She was chatting with a young player dressed in her jersey when she noticed Jamie stop halfway to the bus to sign a teenage girl’s “Blakewell Lives!” poster. And, seriously? Was Jamie actually trying to break the women’s soccer section of the Internet?
At first, Emma didn’t notice the dark-haired man skulking behind the teenager and her friends, his pale face glowing in the overhead light. Or, she noticed him, but her eye skipped right over him as Jamie smirked over her shoulder at Emma and motioned her closer to their joint fans. But then the glimpse triggered a red flag somewhere deep inside her brain, and Emma looked back quickly, her amused exasperation at Jamie’s recklessness evaporating as the man stepped forward, his eyes on the small group of players signing autographs and chatting with fans. He was looking at the team members as if he knew them, a sly smile turning his plump lips upward as he moved closer.
That was what stood out to Emma—his possessive smile and the rounded softness of his face, his shoulders, his belly under a too-big bomber jacket that shone under the stadium’s fluorescent lights.
No, no, no, she thought, dread coiling in her body even as she reached out and tugged Jamie off-balance. It was him. He had found her.
“Get behind me,” Emma hissed, her arm slipping around her girlfriend’s shoulder as she moved to put herself between the man and Jamie.
“What…?” Jamie blinked at her, confused.
“Finally!” the man said, his voice overly loud and a tad reproachful. “Took you long enough. I’ve been waiting forever for you girls.”
Emma thought about ignoring him and hurrying off to the idling team bus, but the main drive was still 50 feet away, and they couldn’t just leave their young fans alone with him. Instead, she tried to remember the training every national team player received at regular intervals: how to de-escalate a potentially dangerous situation. The point wasn’t to try to reason with a person who was out of control due to anger or another powerful emotion like obsession. The goal was to reduce the level of agitation as quickly as possible so that a reasonable discussion could take place while you waited for extra help to arrive.
She eyed the man before them carefully. So far, so good. He was smiling and didn’t seem particularly agitated. Maybe she was just being paranoid. Maybe he was only a normal fan, and she was blowing his oddness out of proportion because of the proliferation of toxic men on Twitter.
“Hello,” she said, assuming a professional smile. “Can we help you with something?”
“Emma…” Jamie’s voice trailed off behind her.
Had Jamie been to any of the self-defense trainings? Emma wasn’t sure. She glanced over her shoulder. “It’s fine, Jamie. I’ve got this.”
“I’m here, Jenny,” the man said, ignoring Emma and moving closer to press against the rope barrier. His voice was raised presumably so that Jenny, walking with Maddie and the others just behind Emma and Jamie, would hear him. “Just like I promised.”
Jenny. He was here to see Jenny. Emma would forever feel guilty at the relief that washed over her, but she couldn’t help it. He wasn’t here for her or Jamie. Thank god. Thank god.
“I see that,” Jenny said, her smile tight as she exchanged a sidelong glance with Maddie. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate the support.”
“Well, of course,” he said, looking at her as if she was the crazy one. “What kind of man would I be if I didn’t come see you play in my city? I’d like to talk to you. Alone,” he added, pushing his longish hair out of his eyes and casting a baleful look at the rest of the players as well as at the teenage girls now sidling away, apparently sensing the not-quite-rightness of the exchange.
Out of the corner of her eye, Emma saw Rebecca Perry slip away and head for the bus, her steps unhurried, head down as if she was engrossed by whatever was on her phone. Hopefully she was dialing 911. That was one of the steps in the training: going for help if possible. Speaking of, where was security, anyway? At least he didn’t appear to have a weapon, but then again, his loose, shiny jacket could be hiding anything. Meanwhile, Emma’s mace was in the bottom of her purse back at the hotel. Damn it.
She really hoped she was just being paranoid. Maybe Jenny knew the guy? But a look at her friend’s face told Emma everything she needed to know: Jenny was as freaked out as she was.
“Oh, shoot. I wish I could talk to you alone,” Jenny said, “but we’re not allowed to be in groups of three or less when we’re on the road with the team. I can’t break the rules or I might not be allowed to play anymore.”
“What?” The man looked stricken by the thought. “We can’t have that. You’re the best striker in the world by far. Although, I guess I might be a little biased as your fiancé, heh heh.”
The group stilled. Even Angie, who had quietly been trying to get Maddie to follow Rebecca, froze as the clearly delusional man shrugged and added, “I guess I’ll just have to give you this in front of everyone, then.” He lifted the rope barrier and ducked under, one hand in his pocket, his eyes intent on Jenny.
The thing about de-escalation tactics, as their most recent trainer at World Cup qualifying had reminded them, was that they were inherently unnatural. Staying calm and detached in the face of possible danger went directly against the human fight or flight reflex. A reflex that people with PTSD, Emma knew, struggled with even on a good day. Just like on the field, she knew what Jamie was going to do before she did it. But Emma’s outstretched hand grasped empty air as Jamie moved past her to intercept Jenny’s admirer. Emma could only watch helplessly as Jamie almost gracefully shoved the man face first to the ground and sat on him, his arm bent behind his back.
“Ow!” the man cried, struggling against her grip. “You’re hurting me! Stop it! Stop it!”
“Stay still,” Jamie growled, her eyes hard as she held him down.
“Jamie…” Emma said, but then she paused, because they had no idea what the clearly unbalanced man had intended. Maybe he’d wanted to hug or kiss Jenny, or maybe he had a knife up his sleeve or even a gun in his pocket. They didn’t know if he was a violent sex offender or a harmless, confused man. For all Emma knew, Jamie had just saved Jenny’s life. Or maybe she had escalated the situation unnecessarily. In that moment, there was no way of knowing for certain.
Two things happened at once then: a security guard finally appeared, waving a Taser far too close to Jamie’s back, in Emma’s opinion, while in the distance, half the players and coaches scrambled off the bus and approached at a run.
“Backup needed at the loading dock,” the guard shouted into a mic on his shoulder.
He got his wish sooner than he probably expected as Ellie, Phoebe, and a handful of the others descended on them. Phoebe took Jamie’s place, and Emma might have laughed at the absurdly awed look on the stalker fan’s face at the switch if she hadn’t already felt like crying.
While Phoebe helped the guard secure the man, Ellie tugged Jamie back a few feet. “What were you thinking, Jamie? He could have had a weapon!”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Jamie replied, her face stonier than Emma had ever seen it.
Emma wanted to add her voice to Ellie’s—because now all she could think was that Jamie, the stupid, bloody idiot, had risked herself for Jenny—but instead she finally managed to thaw her body and bowled into Jamie from the side, wrapping herself koala-style around her girlfriend’s perfectly intact, perfectly uninjured body.
“Jamie,” was all she could say, her voice raw and shaky.
Jamie stared down at her for a moment as if she didn’t recognize her. Then she blinked and her arms came around Emma. “Hey,” she said, her voice gentling. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, Em.”
“Don’t do that,” Emma whispered, her voice catching as she hid her face in Jamie’s shoulder.
“Don’t do what?” Jamie asked, ducking her head to try to get a look at her.
“Don’t do that,” she repeated, gesturing vaguely at the guy on the ground. “You could have been… Ja
mie, I can’t… You can’t just do that!”
Jamie hugged her closer, lips brushing her forehead. “It’s okay,” she repeated softly. “We’re okay, I promise.”
She closed her eyes and buried her face in Jamie’s neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, fresh and clean from the stadium’s showers. She could have—they might have—fucking men! She pulled away and glared at the man on the ground, keeping her arms around Jamie. That son-of-a-bitch. Now she wished she hadn’t frozen. Now she wished she had kicked him in the balls or punched him in the head, anything to give the rage inside of her an outlet. Fucking men. Who did they even think they were?
A second guard arrived and Phoebe stepped away so that they could haul the man to his feet. They placed him in handcuffs and read him his rights—which, who knew stadium security had the power to do that—and then they informed him they were going to check him for weapons.
“Why would I have a weapon?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused. “I’m here to see my fiancée. Jenny, tell them!”
Jenny shook her head subtly at the security guards.
“Okay,” the first guard said, his voice calmer now that the threat had been averted. “Why don’t we go inside and see if we can figure this all out.”
The man struggled against the grip of the guards. “But I didn’t do anything wrong,” he insisted, panting slightly. “That dyke tackled me for no reason! I was just trying to talk to my fiancée and she attacked me!”
Emma turned to face him, keeping her arm around Jamie’s waist because, just then, Jo’s team time rules could go fuck themselves. The man’s hair and clothes were disheveled, and his eyes were wild now, darting back and forth like his brain was short-circuiting. Emma’s rage surged again, making her fingertips itch to claw a hole in his face, but she tamped down on the violent urge. The guy was clearly in the midst of a psychotic break, and as such, was he even responsible for his actions? Celebrity Worship Syndrome was an actual obsessive addictive disorder, according to Emma’s research. What this man needed was treatment, not verbal assault. So she held her tongue, even though her fight instinct was still flaring up insistently.
A police car pulled up behind the team bus, lights flashing but siren silent. Two police officers emerged and made their way over to the small group. While they conferred with the security guards, Jenny came over to hug Jamie and Emma.
“Thanks, Rook,” she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “I appreciate what you did.”
“Of course. Are you okay?” Jamie asked.
And that was just like her, Emma thought—more worried about Jenny than herself.
“I’m totally fine. But how are you? You didn’t go and get yourself injured, did you?”
Jamie shook her head. “No. I’m fine too.”
“I thought for a second Morton there was going to tase you,” Jenny said, managing to slip in a reference, Emma noted, to Twenty-One Jump Street, one of her favorite movies. Which, hello, this wasn’t remotely funny.
“So did I,” Jamie said. “I mean, I’m willing to do pretty much anything to win the beep test, but I feel like getting electrically enhanced might be a bit over the top.”
“Not to mention, probably ineffective,” Jenny agreed.
“Guys,” Emma said, pushing their shoulders in turn. “That’s not funny!”
“Maybe a little funny,” Jenny said, and high-fived Jamie.
Ellie, Phoebe, and Jo were talking to the police. When the officers moved to escort Jenny’s harasser to the squad car parked behind the idling bus, Jo motioned to the players still milling around.
“Let’s go,” she said. “They want us to head back. An officer will come to the hotel to take your statements after dinner.”
Emma looped her arm through Jamie’s and tugged her toward the bus, only too happy to leave the creepy underside of the stadium. As the remaining fans dispersed, Emma wondered what kind of stories would show up on the Internet tonight. The whole confrontation had happened so quickly that she doubted anyone had gotten the events on film, but you never knew. Probably it was just as well that the sun was setting and this section of the stadium wasn’t very well lit. Even if someone had tried to take pictures or video of the encounter, the resulting images wouldn’t be of very high quality. Still, Emma didn’t doubt that stories would circulate among USWNT fans on social media. She only hoped Jamie’s actions wouldn’t attract too much attention.
Actually, she thought as they rode back to the hotel, this was the perfect segue to tell Jamie about her own harassment woes, wasn’t it? Compared to Jenny’s issues, hers should seem way less worrisome. And now that Jamie had made the roster, Emma didn’t have to worry about throwing her off her game. Her reasons for keeping the online harassment to herself were no longer valid. Jamie deserved to know what they were facing, especially if a reprise of tonight’s events was a possibility.
Just, maybe she wouldn’t tell her tonight, Emma thought, watching Jamie stare out the coach window. Emma could feel the tension emanating from her, could feel the reaction coursing through her as if Jamie’s body were her own. Now wasn’t the right time to add to her anxiety, and besides, she was leaving for Europe in the morning. Emma would tell her when she got back. Two weeks, she promised herself, holding Jamie’s hand surreptitiously as the bus navigated the short distance back to the hotel. When they were back in the same country and could see each other for more than a few hours, she would tell her.
Dinner at the hotel was—weird, frankly, with different players stopping by their table throughout the meal to find out exactly what had happened. The collective mood had shifted from relaxed and happy to anxious and jumpy so fast that Emma, for one, was having difficulty processing the change.
A female police officer from the St. Louis Police Department showed up at the end of the meal to meet with those who had been involved in the “incident” and certain members of the support staff, including Jo, Fitzy, Mary Kate, and Caroline, the PR manager.
Emma stayed close to Jamie as they left the conference room where the team dined and headed down the hall to a much smaller room. Maddie and Angie, she noticed, stuck together, too, choosing seats next to each other at the long, oval table.
The officer updated them on Jenny’s harasser, providing information on what they had found at his apartment on the outskirts of the city: photos and clippings of Jenny on his bedroom wall and a laptop they intended to search thoroughly. But they hadn’t found any weapons at his home, and the only thing they’d found on his person at the time of the encounter was a handwritten note to Jenny in one of his jacket pockets. The district attorney’s office had suggested seeking to hold him on criminal stalking charges so that he could receive the mental health help he clearly needed. Either way, he wouldn’t be released until after Jenny’s flight left in the morning.
As she listened to the officer speak, Emma couldn’t help comparing the way the criminal justice system approached a mentally ill white man with how the police in Ferguson, a suburb of St. Louis, had treated Michael Brown, a black man, the previous summer. Not that she wanted anyone to be shot, but still. So much for “blind justice.” White men—and women—got the benefit of the doubt even when they didn’t deserve it.
“Which one of you is Ms. Maxwell?” the officer asked, glancing around the room.
Jamie held up her hand.
“Right. Can you tell me in your own words what happened at the stadium?”
“Um, sure. We were leaving the locker room—”
“We?” the officer repeated.
Jamie gave her the names of everyone she’d been with after the game—all currently seated at the table—and then resumed her narrative. Her voice was clear as was her memory, and Emma listened intently, impressed by Jamie’s steadiness under pressure. The thought occurred to her that she had likely done this before: recited a traumatic event to her parents, her therapist, possibly even a police officer. She probably had more experience with this sort of thing than any of them.
At least, as far as Emma knew. Assault was such a private affair, as was harassment. Emma had known that Maddie struggled with online harassment in the past, but they didn’t talk about it. Jenny, either, which was why Emma had assumed the deluded man at the stadium was there for her.
After Jamie had finished, the officer asked for confirmation from the rest of the witnesses. They agreed that Jamie’s story was accurate, and then the officer turned to Jenny.
“Ms. Latham, is it?”
“That’s me,” Jenny said, projecting her usual air of positivity blended with mild sarcasm.
“Do you know a Mr. Nathan Butler?”
Jenny’s eyes flickered, and when she responded, her voice had lost any trace of flippancy. “That was Nate Butler?”
The officer nodded, her eyes sharp on Jenny. “I take it you do know him?”
“I know of him,” Jenny corrected. She exchanged a look with Caroline, their PR rep, who nodded subtly. “I actually have a dossier I could share with you.”
A dossier, Emma thought, her eyes widening.
“A dossier?” the officer repeated.
“It’s basically a record of contact with him and some other people online over the past six months. The federation advised me to compile it, so…” Jenny trailed off and flipped her loose hair back over one shoulder, staring almost defiantly at the police officer.
Emma glanced at Caroline, who met her gaze calmly. Six months. How many players on this team were tracking their potential stalkers? And why hadn’t the federation met with them en masse or offered outside resources? Tonight showed just how vulnerable the members of this team were.
The Road to Canada Page 14
