolutely hate, it’s not being taken seriously because I’m a woman.

  Shaken but standing, I head around the huge, new stadium toward my car. An old friend of mine from college is letting me crash at her beach house here in Atlantic City, since it’s the off season and all. Hopefully, there’s a liquor store or two on the way home. I need a drink after my close encounter with the most dangerous Mad Man around.

  Chapter Five

  Maddox

  The next morning…

  “Mr. Walcott, this is your wakeup call,” a chipper female voice chirps into my ear when I manage to find the hotel phone in my pitch black room. “It’s 6 a.m.”

  “Fuck,” I mutter, rolling onto my back, “You kiddin’ me?”

  “Um…Nope. I’m afraid not,” the woman laughs nervously, “Up and at ‘em!”

  “Don’t ‘up and at ‘em’ me, Little Miss Sunshine,” I bark, regretting the last round of tequila shots I bought for my blackjack table at the casino last night. I fucking
love tequila, but it doesn’t always love me back, fickle bitch that it is.

  I’m pretty sure I hear the woman on the phone swallow a sob before she hangs up. Why are people always bloody weeping around me? I’m not that fucking scary, for Christ’s sake. Not unless you’ve messed with one of my brothers at The Firm, or owe me a spot of cash, or have looked at Rosie funny even one time…

  Thanks to a lousy case of jet lag, I barely got to sleep last night. I had to hang around downstairs at the casino instead to try and tucker myself out. I’d say that strategy backfired, but hey—nothing to do but own it. It’s not like I need to be in the prime of my life to keep up with the Yanks at practice. I lumber around the dark suite, still more or less asleep as I slip into my cold-weather running gear. I need to go sweat out some of this booze before I head to practice, or I’ll never hear the bloody end of it. A nice run along the boardwalk should do the trick just fine.

  My hotel is part of the Tangier Casino, located smack in the middle of the action in Atlantic City. It’s one of the casinos that’s still doing pretty well in this town, which god knows isn’t a given these days. The tanking economy in this place is why The Empire have come to be in the first place. Turns out, Dale Tucker used to be a casino man himself, but ran out of luck after Hurricane Sandy wrecked his main joint. Instead of shelling out to repair his casino, he decided to round up some investors and turn his prime Atlantic City lot into a football stadium instead. Talk about high stakes gambling.

  Stepping out of the Tangier’s front doors, I break into a light jog as I head for the beach, marveling at how quiet the place is at this hour of the morning. I guess that most of the hardcore revelers have finally turned in by now, though even they’re small in number since it’s winter and all. In the daylight hours, the only people shuffling around the casinos are sad old senior citizens, parking their walkers next to the slots and staying there all day. Fucking depressing. No wonder Tucker wanted out of the casino game.