Intercepting Daisy (8 page)

“And your point? Goddamn it, Parker, you've been here the whole way. Don't be a chickenshit.”

Grant knew other guys around the league who had made a run for the starting QB's job. It wasn't pleasant or friendly, especially if they failed. It was a steel-cage death match—two men entered, one man left. Some of the guys who didn't make it continued on another team's sideline, holding a clipboard and collecting a gigantic check each week for doing very little. They were every team's insurance against injuries to the NFL's marquee players. And those marquee players would do anything to undermine the other guy's chances, up to and including playing while hurt so their backup couldn't get out onto the field.

Reed might believe it was time to hang it up. He might want to right now, when he was injured and feeling every day of his age. But he could change his mind at any time, and he might torpedo Grant's career in order to keep the job he couldn't walk away from. It happened in the league every season. Grant didn't want to lose his chance because he'd underestimated the pull of a huge salary for six months' work and international fame.

Tom turned to face Grant and said in a low voice, “I'm giving you a gift. Don't fuck it up.”

“Why me?”

“My kid likes you. And no, I'm not buying him one of your jerseys.”

“I'll make sure he gets one.”

“Nice to see you found your balls, Parker,” Tom said. “Make them pay. And kiss my ass.”

Reed grinned at him. They bumped fists again. Reed followed the group of guys on injured reserve who would stand on the sidelines during the game out of the locker room.

A few minutes afterward, Grant threw up in a locker room toilet before he ran out onto the field.

Grant tried to put it all out of his mind—Tom's comments and the fact Daisy was in the team's suite. She'd sent him a text this morning to let him know she would be there. He would see her after the game, but he wanted to impress her. His parents had also made an exception to their rule and decided to come to a Sunday game; they'd arrived in Seattle late last night with a member of the congregation who happened to own a private jet. He'd been getting ready for bed check at the hotel last night when his cell rang.

“Hello, son,” his father said. “We're in Seattle. We'll see you tomorrow.”

“You're here?” Grant said. He had a keen eye for the obvious. At the same time, a thrilled grin had spread across his face. His parents wanted to see him start for the Sharks.

“Of course we're here. We wouldn't miss this.” His dad paused for a moment. “We might need some tickets.”

“I'll make sure they're at Will Call for you. Dad, I'm really happy that you and Mom are here. Maybe we could meet up for dinner or something after the game.” He could hear the low voices and slamming doors in the hallway; the coaches were coming around to make sure everyone was in their room for the night. He had to get off the phone, but there were a million other things he wanted to say. Hopefully, he could say them tomorrow.

“I'll see you then, Dad. I have to go.”

“We're proud of you, son,” his father said. “We'll be cheering you on.”

Oddly enough, they'd insisted on sitting in the stands instead of the team's suite. Grant couldn't think about his mom's reaction to the language of many of the Sharks' fans or the fact many of those fans liked to drink while they were enjoying their Sunday afternoon. He had a game to win.

The first twenty plays went as well as he'd expected. The Sharks were attempting to establish a running game along with some short-yardage passing. They were mixing it up enough to keep the Minutemen's defense guessing—and frustrated. He scrambled a couple of times when the receivers he was most interested in were covered and found a surprisingly large number of coverage holes in New England's secondary. Ahhh, he could work with this.

The adrenaline of actually being on the field with seventy thousand screaming fans in the stands gave him the extra shot of confidence and energy he needed. He spotted a black and teal uniform in the end zone, gave the ball a bit of extra zip, and watched as Kyle Carlson stretched to grab it out of the hands of New England's cornerback. Touchdown.

He ran to congratulate his wide receiver, who was shaking hands with his teammates. Grant jumped into midair with Kyle, and they bumped hips and headed back to the sidelines. As they watched the kicker attempt the extra point, Grant was glad he had a few minutes to take a breath while he chatted with the QB coach on the next series of plays.

New England seemed sluggish and confused by the Sharks' defense, which was already having a career afternoon. The first play by the Minutemen's offense yielded a botched snap that turned into a safety. The Sharks had the ball back after another kickoff, and Reed slapped Grant on the ass as he ran past him onto the field.

“You lucky bastard. Pour it on,” Tom shouted.

Oh, he'd pour it on, all right. Grant wondered what the hell was going on with the Minutemen's defense, who seemed to spend more time arguing with each other about the coverage and less bothering to work with their teammates. The Sharks' offensive line was taking advantage of their confusion by keeping their pass rush away from Grant. The first snap was a handoff to Kevin, who managed to run through a blocking hole the width of a school bus. Kevin made it to the one-yard line.

The crowd went wild. Grant could hear multiple voices in his headset—the head coach's, the offensive coordinator's, even Tom's. “Run it in,” his coach barked.

“Watch their free safety,” the offensive coordinator said.

“Step on their necks,” Tom said.

Two and a half hours later, the game was over. The Sharks had won, 35–3. Grant pulled off his helmet and went to find the Minutemen's QB to shake hands. He was still trembling with adrenaline and the high of hearing people chanting his name. He hoped this was just the beginning of the best day of his life so far. The sun descended behind the arch of Sharks Stadium, and the Minutemen's QB appeared out of the gathering late-fall twilight.

“Good game,” Grant said and extended his hand to shake.

The opposing QB grabbed his hand and pulled him into a hug. “We'll beat you next time, bro.”

“I don't think so,” Grant said.

“We'll see about that,” the other guy said as he moved away from Grant to hug another one of the Sharks.

Media clustered around Grant as the Sharks' sideline reporter reached out to tug on his jersey sleeve. “Would you answer a few questions for me?” she said.

“Yeah. Right here?”

“I need to upload comments to the network,” another reporter said.

“I'm on deadline,” someone in the back called out.

The circle of reporters around Grant got larger. He was typically ignored after games—after all, he'd spent the time on the sidelines.

Today, he'd led his team to victory.

He glanced over the heads of the reporters to Tom Reed, who appeared to be laughing at Grant's current plight. He had a crowd around him too, and Grant could almost bet what was being said: How did Tom feel about standing on the sidelines while his backup went twenty-two for twenty-nine, passing for 250 yards and three touchdowns? Also, when was he planning on being back on the field again? Fans despaired of the fact they didn't get penetrating interview questions, but most players preferred to give the same clichés they'd offered at every interview throughout their careers. Vague and formulaic answers tended to cut down on problems later.

The sideline reporter nodded at her camera guy. Grant saw the bright light over his camera lens come on, and the reporter said, “We're here with Grant Parker. His first start for the Sharks was a success by anyone's standards.” She recited the game stats one more time. “How does the first win of the Grant Parker era in Seattle feel?”

She was going for broke on her first question.

“Thanks, but Tom Reed is still our starter.”

“We have a source that tells us Reed has passed the torch to you, at least privately. What are your thoughts on that?”

He didn't change his facial expression or his tone of voice, despite the fact that he knew she wanted to keep re-asking the question until she got the reaction she wanted. He wasn't giving it to her.

“Again, Tom Reed is our starter. We're hoping he'll be back on the field soon.”

She gave him an almost invisible nod. In other words, she knew that if she didn't get off the subject of Tom and his possible retirement, Grant was walking away from her.

His teammates Kyle and Seth materialized out of the crowd and stood on either side of Grant.

“Good game, huh?” Kyle asked Seth in a loud voice.

“Oh, the best. How about our boy here? The stats looked pretty good today,” Seth responded while slapping Grant on the back.

“We shouldn't tell him that,” Kyle said. “He'll get a big head.”

“I understand he's big all over,” Seth responded. “It's true, ladies. Plus, he's single.”

“Our man needs a date. Send your applications to Sharks headquarters,” Kade Harrison chimed in. They both knew he was dating Daisy. As usual, his teammates were giving him shit. They wouldn't bother if they didn't accept him. He tried to look pissed, but he felt a smile breaking through.

Several of the guys had drifted over to the knot of reporters and were adding their own opinions on Grant's on-field performance, the fact he could use a date, and other conversational openings that had nothing to do with the current interview that had broken down in complete chaos. He hoped Daisy wasn't watching the TV coverage in the suite.

Derrick Collins's voice boomed out. “He's partial to blondes. I heard he likes chocolate chip cookies too.”

“Hell yeah,” Drew McCoy said. He reached out to ruffle Grant's hair. “Milk and cookies, puppies, and walks on the beach. He's all about that.”

The group of men dissolved into laughter, shoving and fist-bumping.

“We're all about helping him get laid,” Clay Morrison said.

“That's right. We're givers,” Derrick said.

The sideline reporter who'd been attempting to interview Grant pulled the microphone away from Grant's face. She turned her back to the joking football players and looked into the camera.

“Congratulations to Grant Parker on his first win for the Sharks. Back to you, guys.” She gave Grant another nod as she turned to face him. “Nice to talk with you.”

“Thank you,” Grant said.

He reached out to shake hands with her. Post-game interviews never did it for him in the first place, and his teammates' photobombing was actually funny. As long as he didn't get fined or bitched out by the head coach for the blown interview, he didn't care if the media walked away from him.

He knew he should try to make their jobs easier and tell the guys to back off. He'd gone from being ignored by the media for years to being the flavor of the week. Suddenly, everyone cared what he had to say. Maybe he didn't need them so much.

“You're leaving so soon?” Kyle asked the reporter who'd been attempting to ask Grant questions. The grin on his face was a bit calculating. “Don't you want to talk with us? We're interesting too.”

“We've got lots to say,” Seth said. “We're full of—what do you all call it? Colorful commentary? We've got plenty to go around. Want a taste?”

While the initial reporter stalked away with her cameraman, the other reporters kept filming and recording. They were hoping for something explosive. Mostly, they were getting an increasing number of Grant's teammates elbowing into the camera shot and demanding to be interviewed as well.

Four of the offensive linemen arrived on the scene.

“Guys.
Guys
. Coach is looking for us. You can flirt with the media later,” Clay said. “You know how much he hates to be kept waiting.”

“He can't give that post-game speech to an empty locker room,” another of Grant's teammates said.

“Let's get out of here. See you fellas later,” Derrick said to the media. He reached out to wrap a big arm around Grant's shoulders. “Places to go, things to do.”

W
HILE
G
RANT SPENT
his day leading the offense up and down the field, Daisy and Catherine spent their afternoon in the Sharks' suite. She'd never been in a stadium suite before. With the price tag per ticket, she probably wouldn't be again. The team's suite was larger than her townhouse. It boasted a view of the team's fifty-yard line and was highlighted with recessed pin lights, wall sconces, and pendant lamps she was sure were made with Chihuly glass. A framed, signed Matt Stephens jersey hung on one wall, while another wall was dominated by a framed panoramic photo of Sharks Stadium during a game. She glanced around at handwoven wool rugs covering hardwood floors, custom cabinetry, and stone counters in the bar area and the island in a fully stocked kitchen area. The suite's windows slid open to allow for listening to the crowd's noise or breathing in the crisp fall air. Sumptuous leather chairs offered comfortable seating for conversation or watching the game. A clear glass door led to the private outdoor seating area. More chairs were pushed under a long metal table outside, perfect for resting food, beverages, and smartphones on.

A bartender stood ready to mix or pour one's favorite beverage behind the bar. Nothing as tacky as a tip jar marred the perfect wood and granite surface. Daisy was glad she had a little folding money in her purse. She could slip him some cash when she ordered a Diet Coke or something.

Servers dressed in Sharks-logo polo shirts and black pants were already circulating through the crowd with appetizers. A stone-topped serving area ran the length of the wall as well. Chafing dishes full of food were set up, along with team-logo china, flatware, and cloth napkins.