Page 98 of Worth the Try
I hold my hands up, and the room eventually quiets. “I was told to prepare a statement for this. And I did. But I’m going to speak from the heart instead.”
Hidden behind the pillar, Frank throws his arms up. I’m willing to bet that if I turned and looked at him, I’d see steam coming out of his ears.
I swallow. “How many of you are parents?”
A few hands raise, and after a moment, a few more.
With a wry smile, I nod at them. “Being a parent is tough. I’m willing to bet that most of you had time to adjust to the idea—say, eight or nine months. But I didn’t. I became a parent the day that my daughter’s birth mother decided she’d had enough and left her on my front porch.”
Murmurs and more camera flashes. “Is that true?” someone shouts.
“You really think I’d make that up?” I ask, then I reconsider. “Don’t answer that.”
The reporters laugh.
I continue. “Yes, it’s true. I didn’t know she was pregnant. She kept it from me and then decided she didn’t want to be a mom. She left my almost three-month-old daughter on the porch with a note and a birth certificate.” I let that sink in, then forge ahead. “Here’s the thing. What’s happening right now between my daughter’s birth mother and me is private. It’s not your business. It’s no one’s business but ours.”
“But what about the nanny?” someone yells.
“Whataboutthe nanny?” I ask.
“The audio?—”
“Is completely doctored,” I finish.
“I’ve got an expert who says that’s the nanny’s voice.”
Anger starts to simmer. “I don’t give a damn what your ‘expert’ says,” I growl.
Kari appears beside me. “What Coach Miles?—”
“InterimCoach,” I correct.
“What Interim Coach Miles is trying to say,” Kari says, eyeing me with no small amount of exasperation, “is that while the words you hear on the file are, in fact, Elodie Cole’s, they weren’t said in that order, and she contends that many of the words never came out of her mouth. This is a clear use of AI in a smear campaign designed to put Coach Miles on the defensive. Miss Cole and interim Coach Miles are the victims here. Not Lauren Williamson.”
Frank is practically dancing a jig in my periphery, and based on Kari’s smooth delivery, I’m beginning to suspect that she’s seen way more things in this rugby club than I want to know.
I stand. “We’re done.”
Reporters immediately begin to lob more questions at me, but I ignore them as I make my way down the dais.
Frank blocks my way, his arms crossed.
I don’t break stride, aiming straight for him.
And when he doesn’t move, I shoulder-check him so hard he hits the wall behind him.
I don’t bother saying a word.
Chapter 35
Elodie
Ansel’s side of the bed is cold when I wake up at seven.
I sit up and focus my bleary eyes, realizing that not only is his side cold, it’s also not even been slept in. Which means it’s the third night—no, fourth—he’s slept somewhere else. He was on the couch once, surrounded by rugby playbooks, but every other morning, I’ve found him on the floor of Rosie’s room, his head on a stuffed unicorn and his massive body partially covered by a rainbow comforter.
This morning, though, he’s not in Rosie’s room when I poke my head in. Rosie herself still sleeps, her arms thrown wide, the covers askew, surrounded by more dolls and stuffed animals than should be possible. I gaze at her, allowing myself the peace that comes with watching her little chest rise and fall.
