Free Shot Caller (A Bad Boy's Baby Novel) by Colleen Masters Page A

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