Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel) (9 page)

Chapter Nine

Poppy

Time
itself breaks into a sprint as the Atlantic City Empire makes its big debut.
Our home opener draws a crowd of 25 thousand people—not bad for an untested
expansion team. I’m not even one of the players, but I still get the opening
day jitters. I have to be on top of my game too, after all. Watching the club
burst onto the scene is incredibly exciting. Our colors, navy and gold, are
everywhere in this city. And on opening day, I’m amazed by the wave of fans
that comes streaming into our brand new stadium. I don’t know how Tucker and
his marketing team managed to garner so much interest, but they did a bang-up
job.

Of
course, they did have a little help from one Maddox Walcott. Not only is he an
international sensation in his own right, but the media blitz around his
dismissal from the Premier League and recruitment by The Empire has made our
fledgling club a household name. Maddox’s face is on every piece of
merchandise, every press release—hell, I’m surprised they don’t paint his
likeness onto the pitch itself. Avid soccer fans here in the States have known
of Maddox Walcott for years, but since the sport is nowhere near as popular
here as it is in the UK, lots of people are hearing about this compelling,
talented, epically gorgeous player for the first time. To put it simply:
America wants as much Maddox Walcott as it can get.

And
it isn’t just America jonesing for a taste of him.

After
Maddox manages to reduce me to a puddle on the floor through text message
alone, I’m hooked. We spend the next few weeks sexting like fiends, at all
hours of the day and night. Our mounting sexual tension has finally found a
release. But I know that soon, this won’t be enough to hold me over. I
desperately want this man, and I’m not afraid to go after what I want. But as
the press coverage of Maddox kicks into high gear, I have to accept that any
dalliance with him is likely to be global news.

Every
little detail of Maddox’s life is already being turned over in the name of
“journalism”. There have been stories about his unlikely discovery as a mere
kid, the way he fought to make a life for himself and his little sister.
There’s been coverage of his reputation as a larger-than-life playboy,
interviews with many of his seemingly innumerable ex-girlfriends. And amid all
that, there are rumors about his possibly criminal past. From what I’ve read,
Maddox is an associate of an East London gang called The Hackney Firm. “The
Firm”, as it’s often referred to, is kind of like a club in and of itself.
Mostly, it’s a band of men looking out for their own. But sometimes, that involves
rather illegal activities. It’s impossible to say whether or not Maddox is
responsible for some of the more unseemly things The Firm has been accused of,
but still. I can’t forget that I know almost nothing about this person, other
than that he’s an incredible sexting partner. I have to be careful.

The
Empire’s first couple of games go better than we have any right to hope for. We
win our home opener with two expert goals by the one and only Mad Man Walcott
and draw at our first match on the road. And it’s not the results that I’m
happy about—I’m also really enjoying my job. Most of what I do involves working
one-on-one with the players themselves, and they really are a great group of
guys. They come from all over the world, and have fascinating stories to tell.
All of the players are at different points in their lives and careers, but they
have one thing in common: they’re super enthusiastic about getting to be a part
of this club’s first ever roster.

I
even find that I get along well with Hadrian Barlow, Maddox’s nemesis. As the
team captain, he has a lot of leadership responsibilities placed on his
shoulders, but he handles the pressure well. Sometimes I swear that I catch
Maddox keeping an eye on Barlow when I’m working with him. Call me crazy, but I
think Mad Man gets a little jealous when I pay attention to Barlow. Barlow gets
plenty jealous of Maddox, too, but for different reasons. All of the guys on
the team are totally bonkers for Maddox, and defer to him at every turn even
though Barlow is technically their captain. Maddox tends to do whatever he
likes as a striker, and though he makes incredible split-second decisions that
usually push The Empire toward victory, he’s still a loose cannon.

But
as another win comes in for us, this time on the road, we all start to accept
that the risks involved with keeping a loose cannon around are well worth it.

Though
Maddox and I are carrying on with our as-yet text-based filthiness, we make a
game out of being super professional at work. It’s thrilling, actually, having
this secret between us. Interacting with him on the job is like one huge role
playing session, now that we’re being open with our desire for each other. I
catch myself getting worked up just from a seemingly casual conversation with
him at work. We’re in the middle of our twisted game while everyone looks on,
acting as our unwitting audience. And with every passing day I can feel my need
to up the ante in our game skyrocket.

The
day of our second home game at the end of March, I’m making the rounds with the
players as they start to warm up. I’m diligent about checking in with each and
every one of them about their physical fitness. It’s my job to know exactly how
they’re doing at any given moment, after all. I’m just wrapping up with Hans Orbach,
our gigantic German goalkeeper.

“So
you’re feeling good then?”
I
ask him, probably looking like a mouse giving medical advice to an elephant as
I stand here talking to him.

“All
good,”
he
nods, giving me one of his signature toothy grins.

Orbach
is a gentle giant off the pitch, but in goal he is an absolute monster. He has
no fear when it comes to throwing his gigantic body around to stop a ball in
its tracks, and I’ve never seen someone as simultaneously agile and enormous as
him. He keeps his area of the locker room filled with pictures of his wife and
two young daughters—I think we spend more time talking about their wellbeing
than we do his.

I
give Orbach a thumbs up and head on out to the pitch, where Barlow is moving
through some stretches. I watch him closely as I approach, and see that he’s
still slightly favoring his right leg. His left knee was giving him a little
trouble after the last game, and it looks like it might still be bugging him.

“Hey
there,”
I
call to him, breaking into a light jog as I cross the pitch. I’m wearing my
favorite pair of boyfriend jeans and a slouchy black tee shirt—not exactly
business casual, but hey, it’s a physical job. Gotta be as comfortable as
possible.

“Hey
Pops,”
Hadrian
calls back, raising a shovel-sized hand to block the sun from his eyes as I
approach. “Coming to check up on me?”

“You
know it,”
I
reply, planting my hands on my hips as I step up next to him. “How’s that knee
treating you?”

“It’s
decent,”
he
tells me, catching his foot in his hand and giving the joint a good stretch.

“Just
decent?”
I
press. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Maddox leading a few other players
through his own sequence of warm ups. Even as he works with his teammates, he’s
got an eye on me and Hadrian. I don’t think he likes another player getting on
my good side. Well, tough shit.

“It’s
fine,”
Barlow
goes on, rubbing a hand through his thick beard, “Chris was a little hesitant
to play me today, but Barry took a look at me and said I was good to go. If
they’re not worried, I’m not worried.”

Well, that makes one of us
,
I think to myself. Barry O’Leary is a great trainer, and has many decades more
experience than I do, but as the head trainer, he has a lot less time to work
one-on-one with the guys. A lot of the day-to-day stuff falls on me, not him.
And from what I’m seeing on this particular day, Barlow might not be in great
shape to start.

“Speak
of the devil,”
Barlow
says, glancing over my shoulder. I look to see Barry and our manager Chris
Glover walking across the pitch toward us, deep in conversation. I’ve barely
gotten any face time with Glover just yet—most of my orders come through Barry.
But now, the two of them are headed right in my direction. Well,
Barlow’s
direction.

“Hey
Boss,”
I
say to O’Leary as he and Glover walk up to us, “Just making the rounds. I was
noticing that—”

“Everyone’s
looking good, right?”
Barry
cuts me off, looking out across the pitch.

“For
the most part,”
I
continue. If I let myself get upset every time Barry O’Leary cuts me off in the
middle of sentence, I’d never get anything done.

“I
like this starting 11,”
Barlow
nods, referring to the first 11 players who are set take the field at the top
of the game. You only get three substitutions per match in soccer, as opposed
to other sports where players can come and go with much more frequency. So
nailing your starting 11 is crucial.

But
even though I think also our starting lineup is strong, I can’t put Barlow’s
knee out of my mind. I just don’t have a good feeling about him playing a full
90 minutes today.

“One
thing,”
I
say to my bosses before they can walk away, “I was noticing that Barlow’s left
knee is looking a little touchy. Barry, do you want to take another look?”

“I’ve
already checked him out,”
Barry
replies, “He’s fine to play.”

“I’m
not so sure,”
I
tell him, “I know it looked fine during practice, but I was watching him just
now and—”

“Are
you suggesting that he might not be fit to play?”
Glover asks, his eyes hard on my
face. My burly, former MLS star manager is pretty intimidating, but I have to
give my professional opinion.

“Barlow’s
played the last three games,”
I
point out, “He has to rest sometime. I’m worried that he might get injured if
he overdoes it today.”

“We’ve
already got our lineup for today,”
Barry cuts in testily. “I’m telling you,
Poppy. Barlow is fine.”

“Is
that true, Hadrian?”
Glover
asks the captain, “Or has the knee gotten worse?”

“I
mean…It did feel better yesterday,”
Barlow allows.

Glover
takes a deep breath, looking back and forth between me and O’Leary. “Well,
which is it? Is he fit to play or not?”

“I’m
telling you he is, goddammit!”
O’Leary
shouts suddenly, taking me off guard. “What’re you, gonna listen to
her
over me?”

“I’m
just doing my job, Barry,”
I
tell him evenly.

“Your
job is to do what I tell you,”
he
growls back.

I
feel my blood heating to a boil as the rest of the players on the pitch look
over to see what the commotion’s all about—Maddox included.

“With
all due respect,”
I
tell Barry, my fists clenched at my sides, “My job is to make sure none of
these men get hurt. And I think that Barlow is at risk of getting hurt if he
plays the full 90 minutes today.”

“See,
this is the problem with having a woman on staff,”
Barry rants on, “You’re
too busy trying to nurture everyone that you can’t see the big picture!”

“Excuse
me?”
I
shoot back, astonished by his ignorance.

“
Enough
,
both of you,”
Glover
shouts, his jaw clenched. “I don’t need you squabbling like children in front
of the team and bringing down morale. Barlow will start today, as planned, but
we’ll sub him after the first 60 minutes. Can you both live with that?”

Barry
throws up his hands and stalks off the pitch, throwing a good old fashioned
man-tantrum for the whole team to see. I nod my head in agreement with Glover.
It’s not safe to open my mouth when I’m this livid.

“Good,”
Glover says curtly,
turning to Barlow. “I have some things to go over with you before the match.
Let’s talk in my office.”

Barlow
shoots me a look of solidarity as he accompanies Glover back inside. I’m left
standing alone at the center of the pitch as the players turn back to their
warm ups. All of the players except one, that is. I look up to see Maddox
staring at me from across the field, his own fists balled up just like mine.
His staggering body is wound up like a spring, ready to be released. His entire
form is arranged almost in a fighting stance. Was he about to come over here
and leap to my defense? That would have been a dead giveaway that something is
going on between us.

But
as I hold Maddox’s gaze across the field, see the protectiveness and desire
shining in his eyes, there’s no use denying it. There
is
something going
on between us. Something deep, and overwhelming, and potent. I felt it the
second he stepped out of the fog that morning on the boardwalk. It’s like I’ve
been pulled into his orbit. And I’ve been pushing back against that
gravitational pull because…why? Because Barry-fucking-O’Leary might think less
of me if I hook up with one of the players? Barry O’Leary is a sexist asshole
who’s never taken me seriously. That’s his problem, not mine.