Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel) (20 page)

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.