Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel) (4 page)

I’m
used to life knocking me down by now. But that just means I’ve become a master
of picking myself up again. No matter what it takes.

Chapter Two

Poppy

New York, New York

One week later

“Well.
Look who’s decided to grace us with her presence,”
my mother says with a
smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Sorry
I’m a couple minutes late,”
I
mutter, shucking off my trench coat and slinging it over the back of my chair,
“I got held up at the office for a second.

“It’s
fine, Sweetheart,”
my
dad replies, barely looking up from the scotch menu as I join them at their
table. “We know to expect this kind of thing from you, by now.”

For
once, my parents’
barbs
don’t puncture my good mood. I’ve been grinning like an idiot for the last
hour, ever since I got the most exciting phone call of my professional life.
Usually, these monthly dinners with my parents at their favorite (way too
expensive) restaurant in New York City’s West Village leave me furious,
frustrated, or just damn depressed. But tonight, I finally have some news that
even
they
can’t dismiss or make little of.

And
that may actually be a first.

“Oh,”
my mother says, glancing
between me and the front door, “Are you alone tonight?”

“Um…
Yes, I’m alone,”
I reply, “Why wouldn’t I
be?”

My
mother, Cora Abrams, gestures for the waiter to remove a fourth place setting
from the table. A place setting that is permanently reserved for my new
significant other. My as-yet imaginary significant other, that is.

“I
suppose I should stop hoping that one of these days you’ll bring a nice man along
with you to dinner,”
Mom
sighs, taking a long sip of her martini.

“The
guy who owns the bodega beneath my apartment is pretty chummy,”
I offer, “I could see if
he’d like to come along to our next get-together if you like.”

Mom
shudders in response and decides to ignore me until I say something sensible.
That’s fine. I think I’d have a heart attack if she suddenly started being all
warm and cuddly and motherly with me. I wouldn’t be able to adjust after all
these years of icy disdain.

“It’s
been two years since the divorce, Poppy,”
Oscar, my dad, points out. Helpful as
ever. “Your mother and I thought that you’d be dating by now.

Thankfully,
the waiter hands me my customary Pinot Noir—one of the perks of being a
regular—before I can accidentally laugh in my father’s face. While there have
certainly been men in my life since my marriage fell spectacularly apart, I
wouldn’t exactly describe my activities with them as “dating”. More like,
“Tinder-assisted-booty-calling”. Trying to start another long-term, serious
relationship after getting my heart blasted to smithereens by Jason, my
ex-husband, is inconceivable. As a single 34-year-old New Yorker who can pass
for 28 in a pinch, I don’t have any trouble finding companionship, even if it’s
only for an evening or two. And right now, that’s all I want. Anything beyond
that is too painful to even consider.

“You
still have time, you know,”
my
mother adds as our food is delivered. Dad always orders the entire party, no
matter what.

“Time
for…
what,
exactly?”
I
ask.

“Children,
of course!”
she
replies, her eyes going with disbelief that I even had to ask. “You’re pushing
it, but there have been incredible advances in fertility technology. I was
talking to Eleanor Fischer—you know, Becky’s mom? Becky, the girl you went to
high school with? She has two adorable little girls now, and she—”

“Wow,
what is this? Monkfish?”
I
cut in loudly, trying to act impressed by the tiny portions of artfully
arranged food placed before us, “Let’s maybe talk about the Monkfish instead of
my uterus, OK?”

Mom
clucks her tongue at me. “I’m just trying to be helpful, dear. I worry about
your priorities sometimes.”

“We
both do,”
Dad
nods sagely, skewering a bit of fish onto his fork.

I
take a deep breath, leaning back from the table and considering my
parents—Oscar and Cora. The WASPiest of WASPs. And, like their acronymic
namesakes, just as willing to land a good sting at any cost. Though I may be a
highly regarded athletic trainer and physical therapist among my colleagues and
clients, my work will always seem trashy to my surgeon father and dumb-as-rocks
queen bee mother. They’ve never understood why I care so much about my career,
given that it isn’t “real medicine”
in their eyes. If I had become a doctor
like my father, or set my sights on being a society woman like my mother, they
would have been able to understand me. But a 34-year-old, childless,
career-driven daughter? No dice. I may as well be a literal Martian, given how
puzzling and unlikely I seem to them.

Still,
with no siblings or family of my own, they’re all I’ve got. No matter how crazy
they make me, I know I’ll keep trying. What else am I supposed to do?

“So,
Mom. Dad. I actually have some pretty good news to share with you,”
I begin, clasping my
hands on the table.

“Oh?”
Mom perks up.

“Do
tell,”
Dad
adds.

“The
reason I was a little late tonight was that I got a very exciting phone call,”
I go on.

“A
personal phone call? Or a work phone call?”
Mom asks.

“Work,”
I tell her, my smile fading
by a hair as she slumps dejectedly in her seat.

“Who
was it, a client?”
Dad
asks.

“Sort
of,”
I
go on, “It was the owner of a sports team. A brand new sports team, actually.
And not just any sport, either. My
favorite
sport.”

“What’s
that, dear?”
Mom
asks, fishing out the olive from the bottom of her glass.

“Soccer,
Mom,”
I
reply shortly, “You know, that thing I devoted my entire childhood and
adolescence to?”

“Until
you gave it up,”
she
says.

“Until
I demolished my ankle during a game and had to quit,”
I correct her. How does
my own mother not remember my career-ending injury? I’d been talking about
trying to play college soccer for years when a totally out-of-line slide tackle
ended my chances for good.

“What
did you say this team was called?”
Dad asks, his brow furrowing.

“I
didn’t. But it’s the Atlantic City Empire,”
I reply.

“Huh.
Never heard of it,”
Dad
replies.

“That’s
because they’re new. Like I just said,”
I press, losing my patience.

“Do
they even
have
professional soccer in America?”
Mom asks, raising an
eyebrow.

“Of
course they have professional soccer in America!”
I exclaim, a little louder than I
mean to. “You have
been
to professional soccer matches in America!”

“Are
you sure that wasn’t one of the nannies?”
Mom asks skeptically. “It doesn’t sound
like the sort of thing I’d be interested in.”

“Yeah,
I got that,”
I
mutter.

“Keep
your voices down, ladies,”
Dad
scolds me and my mother alike. Ah, patriarchy. Gotta love it. “People are
starting to stare. Poppy, dear. Why don’t you finish your story?”

“I
was offered a job,”
I
tell them outright, “And I think I’m going to accept. I’ll finally be part of
an MLS team.”

“Well.
In a sense,”
Mom
allows.

“What
would your new title be?”
Dad
asks.

“Assistant
Athletic Trainer,”
I
tell them, proud despite their belittling comments. The only people above me
would be the Head Athletic Trainer and the Head Coach himself. It’s an
incredible position for someone my age. And after practicing on my own for all
these years, being back on board with a team would be a welcome change of pace.
I watch my parents’
faces,
waiting for them to respond to my news. Finally, my dad speaks.

“Huh,”
he says, “
Assistant
Athletic Trainer.”

“Why
‘Assistant’?”
Mom
asks, cocking her head to the side.

“What
you do mean,
why
?”
I
ask, feeling my blood starting to boil, “Because that’s the job I was offered.
It’s actually a huge deal to be—”

“After
all that schooling, all that experience, I thought you’d be above the assistant
level by now,”
Dad
grumbles, digging back into this food.

“I’m
not—It’s more than—”
I
sputter, gripping the arms of my chair so tightly that my knuckles start to go
white. If I don’t get a hold of myself, I’m going to flip this table over in no
time flat. “I’m…going to use the ladies. Be back in a sec,”
I finally manage to say
through gritted teeth, rising from my chair on shaky legs.

“No
need to announce it, dear,”
Mom
says, wrinkling her nose. “A little discretion never hurt anyone.”

I
literally hold my tongue between my teeth as I hurry toward the bathroom, lest
I let out the swirling symphony of expletives that is raging through my mind.
Pushing open the heavy bathroom door, I barricade myself in one of the stalls,
shove my fingers into my hair, and wedge my head between my knees. I draw in
huge calming breaths, trying to shake off the disappointment and rage I feel
toward Cora and Oscar. I just never learn to guard my heart around those two,
no matter how many times they break it.

After
a few long moments, the storm of negative feelings hanging over me starts to
subside. Still wanting to stall as long as I can before returning to the table,
I pull out my phone and start scrolling through my various social media feeds.
I don’t do a lot of personal sharing online, so my Facebook and Twitter feeds
are mostly comprised of sports news. I try to stay up-to-date with my favorite
teams, having always been a big sports fan. But that’s come with some
interesting complications of late, since the entire sports news cycle this week
has been dominated by a man I know quite intimately:

Maddox
“Mad Man”
Walcott.

I
first met Maddox when he was a cocky 19-year-old college kid. And a rising
soccer star, to boot. Against my better judgement, I even ended up sleeping
with him the night before his career-making collegiate match. Since then, I’ve
watched his career take off from afar. He rose through the ranks of the British
Premier League—though thankfully he never played for
my
BPL team,
Arsenal. Cheering on a former one-night stand who I never heard from again would
be a bit odd. But I no longer have to worry about that eventuality. Earlier
this week, it was announced that Maddox is officially banned from the BPL. The
league higher-ups cited his ties to some gang or other as justification of
their decision, but everyone knows that they gave him the axe for his
unapologetic, outrageous, admittedly badass behavior.

Mad
Man Walcott staked his claim as the bad boy of BPL the day he was first signed
on as a 19-year-old. With his penchant for partying, tattoos, motorcycles, and
leggy blondes (called it), he is everything the league doesn’t want to be known
for. Add to the mix his stunning number of red cards and affinity for breaking
his opponents’
noses
with well-placed head butts, and you can understand why the BPL decided to give
him the boot. He was a handful back when I knew him eight years ago. I can only
imagine what a raging, intolerable asshole he is today.

Just
as I’m about to close out of my Twitter app and head back to dinner, a newly
published headline catches my eye:

Ousted Footballer Maddox Walcott Signs With MLS Club

I
stare at the phone, trying to comprehend what I’m reading. The Mighty Maddox
Walcott actually deigning to give American soccer his time of day? Color me
amazed. He had nothing but disdain for his American teammates and coaches when
he was playing at the university level. But I guess if the BPL won’t let him on
the pitch, this is his only option. I click through the article and read on.

BREAKING: Maddox Walcott, the English footballer who was
infamously dismissed from the British Premier League just days ago, has found
himself a new club. The notoriously difficult and confident Mad Man will be the
first Designated Player for the Atlantic City Empire, a new expansion team
with…

I
can’t go on reading the article. Putting one word in front of another is
suddenly an impossible task. My entire body goes still as stone as I let the
news settle over me. Maddox Walcott is coming here. To the United States. To
play for the very same team that just offered me my dream job. He’ll be back in
my life, after all these years. Him and that impeccable, delicious body that I
still remember every inch of.