Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel)

by Masters, Colleen

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Poppy

  It feels like it’s been ages since I last got to watch the Empire play from my post on the sidelines—what with my and Mad’s suspension from the last away game, and all. God, I’ve missed getting to do my job with all the media nonsense that’s been going on. Looking up at the packed stands, I can’t help but feel a fresh swell of pride at being part of this team.

  “Well. Look who’s decided to show up to work,” grunts Barry O’Leary, spotting me as I take my place among the Empire’s staff.

  Ah, Barry. The one aspect of my job that I definitely haven’t missed.

  “Anything I need to know before they start?” I ask him, trying to stick to my whole be-a-professional plan. “Any new injuries, or—?”

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head about any of that,” O’Leary barks.

  “It’s kinda my job to worry about it, in case you’ve forgotten,” I remind him, feeling my pulse quicken with frustration.

  “Look,” the ruddy-faced trainer growls at me, lowering his voice so that only I can hear him, “I know that you and your lover boy pulled some strings with Tucker, but that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook with me. I can’t technically fire your tight little ass myself, but you’re a fool if you think I’m trusting you with any real responsibilities from here on out. As far as I’m concerned, your place here is strictly ceremonial.”

  “You can’t do that,” I snap, “You don’t have that kind of power.”

  “Don’t I?” O’Leary sneers, “What, you think Glover’s gonna fight me on keeping you out of the action? In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not exactly his favorite person right now either. Your schoolgirl crap has been distracting our best player for weeks now.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I shoot back at him, “Maddox’s is in perfect form.”

  “I’m sure you think so,” my boss laughs, turning his back on me, “Just smile pretty for the cameras and stay out of my way today, Miss Abrams. That’s an order.”

  I stare incredulously after the broad, retreating back of Barry O’Leary. My heart thunders with pent-up rage as a huge cheer goes up around the stadium. The two teams are emerging from the tunnel, taking their places on the pitch. And there, striding out in his navy and gold uniform, is Maddox. Despite all the bullshit O’Leary just shoveled my way, and despite the chill that has settled over our relationship of late, I still feel a wash a joy seeing him out there in his element. If O’Leary is determined to box me out of my job today, I’ll just have to devote all my energy to cheering on my boys.

  And one of them in particular.

  My attention is snatched away from Maddox as another imposing figure saunters onto the field. I’ve never seen Ricardo González in the flesh, but there he is in Syracuse Sentinel red and black. He’s basically the opposing team’s Maddox Walcott, imported from Europe to elevate their team’s quality of play and put asses in seats. But whereas Maddox’s bad boy reputation has more to do with partying and not giving a single fuck, Ricardo’s bad behavior is downright dangerous. He’s not one to hesitate before seriously hurting another player for the sake of a goal. Watching Ricardo’s massive form stalk across the pitch, his thick black eyebrows furrowed over gleaming eyes, I feel a pang of worry shoot through my core. I’ve never given a second though to Mad’s safety on the pitch. I’ve always just trusted him and the other players to be decent to each other, more or less. But with González on the pitch, I’m having trouble calming my nerves. Maybe, now that my connection to Mad has been solidified by the life we inadvertently created, my fear for his safety is justified. Natural.

  But that still doesn’t ease my mind as the two teams kickoff and the game commences.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Maddox

  Sweat runs in rivulets down my face as we barrel toward the half. Though the early May night air is mild against my skin, my body is running red hot under the lights. Every muscle is firing on all cylinders as I sprint across the pitch, gunning to intercept a pass from Barlow. Our redheaded captain charges ahead, trying to keep one pace ahead of the tank that is Ricardo González. But it’s no use. Barlow’s barely cleared the midfield when González wrestles the ball away from him. I skid to a halt as Barlow’s feet fly out from under him, watching as he hits the pitch hard.

  “Hey!” I scream at the ref, who has no interest in calling González out, “What’re you, fucking blind?”

  “Leave it, Mad,” Hadrian shouts to me, taking off once more in pursuit of the ball.

  I grit my teeth and dive back into the game, giving it my all. Orbach let one in early on in the match, and we’ve been fighting tooth and nail to even it up. I watch as our defenders manage to hold off another attack from the Sentinels, and brace myself as the ball starts back down the pitch. There are only five minutes to go until the half. If I could just even it up before then, we could come into the next leg of the game with renewed vigor.

  “Come on, boys!” I hear a familiar voice call from the sidelines.

  Tearing my eyes away from the match for just a second, I catch a glimpse of Poppy standing beside the pitch. She’s on her feet, every fibre of her being deeply invested in the match. She looks like she could burst onto the field at any minute and give the Sentinels hell. Just knowing that Poppy is here watching me gives me a burst of strength as the ball comes my way once more.

  Carrera gets the ball to Barlow, who takes another run with González nipping at his heels. I get clear of the defender who’s been riding my arse, calling to Hadrian as I race forward. This time, our captain manages to clear the ball to me before González can trip him up. I watch as the ball arcs through the air and lands at my feet as if magnetized. This is the kind of moment I live for. I’ve got a clear path to the box, with no one standing between me and the Sentinels’ keeper. Time slows to a crawl as I bear down on the goal, coming in hot.

  Until, that is, I feel a meaty calf jam itself between my churning legs, sending me flying onto the pitch as the ball rolls out of bounds. A huge swell of noise goes up from the crowd as I whip my face toward the man who tripped me—who else but Ricardo González? The strapping Spaniard grins down at me as I pull myself back to standing. I swear to god; this fucker takes pleasure in causing other players pain.

  “What the fuck, mate?” I seethe, marching toward González, “Have a little dignity and take me out like a footballer instead of a thug.”

  “Thug?” González laughs in a deep, rasping baritone, “You’re calling me a thug?”

  “What if I am?” I snarl, getting up in Ricardo’s sneering face.

  The second we’re eye to eye, our teammates race in to break up our standoff. Hadrian inserts himself between me and González, trying to hold me back.

  “It’s not worth it, Mad,” he insists, giving me a bracing shove.

  “Yeah Mad,” González grins, “Wouldn’t want to bruise that pretty face of yours.”

  It takes every ounce of self-control I’ve managed to store up these past twenty-seven years not to beat the shit out of this wanker. But by some miracle, I manage to turn away. Be the bigger man. And as I catch another glimpse of Poppy looking plaintively my way, I think I know what’s given me that strength. Once upon a time, I thought being a man was all about throwing punches and taking names. But after these past few months with Poppy, I know there’s more to it than that. Being a man takes restraint, and wisdom, and all manner of shit I never thought I’d have access to.

  Not until Poppy came along.

  The ref awards a corner kick to our team, and Harlow jogs off to take it. The rest of us arrange ourselves in front of the goal, preparing for the ball to come our way. Corners are a perfect opportunity to put a goal away, and I feel every cell in my body rally to get the job done. Of course, González is right on top of me as I take my place.

  “Just try it, Walcott,” he snarls, his dark brown eyes gleaming ferociously.

  “I’m not going to just try it,” I shoot back
, giving him a wink, “I’m going to get it done, ya fucker.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Poppy

  “OK, you guys,” I whisper, bouncing on the balls of my feet as the Empire and Sentinels take their places for the corner kick. “Let’s do this.”

  The clock is just about the run out of the first half of the game. It’s now or never. It’s been torture, keeping to myself for these first forty-five minutes. Usually, I can channel my energy into checking in with the individual players, or talking strategy with O’Leary and Glover. But since I’ve apparently been excommunicated, the only way to blow off steam is to be the most die-hard fan in this stadium.

  Not like that’s a challenge or anything.

  I watch with bated breath as Barlow sets up his shot. Maddox is poised before the net, ready to intercept Hadrian’s pass and put in our first goal of the game. That is, if González gets off his back. After their near dust-up just moments ago, I don’t like Ricardo being so close to Mad. I don’t like it one bit.

  At last, Barlow flies at the ball, sending it careening from the corner of the field into the fray of players assembled before the goal. I stand on my tip-toes, following the progress of the ball with razor focus as it collides with Diego Carrera’s forehead. His header sends the ball back across the goal, straight toward Maddox. I watch Mad’s body reorient itself with the grace and speed of a lion on the hunt. He swings his foot up into the air, sweeping it forward and slamming the ball with his powerful right foot.

  Both teams watch in stunned awe as the Sentinel’s keeper dives forward to try and block the goal. The ball glances off his outstretched hands, shooting off to the side as he tumbles forward. With razor sharp reflexes, Mad gathers himself a second time, ramming his head against the ball just as González tries to clear it. At last, the ball slams into the back of the net—a gorgeous goal by Maddox Walcott.

  A deafening roar goes up around the stadium as the hometown fans leap to their feet. I leap up in the air, punching at the sky and cheering along with the rest of them. I may be a professional, but that doesn’t mean I can’t celebrate my ass off when my man does something incredible. I gasp as I catch myself referring to Mad as “my man”, even in my own mind. But as he thrusts his own arms into the air, looking my way as he lets out a triumphant yell, there can be no question.

  Flawed though he may be, Maddox Walcott is my man. How could I have let myself think otherwise?

  The world around me moves in slow motion as I lock eyes with Mad. In that instant, it feels like all is forgiven. We’re back to the wild, uninhibited kids we were when we first met. My heart swells with pride as the goal goes up on the scoreboard. I keep my eyes riveted to Maddox’s even as he turns toward his teammates to celebrate. As he takes a step toward them, a blurry shadow streaks out from behind him.

  It takes me a moment to realize that the shadow is González. Ricardo is barreling decisively toward Maddox, whose back is turned on the huge Spaniard. The moment is so unimaginable that it takes my brain a second to process what’s happening, even as González reaches out his hands toward Mad. With his back turned, Maddox doesn’t have any warning as Ricardo shoves him forward with a hard, punishing jolt. The Sentinel’s strike sends Mad careening forward as the shocked crowd looks on.

  I feel the air rush painfully out of my lungs as Mad’s temple crashes against the goalpost. His broad, staggering body crumples as his head slams against the hard metal pole. Maddox falls hard to the ground, collapsed on his side there before the goal. For a moment, everything before my eyes goes out of focus. I can feel the world tremble wildly on its axis as I register what’s just happened. Maddox is hurt. Badly. For no fucking reason.

  The slow motion world races back to real time as Maddox’s teammates rush to his side, the entire stadium erupting in furious ire. I reach instinctively for my bag and turn to rush out onto the pitch. But as I take my first running step forward, I feel a meaty arm come down to block my way. I whip around furiously to see Barry O’Leary blocking my path onto the pitch.

  “Let me by,” I command him, squaring my shoulders against the much larger man.

  “There’s no way you’re stepping foot on this field,” he growls back.

  “Mad just cracked this skull against the post,” I rage, “He needs help.”

  “I don’t care what’s happened to your little boyfriend,” O’Leary roars back, “You’re not going out there, Abrams. We don’t have any time to spare on the clock.”

  “Oh yeah?” I shoot back, gathering my strength, “Just try to hold me back.”

  And with that, I dodge around the hulking mass that is Barry O’Leary and sprint out onto the pitch. My arms pump wildly as I race toward the huddle of players blocking Mad from view. I can hear O’Leary’s furious cries echoing in my wake, I couldn’t care less. There’s only one thing that matters to me now, and it’s my accidental family of one: Maddox Walcott.

  “Out of my way,” I order, pushing through the crowd of strapping soccer players to get to my man. Maddox is sprawled out on his back, sucking in gasping breaths as his eyes reel wildly in his skull.

  “He’s bad,” Barlow shouts as I kneel beside Maddox, “He’s really bad, Pops.”

  “Come on,” I urge, taking Maddox’s face in my hands, “Stay with me, Mad. Just stay awake, baby.”

  “I’m fine,” he says, his voice faint and far-off, “It’s fine…”

  I take my hand from under his head and gasp in shock as scarlet blood greets my eye. We need to get him off this field. Now.

  “Medic!” I shout back toward the sidelines, “I need a medic out here!”

  Two of our team’s medical staff come racing across the field, stretcher borne between them. Maddox’s breathing becomes shallow as he looks up toward the sky, disoriented. I lean over him, willing him to meet my gaze.

  “I’ve got you,” I whisper, laying a hand on his sharp, scruffy jaw, “I’m not going anywhere, Mad.”

  At long last, his gray-eyed gaze manages to lock onto mine as I sit beside him, holding his hand.

  “Poppy?” he breathes, looking up at me in wonder.

  “It’s me, Mad,” I smile tearfully, “I’m here with you, babe.”

  “Huh,” he replies, a grin lifting the corners of his mouth, “So all I have to do is get myself concussed and you’ll come running? Good to know…”

  “You sonofabitch,” I laugh deliriously, my heart soaring as the Mad I know comes back into focus.

  Before I can even think to stop myself, I’ve brought my lips to his, catching them in a deep, hard kiss. For that moment, I’m not aware of the screaming crowds, or the astounded players, or my boss raging on the sidelines. I don’t care about whether I’m being professional, or whether the world is watching as I lavish my man with love. All that matters is that Maddox is here with me once more.

  And I know right then that I never want to leave his side again.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Maddox

  I grit my teeth as the medics set to work stitching up my head. My heart is beating so hard that I can barely hear the raised voices shouting all around me over its clamor. Forcing myself to focus despite the pain, I take in the scene playing out before me here in the examination room.

  “They gave that fucker González a red card,” Glover fumes as he charges into the room to check in on me, “So there’s that at least.”

  “They should give him a swift kick in the crotch, if you ask me,” Poppy replies, watching over the medical team’s work as they patch me up.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, wincing as a shot of pain radiates through my skull, “Go easy with that needle, would you?”

  “You’re lucky you’re still conscious,” the medic replies grimly, “If you’d fallen just a little bit harder, we’d be looking at a fractured skull here.”

  “Where is she? Where is she?” a furious voice rages from the hallway.

  I look up to see Barry O’Leary charging into the exam room, his eyes bugging ou
t in his rage. He spots Poppy standing beside me and jabs a fat finger her way.

  “You,” he snarls, nearly foaming at the mouth, “You little—”

  “Watch it,” she cuts him off, taking my hand in hers.

  “What’s the problem, Barry?” Glover asks wearily, “I’ve got enough to deal with right now, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “This girl defied a direct order from me to stay off the goddamn field,” Barry roars, “I told her we couldn’t spare the time, just like you said at the top of the game, Chris. And she still ran out there the second her boyfriend was involved.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, my boyfriend has a serious head injury,” Poppy shoots back. “I wasn’t going to let another one of your bad calls do him any harm.”

  “Are you hearing this?!” Barry appeals to Glover, “I can’t work with this girl. She has no respect for authority.”

  “I respect those who earn it,” Poppy tells her boss, squeezing my hand, “And those who give respect in return.”

  “See what I mean?” Barry scoffs, “She went against my orders and yours, Chris. There’s no keeping her in line.”

  “It’s a good thing she went against your orders,” the medic chimes in, rinsing the blood off my head, “Walcott needed immediate attention back there. It couldn’t wait.”

  “I told you not to use up any time unless it was an emergency, Barry,” Glover tells the head trainer, “You should have seen that this was an exception.”

  O’Leary’s head looks fit to explode as Glover chastises him in front of everyone.

  “Bottom line is, I want this girl gone,” Barry finally growls, glaring across the room at Poppy, “I get a say in who makes up my team, don’t I?”