Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel) (3 page)

We
fall into a seamless rhythm, each of us giving everything we’ve got. We’re
teammates, collaborators—urging each other to be better, faster, stronger. I
can feel him at my core, plowing into me as I throw myself back against him. I
feel his cock in the very center of my body, like he could split me open at any
second. Resting my cheek against the cool table, I catch of glimpse of us in
the darkened exam room mirror. I almost forget to breathe as I catch this
glimpse of Maddox Walcott in the act. His every muscle stands out in sharp
definition as he fucks me. Every ounce of his energy, attention, and power are
all focused on me. The sight of him giving himself over completely sends a
flare of excitement ricocheting off every corner of my body.

“I’m
so close, Mad…”
I
gasp, my fingers digging into the table’s edge.

“You
want to come with me?”
he
growls, picking up the pace of his epic thrusts.

“Yes,”
I cry, “Yes, I want to
come with—”

But
my words cut out as Maddox rears back and sends his cock crashing into me one
last time. Our voices rise up together as we come hard, pulsating with sensation.
I feel his cock pulse deep inside me, sending a tremor of satisfaction rippling
through my body. Maddox falls forward, his chiseled chest pressed to my back. I
can feel his heart thundering right along with mine, slowly regaining its
normal rhythm as we float back down from cloud nine. I peer over my shoulder to
take in his sculpted features.

“Well,”
I breathe, “I think I
have all the proof I need, by now.”

“That
so?”
he
laughs, his voice vibrating at the point of the rather intimate connection we
still share.

“Sure,”
I reply, lifting myself
off his impressive cock. “If you perform half as well tomorrow as you did
tonight, we might just have a shot of winning.”

“You
liked my performance then, did you?”
he replies, striding across the room in
the altogether to pick up his jeans.

“I
think you show a lot of potential for such young man,”
I tease him, slipping
back into my leggings.

“S’nice
of you to say,”
he
drawls sarcastically, “It was an eye-opener for me too. I don’t usually hook up
with older broads.”

I
roll my eyes as I shuck on my tank top.

“I’m
26, asshole,”
I
inform him, “I can’t have more than a few years on you.”

“Actually…”
he replies, “I peg it as
more like
several
years.”

“Several?”
I echo, my eyes going
wide. I know he’s a sophomore in college, but Maddox looks for the world like
he’s in his mid-to-late twenties. But I wager a guess in the early-twenties
column. “What are you then, like, 21?”

He
gives me a thumbs down and he steps into his jeans, enjoying my discomfort.

“20?”
I ask, my voice wavering.

Another
thumbs down from the man who I just fucked with totally abandon. My heart
starts to race, and not pleasantly this time, either.

“Oh
god…”
I
groan, staring at Maddox in horror, “You’re at least
legal
aren’t you?
You’re not some 17-year-old soccer prodigy or—”

His
raucous laughter cuts me off. I stare at him in bafflement as he clutches his
perfect stomach, doubled over and laughing at my expense.

“I
don’t see what’s so funny,”
I
say testily, crossing my arms across my chest.

“Relax
love,”
he
says at last, getting ahold of himself, “I’m all grown up, don’t you worry.
Turning 19 last month.”

“19
is ‘all grown up’?”
I
shoot back, relieved that he’s of age after all but still amazed that a
teenager could fuck like that.

“When
you grow up like I did, 19 is closer to the grave than the cradle,”
he says, the laughter
flickering out of his eyes.

Not
knowing what to say to such a serious sentiment, I decide to make a joke
instead. Cracking jokes in awkward situations is my favorite coping mechanism,
after all.

“Well.
Glad to hear that I’m not a pervert!”
I smile, giving Maddox a friendly clap on
his broad, muscular shoulder.

“Not
in the eyes of the law, maybe. But now I know better,”
he winks.

“Takes
one to know one,”
I
shoot back, stepping around him and out of the room.

As
we take our leave of the training facility, it’s nearly 2 a.m. We part ways
with no fuss, no deep professions. This was a one-night stand, I tell myself.
Cut and dry. My time at this university will be over in a few short weeks, and
then I’ll probably never see Maddox Walcott again, except maybe on ESPN. It’s
probably better that way, I think as I head home for a couple measly hours of
shut-eye. A man as gorgeous, ambitious, and arrogant as that can’t be anything
but trouble. And I’ve got way too much to accomplish in my life for that kind
of trouble, thank you very much. I’ve got a plan—and it doesn’t include falling
for any hot-tempered soccer stars.

Still,
as I watch Maddox Walcott take the field the next day and crush it as our
team’s star striker, I’m keenly aware of the delicious ache lingering between
my legs. Maybe another one-night stand or two before we part ways wouldn’t
hurt.

Or
at least, maybe it would only hurt in the good way…

Chapter One

Maddox

London

January, 2016

“Jesus
Christ, Mad,”
my
little sister Rose exclaims as she lets herself into my place, “Your flat is a
bloody disaster.”

“Haven’t
much felt like tidyin’
up,”
I grumble, keeping my
eyes glued to the telly. My own face stares back at me from the flat screen,
just like it has all morning. “I’ve been a bit busy watching my life go down
the crapper.”

“You’d
think these news idiots could find something more interesting to talk about
than my big brother gettin’
sacked,”
Rose says, sitting next
to me on my unmade bed. “I mean, think about it. War! Famine! Political
corruption! And all they can talk about is your sorry arse?”

“You
tryna be all comforting or some shit?”
I shoot back, watching as a new caption
ticks across the screen:

Star Striker Booted From Premier League for Alleged
Gang Activity.

“Fuck
comforting,”
Rose
scoffs, flicking a bleached blonde curl over her shoulder. “I’m pissed as hell
for you, Mad.”

“Why?”
I reply, the corners of
my mouth turning up despite the dire situation, “Were you hoping one of my
teammates would make a proper WAG out of you?”

“Oh,
piss off,”
she
pouts, not even bothering to deny it. “As if wanting to be a wife or girlfriend
to somebody is some kind of tragedy.”

“S’not
a tragedy. Just a little pathetic is all,”
I smile, giving her a pat on the head, her
least favorite thing in the world. I know I shouldn’t take my bad news out on
her, but she couldn’t have expected anything else when she decided to come over
here. I’ve just been banned from the top football league in the UK, run out of
the only job I’ve ever had. I’m allowed to be an asshole for a morning. Or…
y’know.
More
of an
asshole.

We
fall into tempestuous silence, staring at the muted TV. It’s bad enough knowing
that I’m getting dragged through the shit in the media. I don’t need to hear
their pet theories about why I got banned from the only league worth playing
in. My skin’s as tough as it comes, but this whole thing is throwing me for a
fucking loop. Since I was eight years old, football is how I made my way in
this world. That’s what got me out of the slums and into the good graces of the
Hackney Firm. Some people like to call the Firm a common gang, but it’s so much
more than that. It’s a brotherhood. The only real family I’ve ever had apart
from Rosie here. So what if they rough a couple blokes up every once in a
while? They only ever fuck up the ones that deserve it. But now my family ties
are putting my career in jeopardy. What am I supposed to do if I can’t play football
in my own bloody country?

“I
just have to wait ‘em out,”
I
growl, snapping off the TV and striding toward the kitchen. I bought this flat
in cash after my first season in the Premier League. It’s all modern and
industrial, posh as fuck. A far cry from the council estate me and Rose grew up
in. And I’ll tell you one thing—I ain’t got no intentions of backsliding to
that old life. I’ve worked too hard to let that happen.

“Do
they even have any proof of what they’re saying, about you being some kind of boss
man in The Firm?”
Rose
asks, trailing after me. Just like she used to do when we were kids, all but
fending for ourselves after Mum left and Dad made the pub his primary
residence.

“Nah,
just a bunch of rumors,”
I
tell her, wrenching open the fridge and grabbing a beer. “You want one of
these?”

“You
jokin’?”
she
says, wrinkling her nose, “Not all of us can guzzle beer and still have abs
like yours, Mad. Not to mention that it’s ten in the morning.”

“With
the morning I’m having, I’d say I’m past due for a drink,”
I mutter, slamming off
the bottle cap against the countertop. I don’t even flinch as a bit of granite
chips off. Living the Premier League lifestyle for the last eight years has
done a bit to make me forget what being dirt poor is like. I’m not ashamed of
my roots, but I can’t say I miss the bad old days before I got scouted during a
university football match over in the States. 

The
fact that I got into university at all is still hilarious to me. I got terrible
marks as a kid, all through high school. I was too busy hustling for The Firm
and playing pickup football to give a shit about maths and what have you. But
schools were shitting themselves trying to get me to come play for them all the
same. I decided to piss off to America, not least of all because I knew my
accent alone would keep me rich in tail the whole time I was there. If American
men played football half as well as American women fuck, I may have just stayed
over there. But the second the Premiere League came calling, I was back on the
plane to the UK.

Taking
a deep swig of beer, I think back to that fateful university match in
Philadelphia. The one that got me noticed by the big guns. I’d almost been
barred from playing that day, after some wanker tripped over me in practice and
did a number on my knee. My manager couldn’t take the pressure of making his
own decision
—
pussy that he is
—
so
it all came down to our trainer. Poppy Abrams, her name was. Fine as hell, and
not one to put up with my shit for long. I liked that about her, I did. I also
liked the fact that she was down to fuck whenever, wherever—including on the
exam table the night before my big game.

Christ,
I still get worked up just thinking about it. I wish I could have gotten a few
more fucks in with Ms. Abrams, truth be told. But I got my arse out of that
school the second my first Premier League offer came through. As it were, we
only got that one night. She was a few—
several
—years older than me. If
I’m 27 now, she must be in her thirties. Probably married to some fat American
bloke and lugging a pram around the suburbs by now. What a fucking waste of
talent. On the job
and
in the sack.

“Are
you listenin’
to
me at all?”
Rose
huffs, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

“Nah,”
I reply, sitting down on
my leather sofa. The wall of windows in front of me looks out across the whole
of London. My city.

“I’m
asking you what exactly you plan to do now that you’ve been kicked out of the
league,”
she
says, coming to a stop in front of me.

“You’re
blocking the view,”
I
tell her, draining my beer.

“Mad!”
she cries, “Be serious
for once in your bloody life!”

“I
don’t fucking know, Rose!”
I
shout back, chucking my bottle across the room.

It
smashes against one of the windows, shattering into a million pieces and leaving
a nice crack in its wake. Rose just rolls her eyes at me. She knows I would
never hurt a hair on her head. Or any woman’s, for that matter. I’ll mess a man
up if he steps out of line, but I’m not a fucking monster. I watched my Dad
drive Mom out of the family with that kind of shit, and clobbered him right
back the second I was old enough. Prick never laid a finger on Rosie because of
me. That must balance out some of the bad I’ve done, yeah?

“I’m
sure somethin’
will
come through,”
my
sister says, sitting next to me on the couch. “If all else fails, you can model
boxers or something like all the other washed-up footballers.”

“Bite
your fuckin’
tongue,”
I growl.

Before
Rosie can get another word in, my mobile starts going off. I stand up and
glance down at the screen, stepping over bits of broken glass as I walk toward
the window. The damn thing’s been ringing off the hook since the news of my
banishment broke this morning. Gossip mongers have been calling all day trying
to get a quote, and I’ve mostly been screening their calls. But as I look down
at yet another anonymous number of someone trying to get a piece of me, I lose
it. With boiling blood and a choice word on two at the ready, I take the call.

“Listen
up you bleeding piece of shit,”
I
fume into the phone, “You lot can back the fuck off me right quick, all right?
I’ve got nothing to say to you, so—”

“Hey!
Whoa! Slow down there!”
a
male American voice chuckles over the line, “I’m not a reporter, Mad Man. I
promise.”

“Right,”
I scoff. My football
nickname, Maddox “Mad Man”
Walcott,
sounds totally ridiculous when Americans say it. “I totally believe you, mate.”

“God
as my witness,”
the
man replies, “My name is Tucker. Dale Tucker.”

Jesus,
I think to myself,
May
as well call yourself Tex McMuffin or some shit.

“And
who the fuck are you,
Dale Tucker
?”
I say his name with an exaggerated
American accent, shrugging at Rosie’s questioning look.

“Well,
I just happen to be the owner of a soccer club over here in the States,”
Tucker replies
cheerfully.

Soccer club.
Give me a fucking break.

“How
nice for you,”
I
drawl, “What’s that got to do with me?”

“From
what I hear on the news, you’re newly team-less. Isn’t that right, Mr.
Walcott?”
Tucker
goes on.

“Don’t
sound so giddy about it, you prat,”
I snap at him.

“Sorry,
sorry. You’re right,”
he
backpedals, “I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me just cut right to
the chase, here. I’d like to invite you to come play for the most exciting club
in American soccer.”

“What
club is that?”
I
laugh, “You want me to grow a hipster beard and join up with the Timbers, is
that it?”

“No,
no. Our team is actually brand new,”
he replies.

“An
expansion
team?”
I
scoff, “You’re out of your bleeding mind.”

“Out
of my mind with excitement, maybe!”
he barrels on, “This season marks the
debut of my club—
the
Atlantic City Empire.”

“How
precious,”
I
say, rolling my eyes.

“We
are poised to be the next big thing in the Major League Soccer Eastern
Conference here in America, my friend.”

“Doesn’t
New Jersey already have a team?”
I ask him absentmindedly, looking out
across the panoramic view of my hometown.

“Nope!”
he says. “The Red Bulls
and NYCFC are both New York. The Union is Philly. That’s where you first came
up, right son?”

“I
was in Philly for about three seconds, mate. But nice attempt at research.”

“The
Empire would be New Jersey’s first bona-fide FC,”
Tucker says, his voice hushed and
almost reverent. “And I want to bring you on as our star player.”

This
man is straight-up delusional. MLS may be the States’
most prestigious league,
but it’s still a far cry from the BPL. The quality of play in America is
abysmal compared with what we do here in England. I’d be skipping circles
around those American teams. It wouldn’t even be fair to the poor twats.

“No
offense, mate,”
I
say to Tucker, “But why the fuck would I want to come play with a bunch of
bumbling MLS idiots out in the swamps of bloody
New Jersey
?”

“No
offense to you, Mad Man,”
Tucker
counters, “But from what I understand, you don’t really have any other offers
right now, do you?”

I
clench my jaw, seeing red. As much as I hate to admit it, the wanker is right.
I’ve been blacklisted from the Premier League. No manager in the UK is going to
sign me now. Hell, I don’t even know what European manager would touch me with
a ten-foot pole, what with my ties to The Firm. Those allegations may be
mostly
bullshit, just an excuse to run the BPL’s “resident bad boy”
out of town, but there’s
a nugget of truth to them. And they’ve stuck to me like dog shit to a trainer. My
only way forward is down to the bottom of the bloody barrel.

“So?”
Tucker prods me over the
phone, “What do you think, Mr. Walcott? Do I have your attention now?”

“I’m
listening,”
I
growl, storming across the apartment as Rose looks on, bewildered. I yank an
entire six pack out of the fridge and set to work on it as Dale Tucker goes on
with his sales pitch. Never in my life did I think I’d even consider leaving
the Premier League for MLS. Not until I aged out, anyway. But now my hand is
being forced by a bunch of uptight pricks who have a problem with where I come
from. Well, fuck ‘em. They may be able to keep me out of their precious Premier
League, but they can’t stop me from playing football altogether.