Chapter 1: Jumping Ship

I took a deep breath and struggled to steady my nerves as the taxicab rapidly approached my destination. Two days ago – July 24, 2000 – I turned twenty-three, and now, here I am, ready to receive the greatest birthday present, the final stop in the quest to achieve my childhood dreams. Sitting in the backseat of the cab, I stared out the passenger's side window, my head in my hand, watching the world pass me by with the wide-eyed wonder of a child. The cab slowed down, coming to the stop at the bottom of a dirt road lined with tall trees.

"This is your stop," the driver told me. He was a gruff fellow, with slicked gray hair he wore under an old, beat up Yankees cap. The glasses he wore were thick. He looked like the kind of guy who liked wearing slippers while he read the Sunday paper, the kind of guy who got irritated with kids skateboarding on the sidewalks or walking on his fresh mowed grass. I thanked him, searching through my black leather purse for my wallet, my gaze darting to the meter to see how much I owed him. I gave him the money.

"Keep the change." He looked at the bills in his hand. I saw his eyes widen in the rear-view mirror.

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. You have yourself a fabulous afternoon," I told him, opening the back door. In half an hour, another cab was going to be here to pick me up. I didn't think the meeting was going to take any longer than that. Shutting the door behind me, I stared at the long and winding road and momentarily regretted my decision to wear high heels. It was a sweltering day, bright blue with not a cloud in the sky or hint of a summer breeze. Behind me, the cab drove away and disappeared from my sight quickly, leaving me alone on the empty road.

Readjusting the strap of my purse over my shoulder, I began the trek up the road. My hands were shaking; the last time I recalled having such a bad case of nerves was my first match, against a women's wrestler named Princess Jasmine in a small bingo hall in Sacramento, California.

As I walked, I tried to ignore the feeling of being a traitor and a turncoat. Greenwich, Connecticut isn't my neck of the woods; my turf is Atlanta, Georgia, the home of World Championship Wrestling. This is Vince McMahon's territory, and the World Wrestling Federation has been at war with my place of employment since 1995. In WCW, we're supposed to be conditioned to believe that Vince is the enemy, but the reality is that I've wanted to be here ever since I was a little girl watching WrestleMania IV with my father.

I signed with WCW on my twentieth birthday, at the insistence of Chris Jericho, one of my greatest friends ever. Chris had been with them for a couple of years and he felt like he was finally starting to gain some momentum. He'd managed to do it without joining the New World Order, which is kind of a huge deal. I owe my WCW contract to Chris; he brokered the deal with company president Eric Bischoff. Back then, I was still so young and naive, and I was so content wrestling in Japan that Chris had been forced to work really hard to convince me to take the meeting with Eric.

The presentation Eric had given me was so impressive. He's a short and scrappy guy with black hair and a smug aura. He laid out a five-year plan about introducing a women's division and a championship. At the time I was living in Tokyo, wrestling some of the most insane matches in front of the biggest crowds I've ever seen. I loved it over there, but Eric's promise of making me a pioneer of the WCW women's division was too good to pass up. With Miss Madness and Madusa, the three of us could build something really special, he told me. He wanted a women's division that was going to rival Vince's, who had only just reintroduced the Women's Championship.

I'm a little ashamed to admit that I let myself get spellbound by the presentation. After the meeting, I felt excited and apprehensive; I'd never wrestled on television for a major corporation before. Chris told me that this was the best thing I could do for my career; that I was going to open up all kinds of doors for myself in North America. I also thought about my mom and dad in Spokane, Washington, about how much they probably wanted to have their only child back on American soil, and I was sold. I packed my bags and moved home with Mom and Dad for a little while.

It didn't take long for me to realize that WCW was a toxic place, that Eric had a reputation for making all kinds of promises to all kinds of people and never coming through on any of them. Most of the talent had creative control clauses in their contracts, and they shut down nearly every pitch made to them. Instead of pioneering a women's division, I got paid a lot of money to either sit at home or hang out backstage. For two years I thought Eric would come through, and so I stayed behind while all my friends left the company in droves, to the greener pastures of the WWF, where they all became the stars WCW wouldn't let them become. Miss Madness – my friend Nora – left and became Molly Holly, wrestling competitive matches and getting involved with on-screen stories. As happy as I was for her, I was also extremely jealous; if I was lucky, sometimes I got caught on camera while Scott Steiner and Sting were brawling. In the past year, I've been forced to recognize that WCW is a sinking ship and that Eric Bischoff's promises mean nothing.

Chris left for WWF in the summer of 1999, and ever since, he's been on a campaign to get me to follow suit. Every time we've spoken in the last year, he would assure me that he was doing everything in his power to get me over here. Part of me wanted to believe him, but the constant disappointments in WCW had me feeling like I had hit a wall. I know thousands of people are trying to get into the WWF constantly, so I didn't think he could do anything like that for me, but I appreciated that he wanted to try. Eventually, I got a call from Jim Ross. Chris had shown some important people some of my work in Japan and they wanted to sign me.

As excited as I am to sign a WWF contract, I can't help but feel like I'm turning my back on the people who gave me a job in the States. There are whispers that WCW is in bad shape, that it may close with the Time Warner merger, and I don't want to end up out in the cold at the end of everything. Leaving is the best option, as hard as it is for my brain to accept that. I came back to North America to wrestle; at some point, I want to do that.

Chris told me first impressions are important to Vince, and he likes athletes that look professional, so I opted for business casual, dressed in a white button-down shirt with black slacks and a navy quarter-sleeve blazer. Tan heeled shoes and a three-tiered statement necklace finished the ensemble. I styled my mocha hair in soft waves around my face and kept the makeup to a minimum. It took a few tries to get my makeup to a point where I was happy with it, a lot of effort for the look that I'm not wearing any. The meeting is just a formality; I agreed to the terms a week ago, but Chris told me it's customary for all new talent to sign their contracts at Vince's house. It struck me as odd since I signed my WCW contract at the Turner building – I couldn't even tell anyone what Eric's house looks like because I've never been.

Every step I took, I felt my nervousness amplify. Vince has always been a larger-than-life character to me. The idea of working for him made me so nervous, but the female talents he had made me excited. He had Nora, and he had Lita and Trish Stratus and Chyna and Ivory. Granted, there are some things I'm not looking forward to – like the bra and panties match, or wrestling in gravy bowls and pudding – but sometimes a person has to take the bad with the good.

At the top of the road, I was greeted by the largest house I've ever seen in my life. The driveway was gigantic and filled with luxury cars. My stomach felt heavy taking in the fountain, and I fought the urge to get sick in the driveway. I'm not normally an anxious person, but this entire meeting has been set up in cloak and dagger style so Eric doesn't find out; I'd had to book a flight under another name, and while Vince offered me a limousine, I opted for a cab so that nobody caught wind of a WWF vehicle at the airport. It's been so hard feeling like I'm doing nothing wrong when I've had to be so careful with every step that I take.

I walked up the two steps, onto the small landing, and I took one last moment to steady myself before ringing the doorbell. I quickly checked my reflection in the side window, just to make sure there was nothing out of place and no lipstick on my teeth. When I was satisfied that I looked okay, I reached out and rang the doorbell. My heart jumped into my throat when I heard it echo through the house.

It was a few moments before the door opened, and I found myself standing face-to-face with Shane McMahon. He looked well put together, dressed in a black button down shirt rolled up to the elbows and dark blue jeans. Right away I found myself caught up in his eyes, in how big and brown and emotive they were; it was as if I could read every thought in his head by the way that his eyes shone. The smile he gave me put me at ease almost immediately. He extended his right hand for me to shake.

"Hello, Rinoa. It's a pleasure to finally meet you," he greeted. I shook his hand; his grip was firm and warm. "I'm Shane McMahon..."

"I know who you are," I told him, surprised at how timid my voice sounded in my ears. "I'm pretty familiar with your work. You're insane." The words came out of my mouth so quickly, and I instantly regretted them. If it bothered Shane, though, his face didn't show it.

"It appears my reputation precedes me," he said with a laugh. I felt the red-hot sting of embarrassment in my cheeks. He stepped to the side. "Come on inside. Everyone's waiting for you in the dining room."

Once I stepped over the threshold, into the house, the self-consciousness I felt seemed to increase tenfold. I was so very aware of every noise I made, including the sound of my heels on the wooden floor. Sliding out of my shoes, I noticed Shane smirk as I shrunk six inches in front of him. "How was your flight?" he asked.

"Good. It was smooth sailing all the way from Sacramento," I told him. I fell into step beside him, the two of us walking down the long hallway towards the dining area. When I walked in, right away I was struck by the who's who of names sitting around the giant dining table. John Laurinaitis, Bruce Pritchard, Michael Hayes and Jim Ross. It was strange to me to see JR without his trademark cowboy hat. The moment I stepped through the arch with Shane, all sets of eyes were on me and I instantly felt like the new kid in school. Shane cocked his head and I followed him towards the head of the table, where Vince sat. He saw me, smiled and stood. In the middle of the table were plates of brownies, glasses, and pitchers of lemonade. It looked like I had invaded a meeting.

"Rinoa!" Vince boomed, extending his hand. I shook it, doing my best to hide a wince at Vince's grip. Chris told me not to show fear in Vince's presence, but I'm sure the intimidation I felt was written all over my face. I shot a look over at JR, who had produced a folder with the WWF logo emblazoned on the front. My eyes swung back to Vince. "It's great to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you. Please. Have a seat."

"Yes, sir."

"Please. Vince." I nodded and took a seat between Michael and Bruce. Shane sat across from me, between JR and John. Michael offered me a glass of lemonade and poured it for me. I thanked him softly. The whole moment was so surreal. What struck me was the sight of Vince in a business suit inside of his own home. Over the years I've heard a lot of stories about Vince and his crazy work ethic, how he competes against himself over mundane things like growing a beard. "How was your flight?"

"It went well," I told him. John offered me a brownie topped with walnuts, which I had to decline because I'm allergic to walnuts and almonds. It's weird that I'm not allergic to every kind of nut, but I swell and it gets scary fast if I have those two. The plate was moved away from me.

"My son speaks very highly of your abilities, as does JR here," Vince told me. "I see your friend Chris has been buttering you up around here for a while now." I couldn't help but laugh.

"That sounds like Chris," I said. I've always been so thankful that Chris was willing to go to bat for me. When I was eighteen and a half and just getting started I met Chris. We were both in Berlin; he was doing a show just before he went to ECW and I was on the same card. The two of us hit it off immediately, bonding over a love of pro wrestling and rock music. I looked over at JR and realized the folder held my WWF contract. My heart skipped a few beats.

"Now, Ms. Fielder, I'm going to be blunt here, but I have to ask – since we agreed to the terms and conditions of this contract, have you signed or verbally agreed to anything with Eric Bischoff or anyone from WCW?" JR asked. I shook my head vehemently.

"No, not at all. Eric hasn't even come to see me about the contract he offered," I confessed. "Chris advised me not to sign anything until I spoke to you guys and once it became clear we were going to reach an agreement, I opted not to re-sign." While I spoke, I could feel Shane's eyes on me, like he was examining me, trying to figure out what I was all about. I wanted to return his stare, but I didn't want to make a bad first impression with Vince by eye balling his son. Every part of me was grateful for his presence at the table; the buttoned up and stern dispositions made me so nervous, but Shane's relaxed aura seemed to counterbalance all of that.

"When does your WCW contract expire?" Vince asked. I took a sip of my lemonade and tried to keep a straight face. It was very tart.

"Next Saturday at midnight."

"And you are absolutely sure there are no verbal agreements in place?" Bruce asked. I nodded.

"Yes. Eric doesn't talk to me."

JR slid the contract over to me. The amount we agreed on was a little higher than they usually offer for women. I'm not even sure what made them offer the amount, but it was a nice surprise. JR told me it was more than they usually offered, which caught me by surprise. I grabbed the folder and opened it up. Seeing my name on the contract underneath the WWF letterhead made my heart skip a few beats. My hands were suddenly shaking again.

I took a moment to take it all in. It's the biggest moment of my life thus far, validation for every drop of blood, sweat, and tears that I've given. Growing up watching wrestling with my family, I'd always hoped I'd end up here, competing at WrestleMania and becoming the Women's Champion.

Creatively I had driven a hard bargain during negotiations; the contract gave me a small degree of creative control over my character, just in terms of what I felt comfortable with doing. For as popular as The Attitude Era has been, there's been a lot of questionable things that I could never see myself doing. The coolest part of the contract was outside of the guarantee; I had the option to make more money off things like video games and T-shirts. Chris told me in his first year, he didn't make his base salary; he made double.

With a smile on my face and a shake in my hands, I signed my name on the dotted line and became a WWF Diva.

"The plan is for you to start the Monday after SummerSlam," Michael informed me. "That gives you a few weeks to get all of your affairs in order before you're on the road with us."

"That sounds great."

With a smile on my face, I signed my name on the dotted line and became a WWF Diva.

"We're thinking of having you start just after SummerSlam," Vince told me. "That gives you a few weeks to get all of your affairs in order before you start." I was a little disappointed that I wasn't going to start as soon as my contract expired, but I knew there were all kinds of minor details that had to be ironed out.

"I'm going to go and fax this," JR announced. Vince stood with him, the two of them leaving together. I got up to leave, gathering my purse and adjusting the strap over my shoulder. It was a short visit, but I didn't want to make things awkward by hanging around. Vince turned and noticed I was going to leave.

"Do you have a ride back to your hotel?" he asked. I nodded.

"I set up another cab for a few minutes from now." He approached me and we once again shook hands.

"Welcome to the WWF, Rinoa. I look forward to seeing what you can do."

"Thank you."

"I'll walk you out," Shane offered, getting out of his chair. His hand ghosted on my spine, leading me back down the hallway towards the front door. "Welcome to the family," he offered when we were out of everyone's earshot.

"Thank you, Mr. McMahon."

"Please. Mr. McMahon is my father. I'm Shane." He stood across from me in the hall while I slid my heels back on. "A piece of advice, Rinoa: the WWF can be a little bit of a strange place to navigate at times, and with the war going on between us and WCW, you might have a bit of heat. If you need anything, or if anyone gives you a hard time, let me know, okay?"

I looked at him, trying to keep my suspicion muted. I couldn't help but wonder how many other Divas he made the same offer to. I dismissed the thought almost right away, just because he seemed too genuine to be sleazy. "Thank you. I will." He opened the door for me and I walked through it. He surprised me by following me outside.

"Rinoa, another thing before you go..."

I turned to him, watching him reach into the breast pocket of his shirt. He handed me a business card. "Sometimes...people coming over from other companies get over here and have a hard time adjusting to our style. Chris did. You have a few weeks before you start. Maybe head down there and get yourself used to the way we do things. He'll also report to Dad that you're there, so it will give you some extra brownie points."

"Oh. Thank you."

"Don't mention it." He said goodbye and disappeared back inside the house. I looked down at the business card. The Funking Dojo Conservatory. It was run by Dory Funk, Jr. Looking at the closed door, I found myself touched by Shane's act of generosity. I slid the card into my purse and made my way back to the dirt road.

By the time I got down to the bottom, where the cab was waiting for me, the excitement that I felt had given way to dread. The idea of telling Eric that I had no desire to re-sign made me sick.

As if on cue, my cell phone rang. I saw it was Eric's number, and I groaned. It didn't take me long to decide to just let it go to my answering service. I could have told him sooner that I was negotiating with Vince, but I didn't want there to be a tug of war, and I decided quickly that I'd wait until I signed with Vince to tell Eric the news, in case everything fell through. It could have been an unrelated phone call, but part of me felt like Eric knew that I was going to leave. No part of me relished the idea of telling Eric the news. When Chris left last year, Eric had been downright vindictive, going so far as to claim he failed a drug test. He sent Chris to rehab. Chris had been so confused, but – in true WCW fashion – he was still getting paid, so Chris wasn't too torn up about it. Despite being short in stature, Eric can be quite intimidating, and I didn't want him attempting to strong arm me into re-signing with threats of lawsuits. But the days of him promising a women's division and a place at the top of the mountain are long gone; I just can't wait forever to make him see that I'm valuable.

The ringing stopped when I got into the cab. I instructed the driver to take me back to my hotel as my answering service alert went off. I dreaded the idea of listening to the voice-mail, but I decided to do it later; I wanted to save the high I was feeling after landing my dream job.

After making a U-turn, the cab was soon speeding back towards civilization. The silence that lasted a few minutes was broken by my phone ringing once more. I sighed, staring down at the phone, my anxiety replaced with joy when I saw it was Chris calling and not Eric. I answered quickly. "Hello hello," I greeted.

"Hey, Noa. You signed yet?" he asked.

"I just left Vince's house. I'm heading back to the hotel now. The contract is signed, sealed and delivered," I told him. "But I won't be starting until after SummerSlam next month." I looked at the trees passing by in a green blur.

"Fucking awesome. Eddie's been asking all day if you've signed the contract yet. He's so fucking psyched that you're finally crossing over."

"I can't believe I'm really here," I confessed.

"I always knew you would, Noa. You were always too good to not end up here."

"Thanks. You've always been too good to me." We fell quiet for a few moments.

"So...Vince is pretty intimidating, huh?" he asked. I found myself laughing.

"Oh my God, so very. Thank God Shane's a down-to-Earth guy, otherwise I think I would have been more nervous." I shifted in my seat to get more comfortable.

"Everyone loves Shane. He's a cool guy," Chris informed me. "Everyone gets along with him. He just keeps his eyes down and minds his own business. Just remember to follow his lead in that department. The politicking and bullshit aren't as bad as it is in WCW, but it's still there. It took everyone a while to warm up to me, coming from enemy territory. It's been a war in every sense of the word."

"Thanks for the head's up." I stared out the window. "I don't know if I've ever said this, but thank you for everything you've done to get me here. I don't know if I'll ever be able to repay you."

"Don't mention it, Noa. I know you'd do the same for me." I found myself smiling, my eyes welling up with grateful tears. "Now, I hate to ruin this Family Channel moment, Noa, but I'm just pulling into an autograph signing. I'll call you later and we'll talk some more then, okay?"

"Okay. I'll see you really soon."

"Welcome to the family. It's about time you brought your narrow ass over here." I found myself laughing. We said our goodbyes and I hung up the phone, dropping it back inside my purse. I looked out the window, at the trees and the houses passing me by in a blur. After all these years, I've finally made it to the big leagues. It's my only hope that I don't leave anybody disappointed.