Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel)

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Authors: Colleen Masters

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By Colleen Masters

Copyright © 2016 Hearts Collective

 

All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in
any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas,
characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and
any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely
coincidental.

 

 

 

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SHOT CALLER

A Bad Boy’s Baby Novel

 

 

by Colleen Masters

 

 

Prologue

Poppy

 

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Spring, 2008

 

The
athletic training facilities are eerily quiet as I hurry through the glass front
doors, gathering my wavy brown hair into a big, messy top knot. All of fifteen
minutes ago, I was snuggled up in my tiny studio apartment, exhausted after a
long day’s work at the university where I’m completing the clinical component
of my doctorate in physical therapy. That is, until I received a frantic phone
call that landed me here—back at work. If I can just make it through this last
leg of my education, I’ll be free to start practicing in the field. But making
it through my final assignment as a trainer for this collegiate men
’
s
soccer team in one piece has started to seem more and more unlikely.

I
hustle down the long hallway of examination rooms toward the single light still
burning at this late hour. The team’s manager called me up at a little past
midnight, alerting me that there was an emergency with one of the players. He
was injured during practice today, on the eve of the team’s big playoff game.
I’ve been summoned to give my professional opinion about whether this guy
should be allowed to play tomorrow morning.

Raised
voices echo through the deserted facility, growing louder as I approach. I
nearly stop in my tracks and head back to bed as I recognize the louder of the
two voices. The louder, decidedly British voice I’d recognize anywhere.

“I
don’t give a damn about your bloody
concerns
, mate,”
a young man shouts
vehemently from the exam room, “Quit wringing your hands like a grieving widow
and give me the go-ahead to play tomorrow!”

Oh,
for the love of god. Of
course
the player I’ve been dragged out of bed
to treat is none other than Maddox Walcott. Though he’s only a sophomore here,
Walcott is the team’s star player by a long shot—and he knows it, too. He came
across the pond from what he calls “the dodgy part”
of London on a full ride
scholarship to play soccer at this university. And he never tires of reminding
us all that he could “piss off and go pro”
any time he likes. Maddox Walcott is an
arrogant, hot-tempered, devil-may-care bad boy…
but he also happens to be an
unbelievably talented striker. The best I’ve ever seen, and not just at the
college level. Our team needs him tomorrow, which means he needs me tonight.

You’re lucky you’ve got Beckham’s right foot, ‘wanker’
,
I think to myself, steeling my nerves before entering the exam room.

“I’m
here,”
I
announce, stepping through the open doorway. I get exactly two paces into the
room before my heart lodges itself in my throat.

Maddox
Walcott is standing next to the examination table, in the midst of having it
out with the team’s manager. His hands are balled into tight fists, his
impeccably fit body poised for a fight. Each sculpted muscle stands out in
sharp relief in this heightened state. And I can see just about every muscle,
too. The only clothing Maddox has on is a pair of tight black athletic shorts,
barely hiding one
particular
muscle from view. Still, that doesn’t keep
my eyes from darting downward and noting the impressive outline of his—

“Finally,”
the team’s manager says,
looking frustrated and spent after trying to wrangle Walcott’s stubborn ego
into submission. “Thanks for coming in, Poppy.”

“No
problem,”
I
reply, quickly averting my eyes from Walcott’s package. And abs. And biceps.
And jawline…

“
This
is who you called?”
Maddox
scoffs, crossing his thickly muscled arms as he looks me up and down.

I
feel an uncharacteristic wave of self-consciousness go through me as I think of
my messy hair, my makeup-free face, the embarrassingly threadbare leggings I
threw on before leaving the house.
What does it matter?
I ask myself sternly.
I’m a trainer, not a ring girl. I don’t need to get dolled up to do my job, no
matter how fine a specimen my patient is. Besides, it’s not like he’s a viable
option for me or anything. He’s still in college. The college I currently
work
for. And something tells me that Mr. Big Shot prefers blonde haired, blue-eyed,
leggy models to petite, freckled, brown-eyed athletic trainers.

Not
that I give a damn, of course.

“Poppy’s
the best trainer we’ve got at the moment, Mad,”
the manager explains, cutting into my
smutty inner monologue.

Maddox
rakes his eyes along my 5’
4”
frame, cocking a
skeptical eyebrow.

“With
a name like ‘Poppy’, shouldn’t you be off teaching kindergarten or somethin’?”
he asks, none-too-kindly.

“I’m
sure your kindergarten-level of maturity will do the trick, thanks,”
I reply, lifting my chin
defiantly.

Maddox’s
broad, handsome face changes entirely as my comeback lands. Instead of brushing
aside my remark, he takes a second to actually look me in the eye. And if I
didn’t know better, I’d think that what I see in his gray-eyed gaze
is…interest. In me. He’s never granted me more than a passing glance in the
time I’ve known him, but now…

Thankfully,
the manager cuts in before I can get too flustered.

“Could
you please just take a look at Mad and tell me whether you think he’s fit
enough to play tomorrow?”
he
asks, stepping around me toward the exit. “I’ll go with whatever you think is
best.”

“You’re
not staying?”
I
ask, trying to slow my racing heart. The prospect of being alone with a
half-naked Maddox Walcott in the dead of night suddenly feels too risky. Or too
exciting. Or both.

“I
need to go get some damn sleep,”
the manager grumbles, “I have a whole team
that needs my attention tomorrow, you know. It’s not all about the Great Maddox
Walcott.”

“Sure,”
Maddox laughs
sarcastically, “You just keep tellin’
yourself that, mate.”

The
manager’s pudgy face goes red with futile anger. Maddox is unfortunately right.
He carries this entire team on his back, every single game. Not playing him
tomorrow would basically ensure that we don’t make it any further in the
playoffs. And now the decision of whether or not he starts rests firmly on my
shoulders.

But
no pressure or anything.

I
hear the front doors to the training facility swing shut as the manager takes
his leave. Now it’s just me and Maddox, totally alone. Though I’ve been on
staff here for the entire semester, I’ve barely traded a dozen words with this
guy. He tends to treat the trainers and sports therapists as “the help”. Such
an
endearing
quality. But despite his terrible attitude, I’d be lying if
I said I hadn’t stolen a long glance or two at his impeccable form. Or that I
hadn’t occasionally wondered what it would be like to run my hands over that
body of his in something other than a cursory, professional way.

As
soon as the older man has cleared the room, Mad’s hostility level returns to
its normal simmer. His square, well defined jaw relaxes as a cocky smile spreads
across his face.

“Now
that the old bastard is gone,”
Maddox
says, reaching for his jeans where they’ve been slung over a chair, “Why don’t
you just give me the thumbs up and we can both be on our way, yeah?”

“I
haven’t even examined you yet,”
I
reply, setting my bag down right on top of his clothes and blocking his way.
His corded, inked arm brushes against mine as I turn to face him, sending a
tendril of heat winding down the entire right side of my body.

“Don’t
bother, I’m fine,”
Maddox
replies, an annoyed furrow appearing between his brows. Christ, even his
corrugator muscles are sexy. How is that even a
thing
?!

“I
believe I’m to be the judge of that,”
I tell him, nodding at the table. “Hop
up.”

For
a long moment, Maddox simply stares at me. I have to crane my neck slightly to
look him in the eye, but I do. If he thinks he’s going to push me around just
because I’m a young woman, he’s got another thing coming to him. I may be
little, but I am not the shit-taking type. And the sooner Maddox Walcott gets
that through his (admittedly gorgeous) head, the better.

“Jesus.
All right,”
he
grunts, begrudgingly sitting down on the edge of the exam table.

“
Thank
you,”
I
reply, rolling my eyes, “If you’re really good, maybe I’ll even give you a
lollipop before you go.”

“Is
‘lollipop’
American
for ‘blowjob’? Because if so, count me in,”
he grins wickedly, swinging his legs up
onto the table.

“You
know that stereotype about women not being able to keep their legs together
when they hear an English accent is bull, right?”
I shoot back, shucking off my zip-up
hoodie and approaching the table. Hopefully, he won’t notice the heat rising in
my cheeks at the mere mention of sucking him off.

If
I were to meet a man like Maddox at a club or a bar, I’d be first in line to jump
into bed with him. I love a good one-night-stand as much as any girl, and
Maddox Walcott is as fine as they come. His body is perfectly balanced—lean but
muscular in true footballer fashion. He’s got his fair share of tattoos, and
even a few suspicious-looking scars. But for me, it’s the face that does it.
His wide, shapely nose, high cheekbones, and scruffy, cut jaw; those gray eyes
that can go from stormy to blazing in a heartbeat; the sheer expressiveness he
exudes, especially on the field. He’s not afraid to hide his passion—be it
angry or triumphant. Imagine how a man who’s that passionate about a game would
be as a lover?

On
second thought, better not think about that at the moment. At least not until
I’m safely at home with my favorite vibe. Something tells me I’m gonna need it.

“Tell
me about your injury,”
I
say to Maddox, hoisting my mind out of the gutter.

“Some
bloody asshole of a freshman slammed his boot right into my knee,”
Maddox shrugs. “Hurt like
a bitch, but it’s nothin’
serious.”

“I’ll
be the judge of that,”
I
reply, glancing down at his impeccable legs. Those perfect calves and thighs
could only belong to a soccer player, that’s for sure.

Maddox
extends his right leg and looks up at me impatiently. Right. Better get to it.
I move around to the other side of the table and take a look at the trouble
knee. There’s a little bruising starting to color his skin, but hardly any
swelling. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I lay my hands on his knee.

“How
does that feel?”
I
ask him, feeling for any internal swelling.

“Great,
actually,”
he
replies, his crooked grin widening, “But that’s probably just because a sexy
girl’s got her hands on me.”

I
shoot him a look that I hope reads as annoyed. Really, I have to struggle to contain
the battalion of butterflies that let loose in my stomach the second Maddox
calls me sexy.

“Please,”
I say sharply, “Could you
set the schoolboy shit aside for a minute and give me a straight answer?”
 

“S’hard
to think straight with your tits staring me down,”
Maddox replies, nodding
toward my chest.

I
glance down and feel my blush deepen. In my rush to get to the training
facility, I completely forgot to put on a bra underneath my white tank top. In
the cool examination room, my nipples are standing straight at attention,
making themselves known through the thin fabric of my shirt. I’m at once
mortified and exhilarated that my assets are on such blatant display for
Maddox. I may be short, but I’ve been blessed with some lovely curves, if I do
say so myself. Besides, I’m not one for being ashamed of my womanly body. If
someone can’t help but sexualize it out of context, that’s their problem, not
mine. Though by the look in Maddox’s eye, I can’t help but wonder about whether
his comments really
are
out of context.

From
the second I talked back to him, his energy toward me has shifted. His
disinterest in me has given way to an attention I’ve felt from men plenty of
times before. It’s attraction. Desire. And I’d be lying through my teeth if I
said the feeling wasn’t mutual. Am I crazy, or is something about to go down,
here? As he sits forward on the exam table and lays his strong hand over mine
where it rests on his knee, the context of this situation becomes crystal
clear.

Maddox
Walcott is trying to seduce me.

“Try
and tell me you didn’t roll in here barely dressed on purpose,”
Maddox says, his voice
dropping deep in chest as his eyes lock onto mine.

“You
should talk about being barely dressed,”
I reply, letting him keep his hand over
mine as I feel for damage. “Didn’t they make those shorts in big boy sizes?”

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