On sitcoms, whenever someone gets arrested, they’re usually thrown into a holding cell with a cast of comical characters. In this case, life imitates art. L.A. has more than its fair share of freaks, geeks, and sneaks. Tonight, I’m housed in a cell with six of them.

A clown with a busted lip. A cock-eyed guy wearing boots and a long trench coat in the middle of summer (nothing suspicious about that). A pimp wearing baggy jeans and enough gold to make the Philadelphia Mint take notice. A gang member draped in black clothing and a perpetual sneer. A Jethro-type prowling around, looking like he wants to make someone his bitch. He’d probably been a stunt double for the Hulk at some point. Anything is possible in Hollywood.

I wish I’d been put into a private cell away from this circus. But of course, that wouldn’t make my humiliation complete. Somewhere in the universe, I musta pissed off someone. My punishment is to be corralled with the other offenders lucky enough to get popped on the same night as me.

This feels like some comedy of errors—only this ain’t funny. My reputation is at stake. It’s never been pristine to begin with (especially with my bad-boy antics over the past five years), but I’ve kept my nose clean, for the most part. I can’t afford any more bad press—especially if I want to adopt Cee.

My shoulder still throbs from being body-slammed earlier. And now, my ass hurts from sitting on one of the four metal benches in this cell for hours. But there is nowhere to go. No room to stretch my legs. I will my mind to “play through the pain,” like I’ve done so many times on the field.

“Your playing sucks lately.”

I don’t need to turn to my left to know that the sixth man, Stankus, is sitting next to me. I know the man’s real name, but I’ve given him the nickname based on his slovenly appearance, the strong smell of alcohol reeking from him, and a mysterious brown stain on the bottom of his shoe that looks like either mud or dog shit. I’m voting dog shit.

I wrinkle my nose. I’ve learned to ignore overzealous fans—especially the ignorant ones. I stare at a space on the wall opposite me, determined to focus on the olive peeling paint. An interior decorator once told me that green was a soothing color. This shithole is definitely not soothing.

He pokes me in the shoulder. “You used to catch passes all the time. Now, all you do is try to avoid getting hurt.”

I scoot farther down on the bench, hoping the contact from his finger doesn’t burn a hole in my shirt. The man has no clue of the sacrifices I’ve made. “What have you done lately?” I mutter.

“Not as much as you, but then again, nobody expects much of me.”

Finally, I turn to him. “I can see why.”

“No need to be rude. That attitude is part of the reason you got traded.”

Jeez, here we go again.

“If I was Coach Parker—”

“Which you are not,” I cut him off, not interested in anything this loser has to say.

“I would put you on the Defense instead of the Offense. Use your speed and make you a cornerback. Maybe put you on a strict protein diet. You’ve gotten a little soft and lazy.” The guy stands, shuffles away, and squats in a far corner, pulling his soiled collar tight.

“Don’t listen to him,” the baby-faced pimp says, taking a seat to my right. “That fool don’t know what a legend you is, man.”

“Thanks.”

“For real. You be amazin’ out there catchin’ all them passes. That takes dedication. Commitment. Talent.”

“Exactly,” I agree.

Finally, someone who understands what I go through every day. Every season. People think my life is filled with glamour and parties. But being a pro baller is physically and mentally draining. I constantly have to prove myself.

“I like you,” the pimp continues, and I see that he has two gold teeth in front to match his chains. “That’s why I’ma make you a proposal. Me and you. Business partners. Fifty-fifty. Yo money. My business knowledge. For a quarter of a mil, we could open a luxury brothel in Amsterdam. You know prostitution is legal over there.” He fixes a pair of serious, dark eyes on me. “I already got the name—Loose Hips Sink Dicks.”

I shake my head. “No thanks.”

I’m no stranger to ridiculous get-rich ideas from well-meaning, if not often stupid friends and relatives, but I think this guy’s been poisoned by all the toxic metal in those gold teeth.

“Okay, we could just call it Loose Hips. Or you can pick the name, partner.”

I’m about three seconds from tackling this sleazebag when the guard appears and punches in the code on the cell’s padlocked door.

“Colt Emerson!” he shouts. “You’re outta here.”

An hour later, I pick up my personal items from the Intake window. I get my watch and wallet back, but the clerk tries to make a deal for my super bowl ring. The way I feel about the Rogues right now, I almost take the man up on his offer. At the last minute, I change my mind. My Tesla is another matter. It’s still in impound, and because of the late hour, I won’t be able to retrieve it until tomorrow morning.

Funny how the cops could put your prized vehicle into Impound twenty-four seven, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year. But they couldn’t get it out until regular business hours. Whatever. I’m ready to be free of this place, so I keep my complaints to a minimum.

When I’m done, Shayla is waiting for me. Relief floods my body. Yesterday, I was still trying to convince her to marry me. Today, she’s bailing me out of jail. She’s a sight for sore eyes.

I wrap her in my embrace, shrugging off the ache in my shoulder. Right now, I just want to be close to her. The warmth of her body soothes me. Her familiar curves comfort me. I inhale deeply, relishing her smell. I’ve always loved her smell. I stand a full foot taller than her, resting my chin on the crown of her head. A tsunami of emotion sweeps through me and shakes my core, finally settling like a thick, salty knot in my throat. I’m exhausted. Defeated. All I want to do is get home. I’ve had enough excitement for one night.

Reluctantly, I pull away, cradling her face in my hands. “Thanks for posting my bail. I don’t think I could have stood another minute in there.”

Her sympathetic smile warms me. “I didn’t post it.”

She inclines her head toward the left, where my big brother stands with his hands stuffed into his jeans pockets. I’d been so busy pawing Shayla, I hadn’t noticed Ruger standing several feet away.

I nod in acknowledgement. I hadn’t agreed with a lot of the decisions Ruger had made lately. We’d argued so much I fired him as my manager. It was the last straw in a series of fights we’d engaged in over the past year. Yet now my brother is here when I need him most, bailing me out of jail. We shake hands and clap each other on the back in an attempt at a half hug.

He nods toward a rear exit. “We need to go out the back. A couple of piranhas are camped out front.”

Piranhas were how Ruger referred to reporters. Greedy for news, they often came in waves, and could shred a person to pieces.

“Only a couple?”

A sarcastic grin tugs at Ruger’s lips. “You want me to dig up some more?”

“Hell no. I’m in enough trouble already.”

“I won’t lie, bro. This is big-time trouble.”

“I’ll work it out. I always do.”

“Let’s go to my place. We can talk damage control there.” He glances at Shayla. “You might want to send her home.”

In public, I’d learned to mask my emotions. Around family, I’m capable of no such restraint. I pin him with a glare that shows I mean business. “I want her right here by my side, where she belongs.” On cue, Shayla moves to stand beside me. I clasp her hand in mine, lacing our fingers together.

“You don’t want to mix her up in this, Colt. Just let us handle it.”

“Listen, Ruger. I appreciate you bailing me out, but Shayla is my wife now.”

“So I heard.” His top lip curls up at the corner before settling back into place.

“Then you’ll understand that she’s not going anywhere. And this time, I’m not letting her out of my sight. I’m my own man now. You and the rest of the family will have to deal with it.”

Ruger’s gaze ping-pongs from me to Shayla and back. “So that’s how it’s going to be, bro? You’re picking a woman over your own brother? T&A before DNA?”

The last time we physically fought, I was in the ninth grade. A foot taller than me and carrying fifteen extra pounds of muscle, Ruger had easily served me two black eyes and a bloody nose. Our brawl decades ago doesn’t stop me from wanting to clock him upside the head for referring to Shayla as Tits & Ass. If I wasn’t in this police station I probably would.

“This is about more than Shayla. You and I have been at odds for months.”

I’d always felt a sense of security having my brother as my manager. But that was a long time ago. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt that reassurance. Ruger was a different person now. Power-hungry and impossible to deal with. Wesson was no better. Even though we rarely see each other nowadays, Wes is a carbon copy of Ruger.

The air crackles with testosterone as we square off.

The rigid line of Ruger’s jaw slackens only to issue a warning. “Colt, you walk out that door, you walk out of my life—permanently. What’s it gonna be?”