Page 3 of If All Else Sails
Which might be the point.
In my older brother’s defense, though he’s a wee bit self-focused, Jacob is a decent guy. He’s generous. Goofy. Bighearted. Able to make friends anywhere. Loyal.
Usuallyloyal.
“You see—”
Jacob’s explanation is interrupted by sirens. I registered them a few minutes ago, soft whines in the distance. But now they are loud, pealing cries. Two cop cars turn and speed down the driveway, kicking up clouds of dust behind them as they head straight for me.
“Any idea why the police are here?” I ask.
He groans. “Oh no. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.”
“Hewhowouldn’twhat?”
I’ve never been arrested, never considered running from the police, but find myself slowly backing away as the cruisers pull to a stop.
A swarm—okay, it’s just two—of cops throw open the doors, leaping out like I am the fugitive they’ve been chasing for days. Not a confused elementary school nurse who might be trespassing as some kind of favor to the man formerly known as her brother.
One cop looks barely old enough to be out of high school, and the other has eyebrows so bushy they deserve their own zip code. They’re thicker than his mustache, which is saying something.
“That,” Jacob says, as the cops point what looks to be one gun and one taser at me, “is probably because of Wyatt.”
Ah, I think, as the cops order me to drop my weapon—a.k.a. my phone—and put my hands up.Wyatt.
It all makes sense now.
Chapter2
The Fine Line Between Detained and Arrested
Wyatt
“Would you mind signing this too?” one of the cops says. He’s young enough to still have a gleam in his eye and pink in his cheeks, then he adds, “For my wife.”
I take the proffered index card he pulled from his uniform. Then he hands me a permanent marker from a different pocket. While I’m scrawling my signature, I wonder what he’ll pull out next. Maybe a protractor or a little clutch of paper clips, like he’s some kind of human clown car stuffed with office accessories.
The worst part of my job as a professional athlete has always been signing autographs. Actually, any kind of interaction with fans leaves my mouth tasting like I’ve just downed day-old burned gas station coffee. All I want is to play hockey and be left alone. But apparently that’s too much to ask.
It usually takes me about four hours to come down from the anxiety high I experience after any public event I’m forced to attend.Especially after a game, though it’s worse when I run into fans unexpectedly.
At restaurants. In parking garages. Wandering the grocery store.
It’s gotten so bad that one whiff of a permanent marker is enough to trigger a mild PTSD response and a three-day migraine. I think I feel one coming on now.
I play hockey well and love everything about the game, but it’s a job. One I happen to excel at.
Or...did before my injury.
Regardless, no one is going around asking dentists to sign their bras because they do the best fillings. So, the fame that comes standard with my job has never quite made sense to me.
I briefly consider asking the cops to sign my T-shirt just to see howthey’dreact.
But I have no desire to prolong this encounter. (Also, I can’t remember how many days it’s been since I showered, and I doubt my shirt smells fresh.) I just want the police to go and take the trespassing paparazzi with them.
I’ve been standing for too long without my crutches. More slumped against the doorframe than standing, sweating profusely. Something must be wrong with the air conditioner or the thermostat. I’ve been sweating through my clothes all day, then the air kicks on and I’m freezing. Until I start sweating again.
I hand back the marker and everything I’ve signed. The young cop stares at the note card, shaking his head. “Thanks, man. This is...this is awesome.”
