False Start: A Football Romance Page 10

  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.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Amelia

  I tossed and turned all night long. So much so that eventually, I had to get out of the bed with Carson because I kept waking him up. At that point, I just sat in the chair at the foot of the bed and stared at him, watching his chest rise and fall. I love him so much. I can’t imagine the world without him in it, and yet, that is the world I am looking at if we don’t find a match for him soon.

  I’ve said at least a dozen prayers since we got admitted. Prayers that he will be healed. Prayers that God will take me instead. In the end, I know I just have to turn it all over to him and believe HE will take care of it. I have to believe that, because without it, I have nothing.

  Standing from the hard leather chair, I stretch my arms high above my head and then bend over to touch my toes, stretching my lower back. Sitting in that damn thing half the night killed my body. I don’t know how people sleep in them.

  I walk over to Carson’s bedside and kiss the side of his face. “I’ll be back soon. I love you,” I whisper to him and then I sneak out the door, careful to not wake him. On my way out, I stop by the nurse’s station and let Carla, our nurse, know that I have to run an errand, and that I’ll be back as soon as possible. She knows where I have to go, even though neither of us says it.

  “Be careful. I’ll take care of him. Don’t worry.”

  “Thank you.”

  I'm met at the front desk by two detectives. One is a short little Napoleon-looking guy, and the other is a tall, fat, jolly-looking fart.

  I'm scared to death because I have no idea why they would want to talk to me and no clue how any of this works. I mean, why didn’t they just talk to me last night?

  They lead me to an office with two desks and three chairs. Napoleon sits on the left and the jolly one almost breaks his chair sitting down. I feel my hands shaking. I try to tuck them between my legs when I sit down to ease it, but it doesn’t help.

  They still haven't told me anything.

  Napoleon starts it off.

  “You’re in a ton of shit, Miss Hart. Pardon my French. We searched the house yesterday and found twenty-three pounds of marijuana.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I don’t do drugs. Test me now. I can prove it.”

  “Not every person who sells drugs does them, Miss Hart.”

  “Sells drugs? You think I sell drugs?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No! I have never. I have a good job and a good—”

  “That’s enough, Miss Hart. Listen. We have enough weight and enough evidence to put you away for a very long time. That means bye-bye Carson and bye-bye to that baby on board too. The state will pick them up.”

  My mind is racing. I can't go to jail for something that isn't mine and I didn't know about.

  Can I?

  Napoleon is getting louder and louder. His face is turning red with rage.

  “You’re going to tell us everything you know, or this is going to be hell on you.”

  “I don’t know anything! I didn’t know there were drugs in the house! I wouldn’t have been there if I had.”

  “Stop lying!”

  I jump back, afraid of the man in front of me. Police are supposed to protect us and this man is standing over me, screaming at me like I’m some sort of convicted felon. The jolly cop interrupts him, thankfully.

  “Calm down, Jon. Let me take over.”

  “Listen, Miss. I know this is scary and crazy. You seem like a nice girl who probably just got involved with the wrong crowd. Tell you what. We are gonna help you out. Okay? But for us to help you, you have to help us. You have to give us something to work with.”

  “I can’t. I literally know NOTHING.”

  Now I've seen enough TV to realize they are playing good cop, bad cop. On TV, it's always bad when they do this. I'm scared to death, I have no idea what they are talking about, and they are acting like I'm going to jail. I tell the jolly, friendly cop again that I have no idea what he's talking about.

  “I really would love to help you, but there must be a mistake.”

  “I see.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Callum

  Straight to voicemail.

  This is not like her.

  I draw in a deep breath and dial again, carefully selecting each number as if my life depends on it.

  “Hi, this is Amelia. Leave a message at the tone and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  “Fuck,” I growl, slamming the phone down on the bar. Why is she so damn stubborn? I told her I would handle this shit. I told her it was all a mistake, but did she believe me?

  Hell no.

  She’s pushing me away.

  Again.

  I tried to go to the hospital after my fucked up come to Jesus meeting with the owner of the team and Coach, only to be told that I was temporarily banned from Carson’s room. She fucking banned me. Never in a million years did I think she would go so far as to keep me away from him, but I guess I was wrong about a lot of things here lately.

  I sit there, swiveling in an uneven barstool, inhaling the stale fumes of cigars and spilled beer, thinking, planning my next move. I don’t have many options. The league has me on a short as fuck leash, w
hich is complete bullshit, if you ask me. I don’t ever go out and party. I don’t cause any problems like some of the other guys who are always in trouble for fighting or whoring around town. I keep to myself.

  I’m a loner.

  All I want is my family and my career.

  Closing my eyes against the burn of cigarette smoke in the dim bar air, I simmer in the anger building inside me. Why the fuck won’t she answer my calls? Why is she ignoring me now? It’s just not like her.

  An hour passes as I sit there sipping my beer, staring at my phone, willing it to ring. The bar is starting to fill with the happy hour crowd. The grill is fired up, and the televisions are turned on. It’s time for me to head out of here.

  Damn it.

  My anger has faded completely, and now in its place, concern is setting in. I just want to know what the hell is going is on. Is that too much to ask? I stand, slapping a twenty on the bar beside my half-drank beer and walk to the doors. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do, but there is one person who may know something, or at the very least, be able to help me.

  “Mr. Goins? Callum Johnson here.”

  “Oh hi, Mr. Johnson. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, its fine. I was actually calling to see if you could help me with something.”

  “Okay. Lay it on me and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I need help locating my girlfriend. I’ve been trying to call her, but she isn’t answering, and now I’m starting to worry.”

  “Sure, sure. What’s the name?”

  “Amelia Hart.”

  “Okay, give me a few and I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  “Thank you.”

  I hang up the phone and head back to my house. It’s been over forty-eight hours since I’ve bathed, and if I don’t get something to eat soon, I may be sick. I don’t even make it a block before my cell rings. Mr. Goins’s number flashes across the screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Callum? Mr. Goins here. Listen, I found Amelia. She has been booked into County.”

  “She what?” I bellow into the phone.

  “She was arrested this morning.”

  “For what?” I ask, my anger growing with every second.

  “Let me see here. Ah, one count of conspiracy, one count of trafficking, and one count of possession of a controlled substance.”

  “I want her out. I want her out now. I don’t give a flying fuck what it takes to make it happen. You get down there and get her. NOW!”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”

  When the call disconnects, my hand is gripping the phone so tight, I worry I may break it in half. I can’t believe this fucked up town actually arrested her. They have no evidence against me, much less her, and now my pregnant soon to be wife is locked behind bars in the filthiest jail known to mankind.

  Every single emotion I’ve felt for the last two days rushes through me. They bombard me, filling me with anger, resentment, and hatred. I throw my hands in the air and scream as load as I can. I have to let it out. I can’t leave it all in anymore.

  “Fuuuuck!” I yell into the streets. The few people out stop and look my way, curious as to why I am screaming, but they quickly decide not to get involved. I’m sure I don’t look very approachable at the moment. I damn sure don’t feel very approachable. I feel like biting someone’s head off. I’m sure the league would love that.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Amelia

  The walls of this cell are closing in around me. I need to get out of here. I need to be at the hospital with Carson, far, far away from this wretched place.

  Everyone keeps staring at me, watching me, wondering what my story is. I don’t have a story. It was all a mistake. I’m not supposed to be here. I need to get out of here.

  The buzzer on the door sounds, and then several women dressed in white walk in, carrying trays of food and pitchers of what looks like tea. I don’t want to eat. I’m not the least bit hungry.

  “Come on, honey, you need to feed that baby,” an elderly lady in the bunk next to me says, her gravelly voice sending chills down my spine. She sounds like she spent the last twenty years or so smoking at least a pack a day, if not more.

  “I’m not hungry.” I reply, rolling over.

  “That don’t really matter to that baby, now does it? He’s hungry, whether you are or not.”

  “She,” I say, sitting up on the bed.

  “A girl? Well then, let’s feed that little girl before those pigs eat all the scraps.”

  I stand and let the woman pull me to the tables set up in the center of the room, ignoring all the stares around me as we go. The closer I get to the table, the more of the food I can smell. My stomach lets out a low rumble as I sit down at the table.

  All conversation has stopped around the table while I sit there watching and waiting for some type of direction. I’ve never been to jail before. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do and what I’m not supposed to do. All I know is what I’ve seen on television, and right now, I’m really hoping that stuff isn’t true, because I don’t want to be shanked or raped, and I damn sure don’t want to join a gang to survive.

  “What the hell you waiting on, Sue? Pass the girl a plate.” The elderly lady speaks first, and I jump then try to cover it up by rubbing my hands along my arms.

  “Yes ma’am, Momma,” the girl named Sue replies and then passes me a plate. As soon as the plate is set in front of me, the room comes back to life, like a switch has been flicked. It’s almost like I’ve been tried and weighed and found worthy and now I’m welcome here. I don’t feel like an outcast anymore, awaiting my hanging. I feel comfortable. It’s not home, but at least the muscles in my back are relaxing, and I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that I won’t be murdered in my sleep.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to my rescuer.

  “Anytime. I was once a newbie like you. It was so long ago that I can barely remember it.”

  “This isn’t your first time?”

  “Lord heavens, no.” She laughs, and it sounds like the earth has been ripped open, harsh and rough. “I practically live here, dear.”

  “Why?” I ask and then immediately apologize.

  “Don’t apologize, dear. I’ve made my choices in life, both good and bad, and I live by them. Now why don’t you tell me what brought you here?”

  For some reason, I feel the need to open up to her. I want someone to talk to about the shit storm I’ve been flung into the last twenty-four hours. Or better yet, the last week since I ran into Cal. I need an outsider’s opinion. So I pour it all out. I spill every single detail to her, and then I sit there on the palms of my hands, rocking back and forth while I wait for her to say something.

  Anything.

  “Sounds like you have some pretty hard decisions to make really quickly.”

  “That’s it? That all you have to say?”

  “Well, what did you want me to say? Only you know your heart, and only you know what’s best for you and your family. I can’t tell you what to do. You already know what to do. The hard part is doing it.”

  When she finishes, she stands and takes her tray to the bin by the door and dumps it. Then she walks back to her bunk and crawls in the bed, pulling the cover up tight. She rolls over and closes her eyes, leaving me alone to ponder her words and the meaning behind them.

  Do I already know the right thing to do? It seems like my life has been nothing but complete chaos since Cal re-entered it, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the easiest thing to do would be to push him out. Look at everything that has happened because of him. I’m sitting in freaking jail, for Christ’s sake, and if that detective can be believed, then I’m just one court date away from losing custody of Carson.

  I can’t let him be raised in the system, and my mother isn’t going to be any help at all. I need to put as much distance between me and Callum Johnson as possible.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

&
nbsp; Callum

  My nerves are shot. It’s been three days since I spoke to Amelia. Three days that she has been sitting in jail because of some stupid ass trumped up charges. My lawyer has been working nonstop to get her and Griffin out, but the judge won’t assign a bail to her until after her first court hearing, which is this morning, and Griffin has to wait until his preliminary hearing.

  Unfortunately, I won’t even be able to be there for her.

  Part of the deal with my immediate release was that I stayed out of trouble and I showed up for each and every game and played the best I could. Fucking bullshit, if you ask me. My boy is laid up in the hospital, and I’m forced to travel with the fucking team across the country to play ball? Yeah, that makes sense.

  I still don’t know how Carson is doing. The hospital won’t let me in to see him and won’t give me any information on him, but Mr. Goins has paperwork being processed right now to revoke that. I can’t imagine how scared he is right now, not having anyone there with him. I hate fucking red tape.

  I just want my family.

  “Ready, Breezy?” Coach asks, shaking the shoulder pads, pulling me from my thoughts. I need to get my head in the here and now before I end up on the ground again.

  “Sure, Coach, let’s do this.” At least while I’m on the field, my mind is on something else other than my fucked up life.

  I run out on the field with the rest of the team, and the stadium goes wild. It feels good. I belong here. In the middle of the field, I gather in the huddle with the team and brace for the first play of the game.

  “Breezy. I know this is hard on you, but let’s wipe the field with these ass wipes and then we will go take care of Carson. Okay?”