Callum

I pace back and forth in the cell, waiting on my lawyer to show up. It’s been two hours since I spoke to him and an hour and fifty-nine minutes longer than I wanted to have to wait in this filth, waiting to be released. This is the last place I need to be right now. I am supposed to be by Amelia’s side, helping her through this time of need, not adding to the fuckery.

I’d like to wrap my hands around the neck of whoever decided to trump up these bogus ass charges against me and Griff. One good squeeze would feel great right about now. I haven’t even gotten a chance to speak to Griff yet. They booked him in and locked his ass up tight in a cell down the hall as far away from me as they could get him. I guess in their minds, they needed to make sure we didn’t corroborate stories or some shit, but really, I just wanted to know if he had any idea what this shit was about.

Pieces from the last few months keep coming back to me in spurts. Like the ad in the paper with him looking for a roomie and the brief telephone interview. I shake my head, pushing all those thoughts away. I’ve lived with Griffin for almost seven months, and in that time, the only thing he’s kept from me is the fact that he’s gay. Not that I give two fucks.

There is no way he is a drug dealer.

I would have known.

“Johnson.”

My name is called, and I don’t waste any time getting to the gate.

“Step back.”

I take a step back and wait for him to open the gate and usher me through. The clank of metal against metal vibrates through me as the gate slams back closed. I follow the guard to booking, where he hands over my belongings and then points toward the exit door.

The first thing I feel when I step outside is the cool, moist air on my face. It’s got to be close to nine in the morning. The sun is up bright in the sky, already warming the streets of St Louis.

“Mr. Johnson, good to see you again.”

“Mr. Goins.” I nod my head toward him and walk toward the car I can only assume is his. It’s the only Lexus in the lot, and it’s still running. My suspicions are confirmed when he climbs in the driver’s seat. I settle into the passenger seat and relax for the first time in twelve hours. I feel disgusting. I never got a chance to take a shower last night, so I’m still covered in sweat from yesterday’s game and I stink from being caged in a nasty ass jail cell all night. I need to soak in bleach for about an hour and then scrub my skin with an S.O.S pad and scalding hot water.

Mr. Goins makes a right onto University Boulevard, and for the first time since leaving the jail, I take notice of my surroundings.

“Where are we headed? I need to get to the hospital.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, but that is not possible. I was directed to bring you straight to the stadium and not make any stops along the way.”

“What the fuck? Directed by whom?’

“The team owner and Coach Morris. I don’t know if you realize it or not, but these charges are quite severe, Son. Quite severe indeed.”

“Yea think? Fuck. I need to check on someone at the hospital first.”

“Sorry. No stops.”

Fucking figures. I slam back into the seat and pout like the fucking two-year-old I’m being treated like. This is such total bullshit. I pay my own damn lawyer to bail me out of jail, and he takes orders from someone else? How the fuck does that work?

We pull up to the stadium and Coach meets me outside.

“Listen, I know this rubs you all the wrong ways, but just take it like a man. Say yes, sir and no, sir and make whatever promises you have to make, okay, Son? Your team needs you, and whether you like it or not, you need them.”

I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to be here listening to some cockamamie bullshit speech, but I know he is right. My team does need me, and no matter what, I don’t let the people around me down.

“I’ve got it, coach.”

“That’s my boy,” he says, slapping me on the back.

I don’t know what I was expecting when I walked in the owner’s office, but it wasn’t him sitting behind a desk surrounded by lawyers. All eyes are on me as I enter, followed by Coach Morris and then Mr. Goins. I’m sorely underdressed, and I see one of the lawyers snicker when he sees my rumpled clothing. It should make me feel unworthy or self-conscious, but instead, his self-righteous attitude only serves to boost my self-esteem. I hate people like that—people who feel the need to laugh and ridicule others because of the clothes they wear or the way they look.

I stand up taller, squaring my shoulders, and make sure every single ounce of my 210 pounds is felt when I enter the room. I meet the gaze of every single person sitting at the table, letting my eyes rest for a few extra seconds on the lawyer who snickered until he squirms in his seat. I may look like complete shit right now, but I don’t carry my power around in the clothes I wear or the car I drive. I am my own powerhouse.

“Mr. Chambers, a pleasure to see you again, although not under these circumstances,” I state, shaking the owner’s hand. No time like the present to dive into this meeting. I have other shit I need to handle today, and the quicker I get this taken care of, the quicker I can get to my priority.

Amelia.