Love Across the Street

Chapter 2: My Baseball-Clad Savior

My world spun into chaos as the speeding car bore down on me, and my frantic attempts to evade it seemed pointless. Panic gnawed at me, and adrenaline surged through my body as I veered my bicycle left, desperately hoping for a miracle. Unfortunately, the bicycle's chains slipped from the sprocket.

"Oh no, why now, Mom's bikey? Come on!" I exclaimed, caught in a whirlwind of emotions. Torn between the safety of my own life and preserving the memory of Mom's bicycle, I was at a loss.

"I can't just leave it here," I muttered, my voice trembling with the fear of losing something so dear. I frantically tried to reattach the chain, but the situation offered no time for repairs.

Frustration and fear gripped me as I finally decided to abandon the bike and run to the other side of the road. But it was too late. The car struck with brutal force, sending me hurtling through the air. I then found myself hanging precariously on the edge of the bridge, teetering on the brink of a potentially deadly fall.

"Help, help! Someone out there!" I screamed, my voice wavering, blood dripping from my forehead, and my arms and knees adorned with painful wounds and scratches.

But I heard the car abruptly screech to a stop on the bridge. However, no one emerged from it. Panic welled up inside me.

"Why doesn't somebody come out?" I whispered, my breath ragged, trying to hold on to the cement barricade.

"Did you know that you hit somebody? I'm here!" I cried out, desperate for help, my body throbbing with pain.

"Help me! I'm dying here, please!"

As I continued to beg for help, dizziness and disorientation clouded my senses. I was losing blood rapidly, and a sense of impending doom washed over me. I thought of the possibility that this might be the time I perish.

"Mom, Dad, I failed you," I mumbled through my fading strength.

"I never thought I'd find myself back in the same place where I almost died."

"Is it now my time to reunite with you both?" I wondered, a faint smile touching my lips as I began to release my grip on the cement barricade, resigned to my fate.

But just as I felt myself slipping away, a blurry figure appeared in my fading vision, reaching for my hand and pulling me back from the edge.

My consciousness began to flicker back like a dim light struggling to shine through, and there he was – my savior, a tall guy clad head to toe in a baseball player's outfit, complete with those sleek, black square sunglasses. He held me up and saved my life.

I mustered the strength to croak, "Who are you? Were you the one who hit me?" My voice was barely audible, and each word was a painful exertion.

He leaned in, gently wiping the blood from my face with a handkerchief and then improvising a makeshift bandage around my forehead to stem the bleeding. "Don't speak for now. You're losing a lot of blood, and you're kind of tasting it."

I managed to rasp out, "Yeah, can you just please rush me to the hospital? I don't want to meet my end here with you acting like a real doctor."

He responded with a mix of calmness and determination, "Just hang on, and don't fall asleep, okay?"

Scooping me up like a groom carrying his bride, he rushed toward his car. But, as he attempted to open the driver's door, his face turned to one of realization and dread.

"No, no. The car's not an option. The brakes are shot," he blurted out, his voice tinged with fright.

My voice was barely a whisper as I asked, "What do we do now?"

"Shh, don't talk, okay? I'll figure something out," he replied, the urgency now creeping into his demeanor.

Summoning all the courage I had left, I suggested, "Let's walk to the nearest hospital. It's just three minutes away from here," even though waves of pain lingered through my body.

He shook his head, objecting firmly, "We can't do that. We own that hospital, and my dad might be there today."

I countered, desperation seeping into my voice, "Well, that's even better. Your dad could help us."

His expression hardened with resolve as he reached for his phone inside the car, still cradling me in his arms. "You don't understand."

"Alright! I know what to do now." He dialed a number with a sense of purpose as he gently opened the car door and carefully laid me down.

"Stay there for a minute. I'm just gonna call somebody," he uttered, leaving me to wonder about him, this mysterious athlete who had brought me to this perilous crossroads but had also, against all odds, saved my life.

As my mysterious baseball-clad savior dialed the number, he paced back and forth, his brow furrowed with worry.

"Hey, Drake! Where are you? I need your help," he declared aloud into the phone.

My gaze remained fixed on him, fighting to stay awake, but the fatigue and pain were too much to bear. I could feel the world slipping away as drowsiness overcame me, tugging at my eyelids.

***

I woke up feeling like I had a pile of bricks on my head as I struggled to open my eyes and regain my consciousness.

"Where am I? Is this now the kind of modern hospital room these days?" I muttered to myself, my voice barely a whisper as I tried to take in my surroundings.

The room I found myself in was like a blend of sophistication and nostalgia. The walls were painted in a calming shade of warm gray, adorned with a gallery of framed photographs. There were pictures of a kid with his mom, graduation snapshots, and a family timeline, intermingled with a treasure trove of sports trophies and medals.

As I attempted to sit up, pain surged through my body, and I winced. My arm was wrapped in bandages, and my head pulsed with a relentless ache. I knew I'd been hurt, but the memories of what had led me here were still frustratingly fuzzy.

Just then, the door to the room creaked open, and a tall, reassuring figure walked in wearing a white coat crisp and a stethoscope hanging casually around his neck. He had a compassionate smile, and his eyes reflected concern as he saw me awake.

"You're awake," he said, his voice gentle and soothing. "How are you feeling?"

I offered a weak, grateful smile. "Confused," I admitted, my voice shaky.

He introduced himself as Drake, explaining that he wasn't the one who brought me into this house.

"It isn't my house, but you're safe here," he assured me, walking towards me and offering a cup of tea.

"Drink this chamomile tea, it's good to soothe your injuries and sore muscles," he added as he helped me to gently sit up in bed.

As I cradled the tea in my hands, Drake settled into an accent sofa chair near the bed. I couldn't help but ask the question that had been nagging at me, "I know it's an obvious question, but may I know if you're a real doctor?"

A half-suppressed laugh escaped Drake's lips, and he responded, "Yes, I am. Do you think I'm just faking?"

Flushing with embarrassment, I quickly clarified, "No, I have full confidence that you are. I just don't trust the guy who saved me on the bridge. He might be the one who caused these injuries to me then saved me."

"Oh, I see. You mean Marcus?" Drake clarified, leaning forward with a curious look.

"Honestly, I really don't know. I barely remember how he looked like. All I remember is somebody saved me when I was about to fall from the river," I confessed, my frustration evident as I struggled to recollect the elusive details.

Drake's smile remained reassuring, casting a warm light on my cloudy memories. "It's understandable since you're still recovering, but don't worry. I don't think there would be a complete loss of memories after what happened. It's only hazy for now, but it will come back one of these days."

The door suddenly swung open again with a nonchalant air. Somebody who walked in is a tall, striking figure with sun-kissed skin and unruly dark hair that seemed to defy gravity. His piercing hazel eyes glinted with an air of confidence, and a self-assured smile played on his lips.

He carried himself with an untroubled ease, as if he were completely oblivious to what happened in the car's incident at the bridge. His strides were relaxed, and his body language exuded a carefree charm. He greeted us with a casual wave and a mischievous grin.

"Hey, Drake!" He called out to the doctor, drawing his complete attention.

"Hey, you, bloody mary!" He stood confidently before the bed, a hint of playful mockery in his voice.

"How are you feeling now?" he continued, leaning forward with a cocky tilt of his head, his hands casually tucked in his pockets, his tone dripping with arrogance.