Intercepting Daisy by Julie Brannagh Page A

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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œWatch their free safety,” the offensive coordinator said.
    â€œStep 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.
    â€œGood 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.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” Grant said.
    â€œWe’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.
    â€œYeah. Right here?”
    â€œI need to upload comments to the network,” another reporter said.
    â€œI’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