Intercepting Daisy (17 page)

“I think you need to be seen by a doctor,” Rachel said.

“Later,” Daisy sighed.

“We're done. Everything's cleaned up. Sit down for a few minutes, and I can handle it.”

Sitting down made things worse. She ached all over. Her ankle had been throbbing since a passenger fell on it, and the pain was worse than it had been earlier. She would have to walk through the airport to get to the curb and catch the crew shuttle to the hotel. Thinking about what would greet her on the ground in Phoenix didn't help her aches and pains.

G
RANT
'
S
S
UNDAY AFTERNOON
was as bruising as Daisy's. His first two games as a starter had gone well; his teammates made an extra effort to work together, and the Sharks won easily as a result. Today's game was a study in frustration. His wide receivers were dropping a pass for every one that they caught. The offensive line was struggling to keep Atlanta's defense off of him so he would have time to pass in the first place. He tried to scramble out of the pocket and almost got pantsed by Atlanta's gigantic defensive end. The guy wagged his finger in Grant's face and shouted, “There's more where that came from, asshole.”

Grant saw two flags hit the turf out of the corner of his eye. Taunting. Even better, the guy was dumb enough to make his comments (and the obscene hand gestures) in full view of two game officials.

“Thanks for the fifteen yards and the first down. I appreciate it,” Grant said as the guy's coach screamed at him from the sidelines.

The Sharks defense wasn't having a great day, either. Atlanta's quarterback was mobile, had pinpoint passing accuracy, and shredded most defenses with ease. The Sharks trailed at halftime by ten points.

“At least it's only ten points,” Zach Anderson said as they headed to the locker room. “We can catch them.”

“We're not helping ourselves at the moment,” Drew McCoy told him.

“And we're going to let them win?” Derrick Collins shouted. “These guys aren't good! We beat the shit out of them the last time we played them. What the hell is wrong here? Let's fix it and win this thing!”

The coach and his assistants spent the next ten minutes drawing diagrams on the whiteboard and adjusting their previous game plan to contain the defensive end who had spent the entire game tormenting Grant, for starters. “They're vulnerable. They burn energy in the first half, and they always come out flat after halftime. Let's take advantage of it,” the coach said as he gestured for the players to form a circle. Every man thrust his hand in to grab his teammates' hands. Everyone yelled “Go Sharks” on the count of three, and then it was time to jog back onto the field for the second half.

Kevin smacked Grant on the ass. “You can do this. Don't let them get in your head.”

“Got it,” Grant said. “Want some work?”

“You know I do.”

“Then you're getting the ball. Let's see what you can do with it,” Grant said.

“Shit, yeah,” Kevin told him.

Grant took the snap for the first play from the line of scrimmage, handed it off to Kevin, and stepped aside as Kevin blasted a hole through Atlanta's defensive line. He easily evaded men who outweighed him by almost a hundred pounds as he clutched the ball to his abdomen with both hands. He was chased down the field by those defensive players, who couldn't do a thing when Kevin strolled into the end zone, spiked the ball, and did a little dance to celebrate.

Grant ran to congratulate Kevin as the Sharks' offense headed to the sidelines following a successful point-after kick.

“Good job, bro.”

“Someone around here has to score a few points,” Kevin said.

“Let's try that at least one more time today,” Grant said.

“You got it.”

The Sharks' defense seemed to rally as a result of being within a field goal of tying the game. Kade managed to escape from Atlanta's double-teams and pulled their quarterback to the ground a few plays later. The ball popped out of the quarterback's hands, flew into the air, and Clay Morrison grabbed it. After a split second of confusion, Clay took off for the end zone. The defensive line guys didn't typically run the ball. Clay wasn't fast, but it wasn't possible for the other team to bring him down, even with three guys pulling on his jersey.

“Run, you magnificent bastard!” Reed yelled from the sidelines.

“Move dat ass!”

“Get it!” Seth Thomas shouted at Clay.

“He's going to need some damn oxygen,” the trainer said to nobody in particular.

Clay managed to make it to the end zone without pulling a hamstring or needing an ambulance. The game officials signaled touchdown, and he collapsed to the turf under five of his opponents.

“Their QB probably broke a nail,” Derrick said.

Grant watched his teammates pull Clay up off the turf, loop their arms around him, and walk him back to the Sharks' sideline. Clay wasn't letting go of the ball. His smile was ear-to-ear—well, what anyone could see of his smile, due to the huge chunk of turf stuck in the facemask of his helmet.

Grant jogged over to the knot of players surrounding Clay and stuck out his hand. “Good job,” he said. “I'm proud of you.”

Clay leaned forward and smacked his helmet into Grant's in response.

Two hours later, the game was over. The Sharks won by one point. If Grant was quick about it, he could make it into the locker room and grab a shower before he had to talk with the media.

He wasn't quite fast enough.

Harley McHugh and her cameraman were feet away from him—too close to pretend like he didn't see them. He couldn't walk away without creating more of a problem, so he nodded at her and tried to swerve away. It didn't happen.

She stuck her microphone in his face. “Talk to me about today's game, Grant.”

Oh, so now she wanted an actual interview about football? He pasted a smile he didn't feel on his face. “The first half was tough. Our coaches made some great adjustments during halftime, though, and I'm pretty happy about our victory.”

“Sources are telling me that Tom Reed asked to be put into today's game when you couldn't move the offense during the first half.”

Grant wanted to snap at her. Tom had said nothing of the kind. He'd been talking through the microphone in Grant's helmet about the play choices and some strategies to try to get Atlanta's defense off of his back. Tom also had told Grant before the game that the team specialist recommended that Tom be placed on injured reserve. In other words, he wasn't going to heal up before the season was over. The team had tried out a few healthy veteran QBs to back Grant up, and they had no choice but to sign one now.

“Tom was actually going over some plays with me. He wants to win.”

“Our viewers would also like to see Reed in the next few games. We'll look forward to that.”

In other words, she was trying to piss him off. He told himself to take deep breaths and let her comments roll off of his back.

“It's always great to have Tom on the field.” He gave her another nod. “Thanks for the interview. I need to get back.”

“One more thing, Grant.” The hair stood up on the back of his neck as her eyes narrowed. She was practically purring, and it wasn't because she liked him. “Were you surprised to learn that one of the flight attendants who work on the Sharks' charter flights actually wrote
Overtime Parking
? We confirmed this morning that Daisy Spencer is the book's author. You know Daisy, don't you? Haven't you had several dates with her over the past few weeks?” Harley gave him an insincere smile. “Were you lying when you said you had no idea who wrote the book?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did you help her write it? It really raised your profile around the league, didn't it?”

“No! What are you talking about?”

“How do you think the Sharks will react to this knowledge? Should be interesting!” She turned her back to Grant and said, “This is Harley McHugh reporting from Sharks Stadium. Back to you, guys.”

“That can't be true,” Grant blurted out. “You made it up. Daisy—Daisy would never do anything like that.”

“The truth hurts, doesn't it, Grant?” Harley snapped as she walked away from him.

Grant strode through the tunnel to the Sharks' locker room. He heard fans calling out to him, but he couldn't respond. He kept walking.

This could not be true. He was reeling like someone had sucker punched him in the face. Daisy. Daisy, the woman he was falling for and the only woman he wanted to pour his heart out to. They hadn't been seeing each other for more than a few weeks, but he knew there was something about her that kept drawing him closer. She accepted him as he was, not some carefully constructed, media-friendly version. It took him a while to warm up to people, to trust people before he revealed his true self, and he'd trusted her. How could she do this to him?

She wasn't some crazy stalker. She couldn't be. His knowledge of the sweet, funny, and sexy Daisy was totally at odds with a woman who would write such a detailed and graphic description of everything she'd like to do to him, every place she'd like to do it, and if they were observed by others while doing it, so much the better. “Can't be,” he muttered to himself.

He was so fucking confused. And sad. If she'd really done this, why hadn't she told him? Did she think he'd never find out? He heard about that damn book in the media every day. He actually had women come up to him on the street and ask if he'd sign their e-readers. If they didn't approach him in person, they sent fan mail (and Tweets) so explicit he was embarrassed. He'd thought he was open-minded about sex. Some of the things women said to him—he'd love it from Daisy, but not from strangers.

Daisy liked to give him shit about the stuff he couldn't do according to his contract, kiss him until they were both trembling, and wasn't afraid to take charge when they ended up in her bed. She wasn't some desperate weirdo. At least he didn't think she was. It hadn't escaped his notice that guys all over the restaurant stared at her whenever he'd been out with her. If his observations were correct, she would have no problem getting a date with any single red-blooded male. She couldn't have done this. She hadn't lied to him the entire time they'd known each other, had she?

If she'd really written that damn book, why wouldn't she have told him?

Grant rounded the corner to the hallway outside of the locker room. He wanted to get in the shower, get dressed, and get his ass on the bus back to the Sharks' facility. Daisy was working another regularly scheduled commercial flight today. He could catch up with her when he got home, no matter what time it was.

Matt Stephens leaned against the wall outside of the locker room. Matt was typically a pretty easygoing guy. Today, he didn't look happy. Even the reporters gathered in the hallway were keeping their distance.

“Parker. Follow me.”

“Of course,” Grant said. The reporters had come to life and were shouting questions as he followed Matt a few doorways down the hall.

“Did you know Daisy Spencer wrote
Overtime Parking
?”

“Did you pay her to write it?”

“Are you romantically involved with Ms. Spencer?”

“Are you splitting the proceeds from the book?”

“Don't answer them,” Matt said to him in a low voice. He tapped at a closed door. One of the assistant coaches opened it for them.

Grant glanced around to see the head coach, several of the assistant coaches, some front office people, and a couple of people from the Sharks' PR group. The PR employees were typing away on their laptops. Tom Reed pulled up a folding chair to the conference table everyone else sat around.

Matt pointed at the empty chair in the middle of the table. “Have a seat, Parker.”

Grant sat. It wasn't comfortable in his sweat-drenched uniform, but he wasn't going to argue with Matt right now. He pulled off the gloves he wore and laid them on the tabletop. Matt placed both fists on the table. He leaned forward.

“We have some things to talk about. We need to get to the bottom of this before we go home.”

Grant gave him a nod of acknowledgement.

The Sharks' head coach shoved a chilled bottle of Gatorade across the table to Grant. “Maybe you should explain to us how long you've known that Daisy Spencer wrote that book about you.”

“I didn't know. Harley McHugh told me a few minutes ago.”

“It hit ESPN just before our game started. She's running an interview tonight with five women from the Seattle area who said that you've been physically involved with them as well. I'm not sure what's up that reporter's ass, but why is she singling you out for this?”

“She claims that the team should know ‘the truth' about Grant and stop portraying him as this clean-cut role model,” Matt said. “I understand this is not my business, and you are an adult, Parker, but I need you to tell me right now that you were not romantically involved with Ms. McHugh at any time.”

Grant swallowed hard. He was going to need a vat of Gatorade instead of a bottle.

“I slept with her. Once. A year or so ago.”

“Did you know what she did for a living?”

“No. I met her at a bar. She indicated interest. We had consensual sex. It was one night, and I never saw her again.”

Matt folded his arms across his chest. “You had dinner with her a few weeks ago.”

“I sat at her table during the windstorm last month in the restaurant in my building. We weren't on a date. I sat there because there wasn't another table. She started asking me questions about the team and my personal life. I excused myself as soon as I could, paid the bill, and left.”

“No romantic involvement?”

“None. Not interested.”

“How long was it until you figured out you'd been with her?”