Chapter 1

1

LUCA

Smiling isn’t my thing.

But as my lawyer, James Monroe, finishes his arguments and joins me at the defense table, the pointed expression he shoots my way clearly suggests that I sport one.

I do my best, but if it looks anywhere near as unconvincing as it feels, I would’ve been better off keeping my usual expression—which, according to him, is “menacing.”

James sits down in his slick navy suit and hides his fist under the table, waiting for me to bump it with mine. “Piece of cake,” he whispers.

“Thank you, Mr. Monroe,” the judge says. “As the prosecution chose not to oppose the petition, we will proceed with the ruling.”

James pulls out his phone and brings up his boarding pass. He flew to L.A. yesterday just for this, and he’s leaving straight from the hearing. I feel bad he even bothered. The hearing is nothing but a formality.

And yet, it’s a formality that will change my entire future, so let’s formalize the formality, I say.

“Mr. Callahan,” Judge Greene says, organizing his papers, “after careful consideration of the totality of circumstances related to your conviction, I feel strongly that there is only one possible conclusion for this court on the question of expunging your criminal record.”

I bump James’s shoe with mine, and he turns off his phone and pays attention.

The judge looks up at us over the rim of his glasses. “The petition for expungement is denied.”

The unnatural smile I’d pasted on my face evaporates, and the victory fist James had ready and hiding in his lap goes limp.

Did I hear right? Did the judge say denied ?

James is dumbfounded as he meets my eye, the same questions on his face that are rushing my mind. We were certain this petition was a shoo-in. I gave double the community service hours required of me, never missed a therapy session, was a model probationer—basically did everything short of curing world hunger. Not to mention the fact that the conviction was questionable to begin with.

Judge Greene’s grim gaze fixes on me over the top of his wire-rim glasses. “While I commend you for the steps you’ve taken toward rehabilitation, Mr. Callahan, the violent nature of your offense and your status as a non-citizen leads me to believe it is in the best interests of both the state of California and this country to retain record of your crime. I hope you won’t let this deter you from continuing in your efforts to become a model member of this community.” He picks up his gavel. “This hearing is adjourned.” He slams it on the block, and the sound echoes through the wood-paneled room.

Even though I know it’s not there, I swear I can see smoke billowing up from the place the gavel hit. That smoke is my dreams. It’s everything I’ve worked for over the past decade, and it’s suddenly all for nothing.

“Luca.”

I blink and look up at James, whose hand is on my shoulder. He’s holding his briefcase, waiting for me.

“There’s another hearing after this,” he says in a low voice that’s got a hint of pity. “Let’s go talk in the hall real quick.”

Dazed, I stand and follow him out of the room, absently doing up the buttons of my suit coat. I can’t wrap my brain around what just happened, but he’s already talking about the next move.

“We have thirty days to file an appeal,” he says, opening the door into the hall.

A sequence of flashbacks rushes through my mind—a dozen moments from the games, practices, and training I’ve done over the past decade in pursuit of the NFL. Grandma’s smiling face and her homemade cheer posters while I was on my high school’s varsity team pop into my brain. Feeling sick, I grab the chain around my neck and pull out my grandparents’ wedding bands, fiddling with them.

How can this be where everything leads? How can this be the end of the road?

“That’s just for filing,” I say. “Which means a decision wouldn’t come for…”

He blows out a breath. “Months, probably.”

“We don’t have months.”

“I know.” He grimaces as he faces me. “But, unfortunately, an appeal is our only option. And for this one, the decision’s just a written one. No in-person hearing.”

I clench my fists, staring ahead at nothing, trying not to give way to the frustration that’s bubbling inside me. If I’m being honest, a chunk of it is directed at James. How many times did he assure me the petition for expungement would be granted?

My therapist would tell me my anger is actually hurt and sadness dressed up in a scary costume, looking for someone to pounce on. She’s probably right. James has only been trying to help me, and he’s as flabbergasted as I am.

Maybe I should’ve taken a bigger role in the preparation for the hearing. I’ve just gotten used to letting others handle the legal stuff I have to deal with as a Canadian immigrant with a record. Grandma did most of my immigration stuff when I was in high school, and USC has an office specifically dedicated to helping students from outside of the U.S. My role has mostly been providing and signing documents. And paying fees, of course.

The nervous glance the young mom down the hallway shoots me and the way she shepherds her kids toward the exit tells me I’ve defaulted to looking mean and threatening again.

I redirect my stare elsewhere.

I haven’t cried since Grandma died a few years ago, but for the first time since her funeral, the back of my eyes sting. I dig my nails into my palms to fight off the feeling.

James looks at me with concern. “I can change my flight…stick around for another night.”

I shake my head.

“You sure?”

“Go home to your wife. I’m fine.”

I’m not. But you’ll never hear me admit that. I’ve learned not to rely on anyone else emotionally. That’s never ended well for me.

James checks his phone and sighs. “My taxi’s waiting. I’ll get the appeal paperwork started and let you know when it’s ready.”

“Thanks.”

He grips my shoulder and offers a bracing smile. “I’m sorry, Luca. I was positive we had this one. But don’t despair just yet.”

I start to despair the second his back is turned and he’s walking away. What other option do I have? The NFL Draft is in less than six weeks, and any appeal process is going to take a lot longer than that. And who’s to say it would end in my favor? The appellate court could easily agree with Judge Greene.

Looking back, our overconfidence is staggering. It seemed completely reasonable at the time, though. It was a first-time offense, the circumstances of the crime were understandable, the prosecution wasn’t objecting to an expungement, I’d gone above and beyond the requirements in my plea agreement, and I had multiple statements from my coaches and professors at USC attesting to my character.

But I stand in this hallway with the same criminal record I had five years ago, which means I’m ineligible for a P-1 visa, which means I’ve got no route to the NFL. My student visa expires in a couple of months, and that means I’ll have to head back to Canada.

My stomach tightens.

Canada.

I’ve got nothing there. Nothing and no one. At least, no one I ever want to see again. All that’s there are bad memories. I haven’t called it home in a decade, but my passport insists that’s where I belong.

But it’s wrong. I belong here. In the USA. I belong on the football field.

I stuff the rings back behind my collar, then yank at the knot of my tie and undo my top button. I need some fresh air. I wouldn’t say no to a blocking sled I could ram into either.

I push through the glass door, and the man right outside jumps out of the way, looking alarmed.

“Sorry,” I grunt.

I tend to intimidate people, even when a judge didn’t just detonate my future right in front of my eyes. That’s what happens when you’re 6’4, 230 pounds of muscle, and you haven’t cut your hair in over a year. Maybe I should’ve cut it for today, but I thought a slick bun would be good enough.

The streets around the courthouse are full of early-afternoon traffic, and I scan the area as I make my way to the stoplight. My gaze stops briefly on the people around me: the businessman talking animatedly into his Bluetooth earpiece; the kid pulling up his sagging pants while he skateboards past; two old ladies laughing as they wait for the light to turn so they can cross the street; a young woman with a head of wild blonde waves looking down at her phone. It’s like none of them realize the world has just ended.

My phone vibrates in my pocket as I stop to wait at the light, and I inhale deeply. I can guess who it is: my agent, Zach.

I wish he would’ve just texted. I’m not sure I’m ready to say the words I’ll have to say to him. He’s worked so hard to make sure the NFL teams scouting me know my visa situation is a non-issue.

In front of me to my right, the young woman with the blonde waves glances up from her phone just as the pedestrian light shifts to the familiar walk indicator. Her attention’s already back on her phone as she takes a step off the curb, completely oblivious to the semi about to run the light and plow into her.

The semi honks, and she looks up and freezes mid-stride. I don’t think; I dive, knocking the businessman between us out of the way, wrapping my arm around the woman’s torso and pulling her away from the street.

My training takes over as we go down hard on the pavement. I keep her tucked tight to me like a football, lift my head to avoid contact with the ground, and roll. Never until this moment had I fully appreciated the buttery softness of the Coliseum’s meticulously maintained Bermuda grass. Tackling someone on an unforgiving L.A. street hits differently. Especially without shoulder pads.

The semi zips by, still honking loudly and sending a rush of air past us.

Once I’m satisfied danger has passed, I roll off the young woman and to the side.

“Are you okay?” A stranger hovers over us with a crease the size of the Grand Canyon in her brow.

Others gather around, their long-awaited pedestrian light forgotten in the drama of the moment.

Vaguely aware of an ache in my shoulder, I go up on my elbow for a better view of the young woman, who’s on her back, staring up at the multiplying faces with wide, brown eyes, her head resting on a pillow of her own hair.

“Give her some space,” I say. When you’re injured, there’s nothing worse than having your entire field of vision taken up by a dozen people looking down on you like something’s seriously wrong.

My command does the trick, and everyone takes a couple steps back.

I turn my attention back to the woman, who looks up at me with confusion.

“Did you hit your head?” I ask.

She tries to lift it, and I use a gentle but firm hand to stop her, my fingers disappearing in the waves of her hair.

“Don’t move it,” I say.

She reaches a hand to her crown and winces slightly. She must’ve hit it. How hard is the question.

Nerves flutter in my stomach. Head injuries always make me crazy anxious.

“Can you move your fingers and toes?” I ask.

She wiggles her fingers, and my gaze shoots to her feet, but she’s wearing close-toed shoes.

“They’re wiggling,” she says.

“She should go to the hospital,” a man says.

“No,” she says, pushing herself up. “I’m fine.”

“You’re going to the hospital,” I say.

“I’m fine,” she repeats.

I shake my head. “I can drive you the five minutes there, or I can call an ambulance to take you. Your choice.” I don’t mess around when it comes to head injuries.

She shoots me a frowning look. “You’re kind of mean.”

Caught off guard, I chuckle and push myself to my feet. “Which’ll it be? My car’s just across the street.”

She hesitates, like she’s weighing getting into a car with a stranger against the drama of a five-minute ambulance ride.

“The hospital’s really that close?” she asks with a hint of skepticism.

“Yep,” one of the old women confirms. “Had my knee done there in December.” She bends the knee, showing it off under her perfectly creased, purple pants.

“And I had my gallbladder removed there in February,” her friend pipes up. “The tapioca from the cafeteria is top-notch.”

“I can drive myself,” the young woman says.

“No,” I say flatly amidst a chorus of no ’s from our audience.

“Okay, jeez,” the young woman says. She looks at me for a second.

It hits me that maybe she’s afraid of going with me. I look around at our audience for an alternative—someone she might feel more comfortable with. But it’s slim pickin’s. “Is anyone else’s car closer?”

Crickets.

“I guess…I’ll go with you,” the girl says to me. “But I’ve got mace in my purse, just so you know.”

“You can keep it in there.” I bend down to help her to her feet. She’s light as a feather compared to the guys I help up after a hard tackle. She smells a lot better too. “You good?” I keep a hand on her arm, watching for any sign of wavering as she orients herself on her feet.

“You should carry her,” Purple Pants Lady says. “A strong, strapping young man like yourself.”

Her friend nods vehemently. “Better safe than sorry.”

“I don’t need to be carried,” the young woman says, and she starts walking to the crosswalk again.

I scoop up her phone and AirPods on the pavement nearby, slip them in my pocket, and join her just in time for the walk signal to come on.

She looks both ways—twice—but still hesitates. There’s a deer-in-the-headlights look on her face, so I take the first step, and she follows.

I can’t blame her for being shaken up after almost getting plowed by a semi-truck. Heck, I’m shaken. The adrenaline’s still fading.

“I’m really feeling fine,” she says.

“Good. I’m still taking you to the hospital.”

She shoots a sidelong glance at me as we reach my car. The meter has six minutes left.

“You’re being bossy again,” she says as I open the passenger door for her.

“I’m still taking you to the hospital, please .” I wait for her to get in.

She smiles reluctantly.

“Watch your head.” I use my hand as a shield on the doorframe as she steps down and into the car.

“I’ve gotten into a few cars and crossed a few streets in my time, you know.” She pulls the seatbelt and clicks it in place. “I’m actually above average at both.”

I shut her door and head to the driver’s seat. Her head seems to be functioning all right.

“Thanks for doing this,” she says as I open the driver’s door and take my seat. She puts a hand to her pants, and her eyes widen. “Shoot. I left my?—”

I hold out her phone.

She stares at it for a second, then takes it. “Thank you.” Her hand flies to her ear, and she clenches her eyes shut. “Ugh. I probably?—”

I hold out her AirPods in my palm.

Her gaze darts to me and fixes there as she takes them. “I had a wad of cash too...”

I press the start button, and the engine comes on. “Nice try.”

She sighs, but she’s smiling. “Worth a shot.”

Slinging my arm over her seat, I reverse and pull out of the parking space to get on the road. It’s completely silent, and I glance at her, wondering why she’s suddenly out of stuff to say.

“Do you mind if I call my boyfriend real quick?” she asks.

“Go ahead.”

For the next couple minutes, I try not to listen to her side of a short conversation, focusing on getting us to the hospital as quickly and safely as possible.

At the light before the turn for the hospital’s ER parking lot, I get a text from my agent.

Zach

Did the judge mention the timing on the expungement? I’d like to get your visa application processed, but I don’t wanna jump the gun.

I stare at the text. In the chaos of the last fifteen minutes, I’d almost forgotten about the nightmare that is now my life. If I text Zach back and tell him there won’t be any expungement or any visa application, he’ll want to talk right away, and I need to get this girl situated before I do that.

Anything to delay the conversation.