“No comment,” I say to the reporters.
“Riggs,” a reporter shouts, “do you believe that by failing to answer questions, it can be interpreted as a sign of guilt?”
My spine stiffens and every fiber of my being screams at me to defend myself, but I don’t want to engage my mother through the media. It would only become a circus, and I’m not doing that to Janelle, Veronica, or my team. So I take a deep breath, let it out, and pivot toward the players’ entrance. Reporters continue to shout questions as I walk away, but they’re drowned out once I’m inside and the door shuts behind me.
A long hallway leads to another intersecting one that circles the entire sublevel of the arena. To the right are the locker rooms, and to the left the medical training facility and team physician’s office.
I stop inside the door and whip out my phone. With a few intelligent keywords in Google, I’m pulling up a local news broadcast posted about an hour ago. A reporter is interviewing my mother.
With a queasy gut, I hit play.
The anchor leads in with a “startling story from the mother of Arizona Vengeance defenseman Riggs Nadeau, making some serious criminal accusations.” A reporter fades in standing with my mom on an unrecognizable street, presumably in Phoenix.
I listen with mounting anger as my mother lays out a sob story with absolutely no contextual history. She’s asserted that I’ve basically stolen Janelle from her and her loving stepfather, Shep and that I’ve been violent in the past and stabbed my stepfather—making no distinction that she’s talking about two different men, Bruce and Shep.
With a growl, I exit the video without watching the remainder of it. What does it matter? She’s lying about everything, and I have no intention of engaging. But people will see this, and there are some who need to know the real story. Janelle and Veronica already know, but my team doesn’t.
With a determined step, I cut right at the end of the hallway and head into the locker room. All players should be here in the facility, but not all of them are in the locker room. I decide to hit Coach Perron up for some help.
Five minutes after meeting with him and explaining what’s going on, he sends out a team-wide text that tells everyone to be in the team meeting room in fifteen minutes.
That’s on an upper floor, and rather than take the elevator, I use the stairs and take the opportunity for privacy to call Veronica at the bookstore.
When she answers, her voice is sweet and sounds pleased to hear from me. “Hey, you.”
“Sorry to be a downer,” I say, setting the tone. “But I need to tell you something that’s going on.”
She lowers her voice, which tells me Janelle may be within listening distance. “What is it?”
“Apparently my mom has talked to a local TV reporter, and there’s a video of her telling a very limited, vague version of what happened between me and Bruce and also alleges I kidnapped Janelle. She makes me sound like a psychopath.”
“Jesus,” Veronica snaps. “She’s a nutjob.”
I don’t take offense to that. “I got hit by reporters coming in. It’s going to go national, so I’m on my way up to tell the team about it. I’ve already told Coach.”
“Are you okay?” she asks, voice laden with worry.
“I am because I have you and Janelle.” But man, is this long overdue. “I should have told the team sooner so this isn’t a shock, but I’m going to lay it all out there.”
“They’ll support you unconditionally,” she replies.
And I believe that too.
“Listen,” I say, leaning against the handrail, “I don’t know if we should tell Janelle. What do you think?”
“Hmmm,” Veronica murmurs, pondering for a bit. “I believe you should tell her. She’s almost an adult, she knows exactly what your mom is doing, and you don’t want her to be blindsided.”
“You’re right,” I immediately agree. It’s what I suspected I should do, but parenting is hard and there’s so much uncertainty. It helps to have Veronica’s point of view. “Can you fill her in? I don’t have time now, and then it’s on to game prep. If you don’t want to, though—”
“I’ve got it,” she says, cutting me off. “Trust me… I’ve got her, and you, on this.”
I can’t reply, my throat closed off with emotion. Just like that, with all this shit that now includes most likely national recognition of past traumas that some people will choose to believe, Veronica just… has me.
“I can’t wait to see you tonight after the game,” I reply, not able to address fully her selflessness and generosity.
“Same,” she murmurs. “Now, don’t worry about Janelle. Don’t worry about that reporter, your mom, or the team. After you tell them, you get back into game mode and kick some ass tonight. Janelle and I will be in the stands, cheering you on the loudest.”