EMTs and the police were finally on the scene, and a news crew looking to get the big story were making their way toward me. I walked back to my bike, unwilling to answer any questions or be interviewed, when a firm hand pressed against my shoulder.
“Todd Morris?” I turned to find a man in uniform. Not a cop, but a firefighter. His smile was wide, his eyes filled with excitement as he spoke. “You’re a hero,” he said a little too loudly.
I shook my head. “No, you’re the hero.”
I tried to shrug away, but by that time, the news crew was already in my face. Fuck.
“Todd Morris, a major-league favorite, legendary Mets catcher, is now a hero.” A perfectly groomed blonde woman spoke into a thick, round microphone while the cameraman captured the image of her standing beside me with the wreckage in the background.
No way, this isn’t happening.
“I’m not a hero. And I’m not doing any interviews.” I walked away from the reporter and the camera.
The traffic was starting to move in the far lane, but as I looked at my bike, it was obvious I wasn’t going anywhere. The reporter and the cameraman were back in my face. She pushed the microphone at me again. “What made you run to save that little girl?”
Seriously? Reporters asked the most asinine questions sometimes.
I’m not an asshole. It was a baby girl. There were plenty of reasons why anyone would’ve done the same thing. But, I knew not anyone would have done it. Most of the drivers were more concerned with where they needed to be than with the crying mother on the side of the road. As far as they were concerned, she was the problem, the reason they were going to be late.
“I’m not doing this,” I insisted, pushing the camera from my face.
“Where were you heading before the wreck occurred?” the reporter asked without flinching at my irritation. “Isn’t spring training soon?”
None of your business, lady.
Heading back to my bike, I spotted a dude bent over my bag. “Hey!” I yelled and took off in his direction. He looked up and panicked, picked up the bag, and started to run. I caught up to him. Caught the bag, more specifically, my chute. The damn thing unfurled behind the running man before he dropped the bag and darted between stopped cars. Shit. I looked back, and yep, the fucking camera was still pointing my way. Irritated beyond belief, I balled up the chute and began stuffing it back into the pack.
“Is that a parachute?” the reporter asked. I ignored her as I zipped the pack shut and headed back toward the bike. But I heard her speaking into the camera, excitement at her “breaking news” clear in her voice. “A real daredevil and hero in the flesh, Todd Morris, All-Star catcher for the Mets…”
I was so fucked.
I picked up the bike and moved it to the side of the road. The police began ushering everyone out of the road including the pushy reporter and her sidekick cameraman. Thank God!
“You need us to call you a tow truck?” the officer asked.
“No, thanks. I’ll handle it.”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone. Thank goodness for the protective case I’d just bought, not a scratch.
The rental company was more than eager to send someone out to get the bike, and of course, collect me from the side of the highway. When I told them the bike looked totaled, they actually sounded relieved. Guess they stood to make more from a totaled bike than a wrecked one. Whatever.
Traffic picked up its pace, moving smoothly once again after the wreck was removed. The officer who’d run the reporter off sat down on the guardrail beside me. “So, how much trouble is this gonna get ya?” he asked.
I chuckled. In the last two years, I seemed to stay in trouble. The coach was constantly on my ass, and the GM rode me hard with threats of trading me to another team if I didn’t cool it. “Let’s just say a lot.”
He patted me on the back as the tow truck arrived. A scruffy looking man got out, shaking his head and whistling. “This da bike?” he asked, spitting on the ground way too close to my feet.
“Yeah,” I agreed without shooting out any of the sarcasm that lingered on my tongue.
“Good luck, Todd.” The officer gave me one last pat on the back before heading to his car.
I helped the tow truck driver load the bike onto the trailer and then climbed into the front seat beside him. The truck smelled of tobacco, coffee, and raspberries, a weird combination.
I was so happy to be back at the rental office and out of that truck. After signing a shit load of paperwork, I hopped in my car and headed home. All I wanted to do was fall asleep, forget about this day, and hopefully not find myself on the five o’clock news.
“You look like you’ve had a rough day,” my doorman greeted me with his usual too nosey routine.
I grinned, pushed the elevator button, and disappeared inside.
My condo was quiet, peaceful, and inviting. I locked the door, stripped out of my clothes and headed for the shower. A quick assessment of the damages proved to be less than my body took after a tough game on the field. I stepped into the shower, letting the hot jets massage my aching muscles and wash away the grime and blood from my day. All that adrenaline… lost in one split second of bad luck.
I grabbed a towel from the rack, wrapped it around my waist, and found my phone lit up on the bedroom dresser. The coach's mean mug was flashing on the screen with his number displayed at the top. Are you fucking kidding me right now?
“What the fuck were you thinking?” his voice growled through the phone.
I sighed to let him know I’d heard him, but I didn’t speak. It didn’t matter if I wanted to, the man was on a roll. Getting a word in edgewise wasn’t happening, not now, not ever.
“A fucking motorcycle, and was that seriously a parachute in your backpack? Are you trying to kill yourself?”
“It was just a little fender bender. It wasn’t even my fault,” I argued.
“I don’t give a flying fuck whose fault it was, or if you’d saved a burning school bus of children, you know the fucking rules. You should… you break them every time I fuckin’ turn around.”
“I’m sorry, Coach. It was just a little ride. Not like I had any way of knowing that would happen.”
“First thing in the morning. My office.” That was all I heard before the click of him hanging up.
I turned on the news. Sure enough, there I was. That overly zealous reporter was pushing her microphone in my face, and the cameraman was capturing me trying to stuff my parachute back into my bag. This was bad. This was real bad.
I fell onto my bed, phone in hand. I searched the Internet for information on what was said about me. Daredevil on the Diamond Does It Again, read one headline. Another splashed my face with a headline that simply read, Hero.
Several YouTube videos had surfaced, capturing me in the act of saving the little girl. My stomach clenched as I watched. Her mother was so distraught, and that little girl so terrified. I had no choice. I’d do it all again, even with Coach screaming down my neck.
I fell asleep, pushing the thoughts of the day out of my mind. Tomorrow, I’d deal with the wrath of the coach’s anger, but not tonight. Tonight, I’d sleep.