Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel)

by Masters, Colleen

  I draw her in, savoring the sigh of contentment that runs through her as I let my tongue glide against hers. I’ve never gotten so much pleasure out of making someone feel good as I do with Poppy Abrams. And once I reveal where we’re headed next, she’s going to feel better than good—she’s going to be over the bloody moon.

  “Here,” I murmur, lifting two tickets out of my back pocket and placing them in her hands, “The next stop of our little adventure.”

  Poppy pulls back to glance down at the tickets I’ve just thrust in her hand. I don’t know how Rosie came by these at the last moment. They should have been impossible to get.

  “No freakin’ way,” Poppy breathes, looking back up at me.

  “Yes freakin’ way,” I grin, planting a kiss on top of her head, “Come on. We don’t want to miss kickoff.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Poppy

  I’ve been to plenty of soccer matches in my life, including more than a few with incredibly high stakes. But nothing I have ever experienced compares to the scene here tonight. Thousands upon thousands of people are jam-packed into this football stadium, itself nestled right in the very heart of Rome. And these are no even-tempered, easy-going spectators. These are passionate, invested lovers of the sport. Fans of Serie A, the Italian soccer league, do not mess around when it comes to their favorite game.

  The tension in the stadium tonight is electric, and not just for the Italian fans. After the whirlwind adventure of being whisked away to Europe on a whim by the man whose baby I may just be having, the stakes for me and Maddox feel sky high. We stand side-by-side in the rollicking crowd, watching the Serie A clubs face off on the pitch below. Mad’s arm is slung over my shoulder, his face obscured by sun glasses though the sun has already begun to set. The last thing we need to add into the mix tonight is a flurry of press sightings.

  “Do you know any of these guys?” I ask Maddox, nodding toward the field.

  “Just in passing,” Mad replies, his eyes riveted to the game, “I’ve played a few of them here and there.”

  “You’re not gonna go storm the field and join in are you?” I tease him, “That competitive streak of yours does run mighty deep.”

  “What, me? Competitive?” Maddox says with mock innocence, “That’s ridiculous.”

  Our banter cuts off sharply as the crowd begins to roar all around us. One of the attackers is bearing down on the opposing team’s goal, streaking like lightening across the pitch. Just before the keeper intercepts him, the attacker kicks the ball sidelong across the box, allowing his teammate to land a header that sends the ball careening into the net. Explosive cheers and groans alike fill the dusky air as the stadium stretches at its seams to accommodate the emotion of its patrons.

  I watch gleefully as the Italian player who put the goal away tears across the field in jubilation. His teammates cheer as he grabs the ball and swiftly tucks it under his jersey. I hear several sounds of adoration go up from the crowd as the goal scorer sticks his thumb in his mouth, the soccer ball sticking up under his tight jersey. I recognize the ball-under-the jersey, thumb-sucking gesture at once—it’s what soccer players do when they’ve got a baby on the way. It’s like a telegraph to the mother of their expectant child, a way to dedicate the goal to her and the baby on the way.

  Usually, I don’t think much of this gesture. But tonight, it brings a tear to my eye. God, are those pregnancy hormones kicking in already? I turn to look at Maddox, trying to gage his reaction to the sentimental gesture. But his attention is already back on the game at hand.

  “Wasn’t that sweet?” I ask him tentatively.

  “Hmm?” he murmurs, eyes on the pitch.

  “What that player just did. The expectant father thing,” I prompt him.

  “Oh,” Mad shrugs, “I dunno. It’s kind of tacky, isn’t it?”

  I feel my giddy good mood deflate, just a little. So what if Mad isn’t the grand gesture type on the pitch? Doesn’t mean he couldn’t be a good father, for god’s sake.

  “Not quite your style, huh?” I go on, trying to sound causal.

  “I don’t intend to find out anytime soon,” Maddox laughs, taking a swig of beer. “I can’t really see myself doing the daddy thing, to be honest.”

  Forget feeling deflated, that comment knocks the wind right out of my lungs.

  “You mean…right now? At this point in your life?” I ask, willing my voice to stay even.

  “It’s not something I’ve ever wanted for myself. Kids, I mean,” Mad goes on, “I’d probably be shit at it, tell you the truth. Nah, I’ll just skip right over that whole headache.”

  “Right,” I say faintly, staring straight ahead without seeing a thing.

  I feel a pit open deep in my core, pulsing with the preemptive, lonely ache of going it alone. In all the thinking I’ve done about this unexpected pregnancy, I hardly paused to consider that Maddox might not be on board to support me. Is he going to turn his back on me the second I tell him what’s going on? Is he really capable of being that cruel?

  “I’m going to get another beer,” Mad says, interrupting my thoughts, “Sure you don’t want anything?”

  “No,” I tell him, forcing myself to smile, “No, I want to save room for gelato later.”

  “Fair enough,” he says, giving me a swift kiss before heading off into the stadium.

  I sink down into my seat the second he’s gone. Despite the crowd of thousands around me, I’ve never felt so definitively alone. Thank god everyone’s attention is focused on the game—I wouldn’t want anyone to see the devastated tears sliding down my cheeks at the prospect of bringing my baby into the world on my own.

  Chapter Thirty

  Maddox

  The plane ride back from Rome the next day is nothing like the flight out. I thought this whole escapade was something of a success, but Poppy barely says a word to me during the entire trip home. She must just be feeling the jet lag or something. Ever since we got back to the hotel after the Serie A game, she’s seemed off. Maybe it’s just her time of the month or something. Fuck if I know.

  Rosie and Charlie are waiting for us out on the tarmac when Poppy and I touch down in the States. The same stretch limo is idling behind them, waiting to whisk us back to Atlantic City.

  “What’s with the welcome wagon?” I ask my sister, giving her a quick hug.

  “It’s actually more of a ‘goodbye’ than a ‘welcome’,” she replies, “Me and Charlie are headed back to London. I didn’t think you’d mind us piggybacking on your charter jet.”

  “Right. What’s a few extra thousand dollars?” I reply, rolling my eyes.

  “Figured it was about time to get out of your hair,” Charlie smiles, giving me a clap on the back, “You and Poppy deserve some alone time after putting up with us for so long.”

  I glance back at Poppy as she descends from the jet. She looks tense and tired—not exactly what you’d expect from someone who was just whisked off on a romantic getaway. I’m starting to worry that something’s up with her.

  “How did it go?” Rosie asks in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “OK, I think,” I reply.

  “You think?” my sister scoffs, “What do you mean, you think?”

  “I dunno. She seems a bit pissed at me,” I shrug.

  “Well, did you do anything stupid?” Rosie asks, hands on hips.

  “No,” I tell her gruffly, “She just clammed up after the game last night.”

  “You probably did something stupid,” my sister replies, scowling at me. “You’re just too dense to have realized it.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk,” I mutter, as Poppy steps up behind me.

  “Hey you two,” Poppy says to Rosie and Charlie, her voice lagging listlessly, “Shipping out, are you?”

  “That’s right,” Charlie says, “Take good care of our boy while we’re gone.”

  “Mhmm,” Poppy smiles. Her noncommittal answer sets my nerves on edge.

  “Just ask her what
’s wrong,” Rosie whispers to me as Poppy slides into the limo. “And try not to be an arsehole about it, whatever it is.”

  “Goodbye to you too, Sis,” I mutter, waving goodbye to Rose and Charlie as I hurry to join Poppy in the car. She doesn’t even look up as I set my bag down and close the door behind me. As the limo takes off toward Atlantic City, she simply stares out the window, lost in thought.

  “You, uh, feeling OK, babe?” I ask, trying to get a read on her.

  “Uh-huh,” she answers, resting her chin in her hand.

  “You’ve been pretty quiet since last night,” I go on, feeling like an arsehole with all this touchy-feely talk.

  “Have I?” Poppy replies, sinking further into her seat.

  My patience, worn thin by ten hours’ worth of this crap on the plane, reaches its breaking point in the blink of an eye.

  “Oh, cut the shit,” I shoot back at her, frustrated as hell.

  Now that gets her attention. Poppy turns her face slowly toward me, looking like she’s about to breathe fire.

  “Excuse me?” she says, her voice dangerously low.

  “You heard me,” I fire back, feeling my jaw pulse, “You’ve never done this pouty, middle school bullshit before. Just tell me what your fuckin’ problem is.”

  “Pouty, middle school bullshit?” she laughs condescendingly, “Spoken like a true grown-ass man, Walcott.”

  “I’m just callin’ it like I see it,” I tell her, “You think just because we made this thing between us official in the press, you can start acting like a nagging, pain in the arse girlfriend?”

  “Not at all,” she shoots back, “I would never dream of you being mature enough to deign to be in an actual relationship with someone.”

  “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” I shout, failing to keep my voice in check, “What the hell is this if not a bloody relationship?”

  “I honestly don’t know anymore,” Poppy says, shaking her head, “A PR stunt? A desperate attempt to keep your place on the Empire?”

  “You know that’s not true,” I growl, feeling my hands tighten into fists.

  “What I know,” Poppy says softly, her voice thick with unshed tears, “Is that we’re at very different points in our lives, Mad. And I can’t afford to risk my future on someone who can’t think past his next soccer match. Tell me honestly—have you thought at all about where this thing between us is heading?”

  I stare back at her, biting my tongue. She already knows the answer, after all.

  “I’m not really a plan-ahead kind of guy,” I finally tell her.

  “Yeah. I know,” she says, looking disappointed as hell, “That’s kind of the problem.”

  “So, what? You’re through with me just because I don’t obsess about the future like you do?” I ask bluntly.

  “Maybe I am,” she replies softly, turning away from me once more, “Maybe I have to be, whether I want to or not.”

  I stare at her for a long moment, trying to hold her words at bay. But it’s no use. Her declaration hits me square between the eyes, making me see red.

  “You’re gonna need to make two stops,” I call up to the driver, “We’ll be dropping Ms. Abrams off at her place before heading back to the hotel.”

  “Nice,” Poppy mutters, crossing her arms. “Real fucking nice.”

  “You need to go sort your head out for a spell,” I tell her frankly, sinking back in my seat, “And then you can come talk to me.”

  We fall into a restless silence as our limo speeds back toward Atlantic City. Back toward our real lives.

  Our real lives that might not include each other after all.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Poppy

  By the time the Empire’s next home game rolls around that Saturday, the month of May is upon us. It’s hard to believe how much has happened to me in four short months. I’ve landed my dream job as an assistant athletic trainer, relocated to Atlantic City, and reunited with my long-ago fling Maddox Walcott. But amid all these drastic changes, the most significant are the ones taking place inside my own body. A trip to the doctor’s office the Friday I get back from Rome confirms what my home test already told me.

  I’m five weeks pregnant with Maddox Walcott’s baby.

  I sit on the porch of my beach house the morning after my appointment, watching the sky above the ocean grow brighter. The doctor told me yesterday that it’s far too early for sonogram pictures or singing the news from the rooftops. As if I have anyone to share this new development with. My hyper-conservative parents would be appalled to hear that I’ve “conceived out of wedlock” (yes, that’s a thing my mother has actually said). And it’s not as though I’m on the best terms with this little peanut’s father at the moment.

  It wasn’t my intention to put things on hold with Maddox when we got back from Rome. I was still trying to figure out my next move when he went off on me in the limo. The fact that he’s capable of outbursts like that doesn’t give me much confidence in his fatherhood potential, that’s for sure. Maddox has never been violent or malicious toward me, but I’ve seen him throw his fair share of furniture and punches around. Can someone with as hot a temper as “Mad Man” really just settle down and be a father, just like that?

  I’ve mostly been avoiding Maddox since the limo dropped me off at my bungalow Thursday afternoon. I needed some time to cool down, as did he. He hasn’t called or texted or sent over any carrier pigeons, but I can’t really blame him for his silence. I did just throw quite a wrench in the works. But whatever the status of our relationship is now, I won’t be able to avoid him much longer. I have to be at the stadium in just a few hours for our game, and I can’t exactly help running into Maddox there. Hell, his portrait is plastered over nearly every inch of the Empire’s stadium.

  “Just be a professional,” I mutter to myself, taking a deep breath of sea air.

  For years, my profession has been my life. You’d think it would be easy to enter into that career-first mindset. But even though my physical body has yet to change, I can feel my heart and mind refocusing on the life growing inside of me. For the first time in my life, I have the hope of a family in addition to a career.

  I just can’t tell if that prospect is exciting or absolutely terrifying.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Maddox

  Sweet relief washes over me as I lace up my trainers and prepare to hit the pitch. I’ve been dying to play a good, down and dirty game to get my mind off of Poppy all week. We haven’t spoken a word to each other since she shut down on me coming back from Rome. I still don’t have any fucking idea what I did to turn her against me, but I do know that I can put it out of my mind for the next 90 minutes. For a blissful hour and a half, I just get to be Mad Man Walcott again.

  But why am I not convinced that that’s enough anymore?

  “You ready for this?” Hadrian Barlow grins, clapping me on the shoulder as the team heads for the pitch.

  “Fuck yes,” I tell him. If only he knew the half of it.

  “This is a great chance for us, guys,” Barlow says to the assembled team, “The Sentinels are the only other expansion team that was worth a shit this season. Let’s show them how AC does it!”

  A cheer goes up from the team as we make our way from the locker room to the tunnel. The Syracuse Sentinels have played pretty well so far this season, it’s true. They’ve even got their own European superstar, a Spanish player from La Liga named Ricardo González. There’s been a lot of chatter in the press this week about Mad Man and González facing off on American soil. If there’s anyone currently playing for MLS with a hotter temper than mine, it’s Ricardo. His scoring record and penchant for getting thrown out of games are both legendary.

  But every thought of Ricardo González and his dangerous attitude are pushed out of my mind as I spot Poppy coming out of an examination room at the end of the hall. My stomach clenches painfully as her eyes flick up to meet mine. We’ve managed to avoid each other since getting bac
k from Rome, but so much for that. We’ve spotted one another from across the hall, and can’t exactly ignore each other in front of the entire team. We’re supposed to be blissfully coupled and all that for the press. If word gets out that there’s trouble in paradise, both our arses are back on the line.

  “Knock ‘em dead, boys,” Poppy says to the team, smiling gamely as we approach.

  “Thanks babe,” I murmur, catching her hand in mine.

  Her eyes flash with something that looks a lot like longing as I pull her in for a quick, searing kiss. The second her lips touch mine, by body comes alive in a way it only ever does on the pitch. It’s only been a few days since I touched her last, but kissing her now is like finding water in the desert. How am I supposed to live without this if she really calls it quits?

  “Get a room, you two!” chuckles our gigantic keeper Orbach, sending a fit of laugher rising up from the rest of the team.

  The rest of the guys go ahead as Poppy and I stand rooted in place, staring up at each other in the deserted hallway. That longing burning in her brown eyes is shot through with pain—a pain I’ve caused her. The idea of that kills me, but I have no idea how to make it better.

  “Have a great game,” she finally says, taking a small step away from me.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I mutter, shoving a hand through my cropped hair. How the fuck did we get from a passionate affair to trading cordial small talk?

  “You’d better get over to the tunnel,” she says, crossing her arms, “It’s about to start.”

  “Do you think we could talk? After, I mean,” I ask her, not even given a shit that I sound desperate as hell.

  “Yeah. Maybe,” Poppy replies, her face flushing under my intent gaze, “Why don’t you just make it through this game first, OK?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I smile, trying not to notice how deep her dismissal cuts me, “I always come out in one piece.”

  Poppy smiles back wistfully as I turn and jog down the hallway to join my team. No matter how torn up I am about the two of us, I’ve got a job to do. And that job is to leave it all on the pitch—sweat, tears, and blood if it’s called for. If I can’t give Poppy what she wants off the field, at least I can deliver a win for our team.