Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel)

by Masters, Colleen

  “Sure, Carrera,” I tell the center back, shucking on my street clothes, “Tonight’s on me.”

  A raucous cheer goes up around the locker room. See? Just like that, the boys are cured. All except one, that is. Barlow’s looking like he could a punch a hole through the damn wall. I don’t blame him. It was obviously the wrong decision to play him at all today. His knee started acting up almost immediately, and the drop in his performance was painful to watch. This might make things rough on Poppy for a while, seeing as she was totally right about Barlow where her boss O’Leary was dead wrong.

  The whole team watched the two trainers have it out on the pitch earlier today, arguing about whether or not Barlow should start. Poppy kept her cool like a boss, but O’Leary was shouting his bloody face off. That kind of shit from him doesn’t surprise me, but what did surprise me was how pissed off it made me, watching him try to tear her down. I honestly thought I was gonna fly across the pitch and bash his face in if he kept on with it. Swear to god, I was seeing red. It doesn’t make any goddamn sense—it’s not like Poppy’s my girl or anything. We have been trading the dirtiest texts you’ve ever seen in your life, and I absolutely want to fuck her five ways till Thursday, but still. She’s not mine.

  I doubt if a woman like her would allow herself to be anyone’s.

  “What do you say, mate?” I ask Barlow, “You comin’ with tonight?”

  “I’m not really in the mood to celebrate,” he growls back, pulling on his shirt. I give his form a spare glance, stacking it up against mine. I can’t help but be competitive with this guy. He’s the team captain, for one thing. And more importantly, he’s got some kind of chummy rapport going on with Poppy. I’ve got to watch my back.

  “We’re not celebrating, we’re commiserating,” I tell the captain, making my way toward the exit at his side. “Come on. You look like you could use a drink.”

  “And I’m not the only one,” Barlow observes as we step out into the hallway.

  I follow his gaze down toward the staff offices and spot Poppy and O’Leary having tense words with each other under the harsh fluorescent lights. She looks positively exhausted by his bullshit, and I don’t much blame her. I’ve long since written Barry off as a blathering old sod. I don’t need any potbellied old man giving me training advice, thanks.

  “Well?” Barlow says to me, and Barry marches off in a huff, leaving Poppy by herself.

  “Well what?” I shoot back, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Are you gonna ask her to come to bar with us or what?” Barlow says, the corner of his mouth twisting up in a knowing grin.

  I stare back at my ginger-headed teammate. How could be possibly know that something’s going on between me and Poppy? She and I barely even speak here at the stadium. The only communication we have nowadays is via more and more graphic nude pics.

  “What’re you talkin’ about?” I ask Barlow, keeping my voice neutral.

  “Give me a fucking break,” the captain scoffs, “You think I’m blind or something? Poppy’s on friendly terms with every other player on this team, except for you. And even though you’re a huge pain in the ass, I know that’s not the real reason you two don’t act all chummy on the job.”

  “What are you, a chick or something?” I grumble, “What’s with all the touchy-feely bullshit, Barlow?”

  “Here she comes,” the captain cuts me off, as Poppy turns our way, “Are you going to invite her along, or will I have to do it myself?”

  Over my dead body will Barlow be the one to ask Poppy along for drinks tonight. I know I’m playing right into his matchmaker idiocy, here, but fuck it.

  “Abrams!” I call down the hallway, “Oy, Poppy!”

  She looks up, frustrated and exhausted. Damn. O’Leary must have really been chewing her out, that stupid prick.

  “What’s up?” she asks warily, surprised that I’m addressing her directly, what with there being other people around and all.

  “All of us boys are headed to the Tangier bar,” I tell her, “You wanna come with?”

  To the naked eye, Poppy gives a perfectly natural, “Sure, see you there.”

  But I know better, by now. That professional, casual act is something we’ve cooked up together to keep the rest of the team none-the-wiser. But I can see right through her, even while we’re playing our little game. She’ll come to my hotel tonight, and that’s not all. She’s down for much more than just a drink. That’s clear as day to me. How I’m going to keep myself from stealing her away the second she walks into the Tangier is a much bigger mystery.

  “There now,” Barlow grins, clapping me on the back, “Was that so hard?”

  I shrug his hand off my shoulder, pretending like I can’t be bothered to answer. But really, I’m wondering how Captain Ginger has picked up on the tension crackling between me and Ms. Abrams. No one else is the wiser. Here, I’ve been keeping an eye on Barlow to make sure he doesn’t try to make a move on Poppy, and all the while he’s been waiting to step in and play matchmaker? These bloody Americans. They don’t make any kind of sense.

  “I may be a great center midfielder,” Barlow goes on as we make our way toward the exit, “But I also make a fucking excellent wingman. Keep that in mind tonight.”

  “What do you think this is, some bleeding Rom-Com?” I growl back at him, “You gonna offer to walk me down the aisle next?”

  “Just being a good captain,” Barlow laughs, “See you at the bar, Mad Man.”

  I shake off Barlow’s suspicions and focus instead on the fact that Poppy and I will be under the same roof tonight. And with any luck, under the same sheets too. Christ, I need to put that train of thought on hold until I’m safely home, or I might wrap my Mercedes around a goddamn lamp post. That’s just the kind of effect Poppy Abrams has on me.

  Chapter Eleven

  Poppy

  I shut my office door tightly behind me and make sure the shades are drawn before I do an actual happy-dance right then and there. As casual as Mad’s invite may have seemed to the casual observer, I know that he was really asking:

  “Is this the night, then?”

  And my resounding answer? “Yes.”

  As pissed as I am about Barry O’Leary’s bullshit, I find that his bluster doesn’t stick to me for long. He can scream at me all he likes, but I know that he’s just angry that I was right. A “little girl” knew better than him, and that’s driving him crazy. Well, that’s his problem. No way am I going to dumb myself down or keep my mouth shut for the sake of Barry’s precious ego. And no way am I going to deprive myself a night with Maddox Walcott just because some people would be scandalized if they happened to find out. I’ve been letting other people dictate how my life should be for too long—my parents, my teachers, Jason. No more. Tonight, I’m doing exactly what I want.

  Or rather, exactly who I want.

  I must break about fifteen traffic laws as I speed back to my little beach bungalow to get ready for my night out. I barely make it through the front door of the cozy, antique beach house before I start stripping out of my game-day uniform, leaving my comfortable, sensible layers scattered across the floor. I fly up the spiral staircase in my mismatched bra and panties, throw on some sexy-getting-ready-music, and rip open my wardrobe.

  It occurs to me, as I rifle through my clothes, that Maddox has only ever seen me wearing my most aggressively casual duds. (Apart from that time he saw me entirely naked, of course.) He’s never seen me dressed to the nines before. For a fleeting moment, I wonder which of the going-out dresses I brought along to the beach Maddox would like best. But just as soon as that thought occurs to me, I push it right back out the door. I’m not going to start dressing according to some guy’s taste. That’s the kind of crap Jason always expected me to do. No—I’m going to dress for myself, wear what I feel sexy in.

  Tonight, what I feel sexy in happens to be a navy blue bodycon dress with long sleeves and rib-skimming cutouts along my sides. The neckline swoops from shoulder to shou
lder, and the back is cut breathtakingly low. The figure-hugging dress is one of my all-time favorites, and it just happens to be The Empire’s exact shade of blue. Perfect. I add some dangly gold earrings and bangles to the look, going for the full navy and gold effect in honor of my new team. I gather my shoulder-grazing hair into a low, messy chignon, and a quick smoky eye and red lip round out the look.

  I step back and take a look at myself in the floor length mirror. Yep. That’ll do the trick, I think, a wide smile spreading across my scarlet lips. This petite, freckle-faced lady cleans up pretty well if I do say so myself.

  It isn’t until I step back out into the balmy March evening that I feel some butterflies stir in my belly. I’ve been waiting eight years to get Maddox Walcott alone once again. It feels like an entire lifetime has gone by since we were a couple of reckless kids messing around after hours. Even after all this time, Mad is still more or less a stranger to me. Almost everything I know about him I’ve picked up from the press. We’ve never exactly had a heart to heart. But even though the details of his life elude me, I can’t shake the feeling of familiarity that strikes me every time I meet his gaze. There’s something in Maddox Walcott that I recognize. Intimately. I just haven’t put a name to it yet.

  “Well shit,” I hear someone say from the shadows beyond the bungalow’s front porch, “Someone looks like she’s picking up call girl work on the side.”

  The butterflies in my stomach suddenly feel as though they have razor blades for wings. That’s how painful it is to hear my ex-husband’s voice again, and so unexpectedly. I square my shoulders as Jason takes a step toward me, swaggering into the yellow porch light. He sways slightly as he stands here appraisingly. More than likely he’s a couple drinks in, at least. I haven’t seen this man in the flesh since our divorce became official, more than two years ago. And if I had my druthers, I would have never seen him again. But of course, it’s never about what I want with Jason Moore. All that matters is what he wants, what he thinks he’s entitled to.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask him, willing my voice not to waver. “How did you even get this address?”

  “You forget that most of our friends are still mutual,” Jason replies, grabbing hold of the porch railing to steady himself, “Including the friends who own this shack. Where are you headed, all slutted-up like that?”

  “Screw you, Jason,” I mutter, trying to step around him in my two-inch heels.

  “Hey,” he snaps, reaching for my arm, “I asked you a question.”

  “Get your hands off me,” I tell him, staring up into his ruddy face and I dodge his grip. Once upon a time, Jason was the all-American boy of every parent’s dreams. In fact, it was through my parents that I met him. We’d both been dragged along to some charity fundraiser our respective parents were attending, and practically shoved into each other’s arms. Call it a Yankee Arranged Marriage. At the time, I wasn’t opposed. With his golden hair, boyishly handsome face, and expensive collection of tweed jackets, Jason was the ultimate safe bet. I was twenty-eight, and just started to get pressure from my family about when I was going to settle down. So eager was I to please them that I didn’t let myself notice Jason’s manipulative, possessive side. It wasn’t until we were married that I realized that was his only side. The charming, upstanding nice guy I’d met at that fundraiser was just an act. But out of character, Jason revealed himself to be petty and jealous. A trust fund kid through and through, he couldn’t understand why I cared about my work, why I didn’t just spend my days being his obedient arm-candy/blow-job dispensary. The only positive thing I can say about our marriage is that it’s finally over.

  “Seriously? You’re just going to walk away from me again?” Jason blathers, trailing me unsteadily as I head for my car.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” I tell him calmly, “And you have no reason to be here.”

  “Like hell I don’t,” he goes on, planting a meaty hand on the driver’s side door of my car as I attempt to wrench it open, “From what I’ve heard through the grape vine, you need me here more than ever.”

  “What are you even talking about?” I ask, exasperated.

  “Your parents told mine all about this ridiculous new job of yours,” Jason goes on, laying into me just like old times, “How you picked up and moved to Atlantic City just to join up with an untested team that’ll probably go under before the season is out.”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tell him, “And even if you did, who are you to give anyone career advice? You’ve never worked a day in your goddamn life.”

  “You wouldn’t have had to either if you just stuck around,” he snaps, “Jesus, Poppy. I handed you the good life on a silver platter, and you threw it right back in my face.”

  “The good life?!” I laugh incredulously, “What, you mean the good life of my husband fucking anything that moved? The good life of rotting away in that Connecticut mausoleum you call a home?”

  “Because rotting away in a Jersey Shore shack is much better,” he scoffs, a crooked grin distorting his bloated face.

  “Did you really come all the way down here just to register your opinion about my life choices?” I ask heatedly.

  “Yes and no,” he shrugs, “I do think your life choices are shit, don’t get me wrong. But I think I can offer you an alternative…”

  “I really don’t want to hear—”

  “Let me fucking talk, Poppy!” he roars, slamming his fist down on the hood of my car.

  I take a startled step back. Jason never hit me, but he came mighty close on occasion. As pathetic as he can sometimes be, I have to remember that he’s got about seventy pounds on me. I just need to get away from him as soon as possible at this point.

  “Like I was saying,” he continues, “Things aren’t really going too well with me and Kirsten these days.”

  “And Kirsten is the girl you cheated on the girl you cheated on me with, right?” I can’t resist asking.

  “Something like that. But whatever. We’re over. And good fucking riddance. Leaves me open to undo some past mistakes.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask warily, wishing I had parked in a more populated part of the city.

  “I’m talking about us,” Jason slurs, leaning in close, “We never should have broken up in the first place, Poppy.”

  “We never should have been together in the first place,” I correct him.

  “What I’m saying is, I’m ready to take you back,” he goes on, completely ignoring me, “Enough of this career girl bullshit. It’s time for you to come back home.”

  Before I can stop it, a huge, incredulous laugh bursts out of my mouth. So much for placating my delusional ex.

  “You can’t be serious,” I manage to say through my bout of laughter, “Jason, you cannot possibly think that I have any interest in getting back together with you!”

  “Why the fuck not?” he growls, a red glow rising in his cheeks.

  “Because you’re a lying, cheating, useless drunk of a man,” I tell him in no uncertain terms, “And because I have better sex with my vibrator, thanks.”

  My car keys clatter to the pavement as Jason lunges forward and grabs hold of my wrists. My head jerks painfully on my neck as my ex pulls me toward his broad body.

  “You fucking bitch,” he yells, a thread of spit running down from the corner of his mouth, “I will not be disrespected by the likes of you.”

  “Let go of me, Jason,” I command him, though the pitch of my voice rises in terror.

  “Or what?” he counters, clenching my wrists even tighter, “As far as I can tell, you’ve got no one left to fight your battles for you. It’s just you and me, Poppy.”

  “Well, that’s not entirely true, is it?” a familiar voice says from over Jason’s shoulder.

  I watch in awe as my dirtbag ex is wrenched off of me and slammed up against my car by none other than Maddox Walcott. Mad barely even has to strain to pin Jason firmly agai
nst the car, wriggling like a trapped insect.

  “Who the fuck is this?” Jason cries, his eyes bugging out in fear and outrage.

  “The real question is,” Maddox shoots back, jamming a forearm against Jason’s throat, “Who the fuck do you think you are, manhandling Ms. Abrams here?”

  “Poppy is mine,” Jason spits, “I can do whatever the fuck I want with her.”

  “Ah. So you’re a proper piece of shit then,” Maddox laughs in Jason’s face, “Guess I coulda called that one.”

  “Screw you, asshole,” Jason whines, “If you want this filthy little slut so bad, go ahead and take—”

  But Jason’s words cut off into a wordless wail as Maddox rears back and head butts my ex square in the face. Jason’s head is knocked back against the car as blood begins to pour out of his nose. I watch, astounded, as my ex slides down into a whimpering heap on the pavement. Maddox rubs a smudge a blood off his forehead, gives Jason a little kick in the ass for good measure, and extends his hand to me.

  “Come on,” he says casually, “The guys are waiting. I’m parked around the corner.”

  “But how did you…What are you…” I stammer, stepping over Jason toward my unexpected hero.

  “You were taking forever gettin’ to the bar,” Mad says, taking me by the elbow and leading me away, “I got impatient.”

  A baffled smile plays across my face as Maddox escorts me to his Mercedes. This isn’t exactly how I pictured tonight going down, but even if the start has been far from perfect, you certainly can’t call it boring.

  “You just totally saved my ass back there,” I tell Maddox, feeling the fear and anger Jason inspired in me ebbing away.

  “It was no big deal,” he replies, “Who was that idiot back there? Something tells me it wasn’t the postman.”

  “No. Just my scumbag ex,” I tell Maddox.

  “Ex-boyfriend?” he asks.