I don’t remember battling rush-hour traffic on the drive from Minute Maid Stadium to my penthouse condo in Downtown L.A. I don’t recall pulling into the parking garage and gliding my Tesla Model X into my reserved space. And I damn sure don’t know how I ended up with the volume on the radio cranked up to the mind-numbing lyrics of some loud hip-hop station. All I remember are Coach Parker’s words, “We’re going to have to cut you.”

Coach may as well have delivered a death sentence. This was my punishment for the less-than-stellar year I’d had on the field. The nail in the coffin was a pass that should have been a sure thing slipping though my hands like water.

During a playoff game.

Not good.

Not good at all.

I hold my callused palms in front of my face. Are these the same hands that had caught ninety-four interceptions? The same fingers that had signed a seven-figure deal worth more money than a kid from a small southern town could dream of in two lifetimes? It seems just yesterday I was drafted from Texas A&M by the L.A. Rogues, one of the top teams in the NFL. Now six years and two Super Bowls later, I’m losing my spot to a rookie with a shaved head and more ink than a tattoo shop in Vegas.

I drag my oversize duffle bag from the trunk. It’s bursting at the seams, stuffed with most of the gear that had been stashed in my locker. As I trudge down the rows of parked cars in the dim-lit garage to the stairwell door, the hem of my black and gold jersey, with the number 42 emblazoned on it, peeps from the half-zipped bag.

Numbers. This is what my life has been reduced to.

Number of interceptions.

Number of forward passes caught.

Number of yards averaged.

Number of possessions.

Extra points.

Time on the clock.

And now the numbers didn’t add up for the Rogues. So they’d dumped me. I’ve got a number in mind, too. Twelve. That’s the number of beers in my fridge. I have a case of Heineken and a bottle of Jägermeister. My mission is to get hammered.

I’m so busy wallowing in the muck of my self-induced pity, my mind barely registers the hooded figure aiming an automatic pistol at my heart.

“Gimme your wallet!”

My heart slams against my ribcage as I stop in my tracks. I raise my hands in slow motion, not wanting to accidentally get shot. Fear and anger join forces inside me. I pay an arm and two legs to live in one of the most exclusive areas of L.A. The security in my building is supposed to be the best money can buy. How could someone get close enough to jack me?

My gaze swoops from the top of the thief’s charcoal hoodie, which partially hid his face, past his baggy clothes, down to his high-top sneakers. The mugger is a kid. A teenager, at best.

I can take this punk!

I shove my duffle bag at the attacker. The kid staggers backwards and falls on his ass. The gun clatters across the pavement, bouncing a pathetic echo off the concrete walls. I pounce, using a move that earned me a place on my high school wrestling team over ten years ago. Within seconds, I drag the hoodlum to the ground and force him into a chokehold, wrapping my arm around his neck and exerting pressure.

A feminine voice shrieks, “Get off me!”

“What the—?” I yank the hoodie off. A coal-black mane of hair tumbles down around the teen’s heart-shaped face. My jaw drops. This thief was no young thug, but instead, a young lady. I gawk at the wild creature struggling beneath me. Doe-like eyes the color of coffee beans glare at me. This girl has the nerve to be pissed when she was the one who’d tried to rob and kill me.

“Settle down,” I order. “Or I’ll call the cops.”

“Go ahead,” she grinds out, her chest heaving up and down. “While you’re at it, tell ’em how you attacked a defenseless girl. It’s your word against mine.”

“You had a gun on me!”

“It ain’t real.”

I loosen my grip, not sure whether to spank or strangle her. “You robbed me with a toy?”

“Water gun.”

“I could have killed you.”

“With your bare hands?”

“Yes! I could have cut off your airflow and accidentally strangled you.”

The smirk on her face tells me she thinks I’m full of it. Of course, I never killed anyone with this move, but I did render Jimmy McEntyre unconscious for three minutes. He quit the team the day after.

I blow out a deep breath and then stand. When I grab her hand to pull her to a standing position, she winces in pain.

“I think my wrist is broken. I landed on it hard when you tackled me.”

Jeez, can this day get any worse?

I push up her sleeve and examine her scrawny arm. Her wrist is red, but no bones appear to be broken. As far as I can tell, the only thing that ails her is malnutrition.

“Might be a sprain.” I hope it’s nothing more than that. If only I hadn’t charged at her like a raging bull. My breath hitches as I spot a purple smudge on her forearm. Guilt, an old friend who rarely makes a visit, tiptoes into my brain. Then I realize it’s an old bruise. Nothing I’ve done, thank God. “Just to be safe, I’ll take you to the emergency room.”

She yanks her sleeve down. “No! They’ll make me go back.”

“Who?” Her dark eyes glare defiantly as the Jeopardy! countdown song plays through my mind. When I realize she’s not going to answer, I try another approach. “Maybe I can call someone. Your mom or dad.”

Her mouth puckers into a scowl. Up close, impressions of her teeth digging into her bottom lip are clearly visible. A sign of nervousness? “Mom’s probably still passed out. Dad might be looking for me. Wondering where his human punching bag is.”

My jaw clenches so tight my teeth grind together. Now I had a better idea where that bruise had come from. I don’t approve of any man putting his hands on a woman or a child. “Listen—”

The stairwell door opens. Nigel, the building’s concierge, pokes his head out. His faded blue eyes flit from the girl to me. “Mr. Emerson, are you okay?”

He reaches for his two-way radio.

I glance at my would-be assailant. She puts on a tough act, but I don’t miss the pleading look in her eyes. This kid is all alone on the streets with no one she can trust. I have the power to turn her over to the authorities or send her back to whatever hellhole she’s running from. Or I can help her. In that moment, I change from victim to protector.

“I’m fine, Nigel. Just talking to a…friend of mine.”

“Sure.” Nigel’s lips dip into a disapproving frown before he does an about-face and disappears back through the door.

Shit. He probably thinks I’m bringing home an underage hooker.

I turn to the girl, who’s now standing and tugging her hood back over her head. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

When I was fifteen I was on the varsity football team with a promising future. Maybe I can give her something she desperately needs: a safe place for the night. Before I can clearly think the idea through, the words tumble from my mouth. “If you won’t let me take you to the hospital, and you won’t let me call anyone, at least come up and get something to eat. I can’t stand here forever.”

The pleading dark eyes are now narrowed with suspicion. “Are you some sort of cod? ’Cause I don’t roll like that.”

“Cod?”

“C.O.D. Creepy Old Dude…looking for sex.”

At thirty-two, I’ve never thought of myself as old, much less creepy. “Look kid, I’m not a cod. I’m just trying to help you out. You can eat and take a hot shower if you want.”

“Nah, I’ll take my chances on the streets.”

“Suit yourself.” I retrieve my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head toward the stairwell. I’ve got my own problems. I don’t have the time or patience to solve everyone else’s.

“Hey, Mister!” I turn to see the teenage bandit jogging toward me. “Wait up. I changed my mind.”

I’m surprised at the sudden wave of relief that crashes through my body. At least she would have a place to stay tonight. I won’t have to worry about her dying on these streets—or worse, ending up beneath a pimp’s thumb. L.A. has three times as many prostitutes as celebrities.

“What’s your name, kid?”

She falls into step beside me. “Concepción. But don’t call me that unless you wanna get punched. Call me Cee.”

“Fair enough. I’m Colt Emerson. Most folks call me Colt.”

I ready myself for the flicker of recognition. After all, I’m a household name. Anybody who knows football knows me.

Cee shrugs. “Colt? That sounds like a gun.”

I mentally piece together the shards of my busted ego. So, she didn’t recognize me. She’s a teenager. She probably only knows members of boy bands or reality TV show stars. I try not to take offense.

“My folks are gun enthusiasts and competition sharp shooters. They named me and my brothers, Ruger and Wesson, after famous handgun manufacturers.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. Naming your kids after guns.”

“Could be worse. They could have named me Concepción.”

For the first time since I’d tackled her, the girl actually smiles. Well, it’s more like a lop-sided grimace, but it’s a start.

* * *

Hours later, I pick up the wet towels littering the black marble floor of my guest bathroom. How many towels did one adolescent girl need? The empty bottle of shampoo sitting on the sink edge tells me all I need to know. I dump the bundle of Egyptian cotton into the dirty clothes bin and then charge barefoot into the living room where Cee is camped out on the sofa bed. Runaway or not, the rules of etiquette still need to be observed.

I stop short when I hear soft snoring. My new houseguest is fast asleep, her mess of damp curls spread across the pillow. Amazing how she can sleep so soundly in a stranger’s house. Well, I’m not exactly a stranger—I’ve known her for six hours.

As I pull the covers over her, light from a nearby lamp catches the glint of a tiny switchblade tucked into her fist. My stomach churns in juices of anger. I want to strangle the son-of-a-bitch who’s stomped enough fear in her to force her to protect herself, even in her sleep. I can only imagine the hellish conditions she’s living in. Unlike the toy gun, this knife is real. She could have used it on me, but she didn’t.

Tightness grips my heart. My anger simmers, and my throat clogs as I swallow the rage, keeping it from boiling over. Cee is a victim of circumstance. After what she’d told me about her abusive father and neglectful mother, I don’t blame her for carrying weapons. Those people aren’t fit to be parents.

And you are?

The thought slugs me in the chest, forcing me to suck in a breath. Where had that come from? No, I’m probably not fit to be a parent either. With my playboy lifestyle and the amount of time I spend on the road, I’m in no position to raise a child. But I would be a damn sight better than her so-called guardians.

As Cee snuggles deeper beneath the covers, I consider my dilemma. What in the world am I going to do with her? I can’t let her go back on the streets. For Chrissakes, she’s mugging people just to survive. I should ask someone for help. But who? My agent? My idiotic, judgmental brothers? My old-fashioned parents? Mom probably still thinks I’m a gentleman and a virgin. There is no one I can turn to. The only females I know are models and prima donnas who would faint at the mere mention of a teenager.

I stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, taking in the panoramic views of the L.A. skyline. Twinkling lights blink at me in the darkness. The only other option for Cee is foster care. I know people who’d been raised in foster care and they’d hated it. Correction: I knew one person who knew a person. And she’d hated it. My pulse quickens with the familiar irregular beat, as it does every time I think of Shayla. She would know what to do. She’s the only one qualified to handle this situation.

The question is, after the way I’d treated her nine years ago, will she want to hear from me again? Or will she hang up the phone in my face?