Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel) (8 page)

“So
what the fuck are we still doing here?”
he growls, running his hands up under my
tee shirt, letting me feel his hands against my bare skin. “Let me take you
back to my place and we can start making up for lost time.”

“That
wouldn’t be suspicious at all,”
I
laugh breathlessly, “The two of us leaving practice together for all the team
to see…”

“Come
over later then,”
he
urges, bringing his lips to my throat. I let my eyes flutter closed as he
kisses along my neck. “I’ll send a car. Shit, I’ll send a fucking helicopter if
I have to. Anything to have you again.”

“We
can’t just…What about…”
I
mutter, struggling to put one word in front of another, “We have to be careful,
Mad. We’re work for the same team now. No one could ever know…”

“I
didn’t tell anyone last time, did I?”
he murmurs, “If I can keep from bragging
about the hot older chick I fucked as a randy teenage boy, don’t you think I
can keep a secret now?”

“You
didn’t have the press following every facet of your life when you were a randy
teenage boy,”
I
remind him, letting my fingertips trail down his fine abs. “Your secrets aren’t
so safe anymore. Isn’t that why you got kicked out of your old league in the
first place?”

“I
know how to cover my tracks, Poppy. I’ve got loads of practice by now,”
he says, moving to slip
his hands up under my bra. But the reminder of his prolific sex life and
criminal ties is not exactly a selling point, to be frank. I guide his hands
off my body and step back, composing myself.

“I…I
need to go. I need to think,”
I
tell him, running my fingers through my hair as I turn to go.

“What’s
there to think about?”
he
says, striding after me. “You want me. I want you. Why shouldn’t we both get
what we want?”

“You
don’t understand, Mad,”
I
tell him, “Some of us actually have to face consequences for our actions.”

“I
know all about consequences,”
he
says, taking my hand firmly in his, “But I’d rather regret something I’ve done,
instead of something I was too afraid to do.”

“I…I
just…”
I
stammer, heart racing as he catches my face in his hands.

“I’m
going to kiss you now, Poppy,”
he
says, brushing his thumbs against my cheekbones. “OK?”

“…Yeah.
I think you’d better,”
I
breathe.

He
brings his mouth swiftly to mine, pressing his lips against my own. Our mouths
move insatiably as we taste each other again after all this time. His strong
tongue sweeps into my mouth as he catches me up in his arms. His full lips
press against mine, at once full and impossibly soft. I press my body flush
against his, marveling at the enormity of him, the precise intensity of his
kiss. He’s not only bigger and stronger, now. He’s also
better
. More
experienced. If he knew how to rock me back when he was only nineteen, what
incredible things could he do to me now? I don’t know if I can wait to find
out.

Before
my imagination has a chance to go wild, I hear heavy footsteps approaching
swiftly along the hall, heading straight for this exam room door. Maddox and I
pull away from each other by just an inch, listening as the voices of our
manager and head trainer come closer. The instant before the door swings open,
we leap away from each other—I to one side of the room and Mad to the other,
where he thankfully has time to sit down and hide his raging erection before
our bosses barrel inside.

“Well?”
Barry says, “What’s the
story?”

“He’s
fine, apart from the head wound,”
I say, busying myself with some charts on
the counter. Anything not to look my boss in the eye.

“You
have anything to say for yourself, Walcott?”
Chris Glover says to Mad, his jaw pulsing
with ire.

“Not
really, mate,”
Maddox
shrugs, looking composed as hell. How does he do that? I feel like I’m going to
dissolve into a puddle in about two minutes.

“How
about, ‘I’ll quit being a showoff so we can all do our jobs and win some
games’?”
Glover
suggests, “That was a routine drill we were running out there. Barlow called
the header for himself. You need to learn to leave well enough alone.”

“I
always have been a very persistent man,”
Maddox says, “And I have a way of getting
what I want.”

Something
tells me he’s not talking about soccer anymore. I swallow hard, feeling his
words hit me right in the solar plexus.

“Well
then, try and figure out how to want a spot on this team for longer than one
game,”
Glover
snaps, turning on his heel. “Because you’re pushing my patience, Walcott.
You’re a good player, but you’re not untouchable.”

No
, I think to myself,
On the contrary,
he’s very touchable.

O’Leary
goes out after Glover, and I glance over at Maddox. He stays where he is,
watching me as I collect my things. He’s not going to try and stop me from
leaving now, or rush me into anything. I know that. He doesn’t have to. There’s
only so much longer I’ll be able to keep myself from Maddox Walcott, and he
knows it. All he has to do is wait.

“See
you soon, Ms. Abrams,”
he
says after me as I head for the door. “All of you, I hope,”
he adds, softly so only I
can hear.

“You
are persistent, aren’t you?”
I
ask, pausing in the doorway to take one last look at his muscled form before I
go.

“You
ain’t seen nothin’
yet,”
he grins, giving me a
lingering once-over.

Before
I lose it completely and throw myself into his inked-up arms, I hurry down the
hallway and back into the world as I know it. This is the last weekend before
our big home opener next Friday, here at our stadium in Atlantic City. Maybe I
can go on a Maddox Walcott detox cleanse this weekend and get him out of my
system? Or maybe, just maybe, I should do as he says and go after what I want.
God knows I want it, him, more than ever.

But
I guess I should wait to see if he really does get kicked off the team after
his first game to make any hard decisions. Why put all that decision-making to
waste, right?

Chapter Eight

Maddox

I’m
not gonna lie, I totally expected Poppy to show up on my doorstep that very
night in nothing but a trench coat. But I guess I underestimated her
self-control. That woman is disciplined as fuck. I’ve grown unaccustomed to
waiting for a woman. These past few years, the action has been pretty non-stop.
I can tap a few keys on my mobile and have a lady at my side in about ten
minutes flat. But frankly, the fact that women want me more than ever these
days actually makes things pretty boring for me. There’s no suspense, no
effort, no surprise. I’m more intrigued by this little standoff with Poppy than
I have been by anything, or anyone, all year.

Still,
that doesn’t make this whole waiting around thing any easier. The entire
weekend goes by without a visit from the elusive Ms. Abrams. And when I see her
again at the stadium, she’s acting downright cordial. I don’t know what to make
of it. On the bright side, trying to figure out the enigma that is Poppy Abrams
takes my focus away from fucking around with Captain Ginger (my new favorite
nickname for Barlow. I know, I’m hilarious), so at least Glover gets off my
back a bit. Don’t want to give the new manager a heart attack before our season
even starts.

In
all fairness, the squad isn’t half bad. As I spend this final week training
with them, I’m pleasantly surprised by how competent they are. I mean, sure
they’re nowhere near the level of some of the legends I got to play with back
in Europe, but it could be much worse. Not that I’d ever tell them that.
Especially not Captain Ginger. I don’t give that kind of satisfaction to anyone
outside of the bedroom.

The
night before our big home opener against another new East Coast expansion team,
I actually decide to be a good boy and not hit the casino before turning in. I
do have my customary bottle of Johnnie Walker Red to keep me company, of
course. (I said I’d be good, not a bloody saint.) My room here at the Tangier
is nicer than I expected it to be. Everything is super modern, with clean lines
and edges. There’s a king sized bed, a tub the size of a swimming pool, and a
well-stocked bar. Nothing frilly. I like that.

I
pour myself a few fingers of scotch and make my way over the sliding door that
leads out onto the balcony. I push open the glass door and lean against the
threshold, looking out across the water from my bird’s eye view. I wonder what
eight-year-old Mad would think of this life—playing professional football by
day, chilling out in top notch hotels by night. If the Hackney Firm hadn’t
found me playing in a grubby neighborhood park and got me into a youth football
academy with our local East London club, I never would have made anything of
myself. I owe all of this to them, in a way, which is why I’ll always be loyal
to the Firm. These days I’m more of a patron than anything, anyway—lending
other members money if they need it, helping out when my celebrity status can
be useful. I’m glad that what I’m good at can be of use to The Firm, ‘cause
there’s nothing else I know how to do, besides play football.

As
much as I try to brush off my bad fortune, I know I very nearly lost everything
when I got kicked out of the BPL. That’s why I’m not going to give these
Americans any reason to question how much they need me. I’m leaving everything
on the field tomorrow. I’ll show these people that Maddox Walcott is not a
force to be taken lightly.

My
mobile vibrates on the kitchen counter across the room, and I go over to see
who it is. There’s a new text message waiting for me, from a number I don’t
recognize. It reads:

Good
luck tomorrow, Mad. I know you’re gonna kill it.

I
snatch up the phone, punching in a quick response.

Who
the hell is this?

I
sip my scotch, waiting for my secret admirer to reveal their identity.

It’s
Poppy. Lifted your number from your team file.

A
wide grin spreads across my face. This is the most contact I’ve had with my
sexy ex-lover all week. I lean against the counter and shoot over a response.

Me:
Feeling naughty, are you?

Her:
Ha ha. Just wanted to wish you luck. I feel like “break a leg”
might not be appropriate in this
circumstance.

Me:
Yeah, not so much. I’m glad you dropped a line. I’ve missed you all week.

Her:
You’ve seen me every day this week.

Me:
Not the way I want to see you.

Those
three little dots dance around in their bubble for a good long while as she
slowly types her response.

Her:
What way do you want to see me, Mad?

Me:
Completely naked, lying in my bed with your legs spread wide open

Her:
I want you to see me like that too

Me:
And what do you want me to do to you, once I have you like that?

Her:
I want your hands on me.

Me:
You want me to run them along your body, all the way down to your wet pussy?

Her:
Yeah, that’s what I want. I’m so wet for you, Mad.

Me:
I can feel it. I’m running my fingers all along your slit. I’m slipping two
fingers deep inside you.

Her:
I love that. I love how you touch me.

Me:
Do you love it when I bear down on your clit? I know you like it when I’m a
little rough.

Her:
God, I love feeling you there. You know exactly how I like it.

My
fingers dig into the marble countertop as we go on. I can feel myself getting
harder by the second. She knows exactly how I like it, too.

Me:
I could make you come this second, but I won’t. I want to take my time. I want
you to beg me to let you come.

Her:
Fuck, I don’t know if I can take it much longer. I’m picturing you here with
me, on top of me…

Me:
Soon, babe. But right now it’s all about you.

Her:
That might be the sexiest thing you’ve said yet.

I
laugh through my raging lust. Even in the middle of a round of dirty sexting she
can still make me laugh.

Me:
I grab onto your hips and bring my mouth down to your pussy. I give it a nice,
long lick before I suck your clit between my lips.

Her:
Oh, fuck…

Me:
My fingers move inside you as my tongue circles your clit, hard.

Her:
That’s perfect. You’re perfect. I dig my fingers into your hair and hold on for
dear life.

Me:
You’re close aren’t you?

Her:
I’m so close.

Me:
I bring my fingers back to your clit as I lift my mouth to yours. I kiss you
hard, deep. You can taste yourself all over my lips and tongue.

Her:
Can I come now? Please??

Me:
Yes. Come for me.

I
stand holding my phone, waiting for her response. Tense moments go by with no
answer, as my cock very nearly tears through my jeans. Finally, she types back.

Her:
Holy shit.

Me:
Tell me about it.

Her:
I really did just want to tell you good luck.

Me:
Uh huh. I totally believe you.

Her:
Was that…
OK? For you, I
mean.

Me:
Are you kidding? It was fucking brilliant for me.

Her:
Well, good.

Me:
But you’re gonna have to excuse me for sec. You’ve got me wound up to ten over
here. I need to go take care of myself or I won’t last the night.

Her:
You sure?

Me:
Very

Her:
I mean. I could take care of you. If you like.

Just
when I thought this exchange couldn’t get any better. Grabbing my scotch, I
head for the bedroom. If this is going any further, I’m gonna need to get
comfortable.

Me:
I’m listening…