Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel) (10 page)

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 myself 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.

“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
shoulder, 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 against 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.”