Daylight, p.1
Daylight, page 1
Grace Marshall
Daylight
Copyright © 2023 by Grace Marshall
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
This work is not at all affiliated with the National Football League or its likeness and any resemblance to players past or present, teams, or figures, are coincidental.
First edition
ISBN: 9798392616091
Editing by Megan Buyze
Cover art by Mitxeran Draws
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
To every young writer too scared to make the first leap; do it.
And then never stop writing.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Afterword
About the Author
Chapter One
Elle’s Point of View
Today was just another Sunday spent in a new nameless city watching a bunch of faceless dudes throw around a ball. After so long, they all merge into one, football shaped blob.
It’s hot. The sun blazes down on me, and even though it’s the middle of December I’m about to break a sweat on the sideline. The dull ache in my head, likely from the two hours of sleep I’m running on, is starting to turn into more of a pulsing throb, and my earpiece feels like it’s digging into my brain.
That being said, I wouldn’t trade my job for anything.
“We are here in sunny Miami where the Hawks are set to take on the Chicago Comets,” I smile into the camera, saying a silent prayer that my curls stay in place and the bead of sweat forming on my forehead doesn’t trickle down my face. “Before the game, I sat down with starting quarterback Alexander Bradford to talk about Chicago’s journey from 30th ranked team in the league last season, to where they are now leading the NFC North.”
My cameraman and producer, Eddie, signals to me that I’m free until kickoff, and the start of our pre-taped interview begins to play in my ear. I listen on and off, but I’ve watched the full interview several times during post-production. Listening to it now, I could recite it along with the recording.
The familiarity of his voice brings a smile to my face as I listen to the words that aren’t new to me, but hearing the delight in his voice as he talks about the journey from bringing one of the worst teams in the league to division leaders makes my own chest swell with pride.
Alex Bradford, better known to most as Alexander Bradford, and I went to college together. We’ve remained close friends since, though the distance can become an obstacle. We both grew up in Illinois, but didn’t meet until college at the University of Illinois in Champaign. When I took my job with the league, I had to move to New York. I travel a lot, following teams around the country to cover their games. The amount of time I actually spend in New York is few and far between, but it is a lot more than I spend in Chicago these days.
Both of us are in our second year in the NFL, and though our positions are much different, it’s been really nice for me to have a familiar face in my corner. The networks love to play into our friendship, so oftentimes I’m sent to cover Comets’ games to do postgame interviews with him.
It leaves a bad taste in my mouth occasionally, like they’re just using me for my connection to my friend, but I try not to get into my head about it. More often than not, if I tried to figure the ulterior motives of the league out, I would drive myself crazy.
The stands fill as it gets closer to the start of the game, and I smile as I take in the feeling of the sunshine on my skin. It’s getting cooler in New York, the fall months settling in and taking away the warmth. When I visit warmer cities in the winter, I never take it for granted.
I listen in as the interview playing in my earpiece wraps up, knowing I need to return to the air in just a few moments. I get a fifteen-second warning from Eddie, so I get into position. I take my list with the injury report out and get ready to roll. Giving my full pregame report almost flawlessly, I feel good about things once the desk takes control back and I’m free until the midgame report. We wait for the players to return to the field as they prepare for the National Anthem.
Once the game starts I watch from the sidelines. I wait for the control room to ask me to do my midgame since it’s always at a different part of the game. It is all dependent on when they can squeeze me in between television ads and game timeouts.
The game is pretty interesting, with both teams consistently scoring. Alex took a pretty bad hit from a defensive end, Zahra Jones. He’s a beast, and when Alex hit the ground, he hit the ground hard. He limped off to the sidelines to take a breather after the ball was overturned.
Never getting to my midgame because they couldn’t squeeze me in, I do my full report during halftime. It lasts for about five minutes, giving me ten minutes to run to the bathroom and check my phone. There’s a text from Alex that came in two minutes ago. I shake my head, knowing he shouldn’t be on his phone during halftime. If anyone found out, he’d be slapped with a fine.
Win or lose, meet me for drinks? We just got told our team plane needs to be serviced overnight. Something with the engine. They can’t fly us out until morning.
I let out a heavy sigh. As much as I want to, I’m exhausted. The constant travel that comes with my job has me beat today. I’ve slept in more hotel beds than I’ve slept in my own bed this week, and the idea of getting back to my room and passing out as soon as my head hits the pillow sounds incredible.
We’ll see how the second half goes. I’ve had a long day of travel.
I put my phone back into my pocket and set up a shot for the control room. They asked me about the injury report, a few players from both teams got hurt in the first half and have been ruled not to return for the second. The second half is busier, there’s a nasty injury for a defender on the Hawks. I do coverage from the sidelines while they cart him off. After that, things remain fast-paced as the Comets are trailing by two points at the two-minute warning.
The two-minute warning is when I am allowed to leave the field to prepare for the postgame interviews I conduct— but only if there is going to be a clear winner. I duck into a corner and take out my phone camera to check my appearance, and then remain on standby with Eddie.
It comes down to a failed 3rd down with a field goal attempt to follow in the last twenty seconds. I silently pray that Josh Cannon, the kicker for the Comets, makes the field goal to make the game-winning play. While I’m to remain partisan, it is no question that my loyalty remains with the Comets. My grandparents are from Pontiac, Illinois, so my family has always loved the Comets. Having a friend on the team as starting quarterback doesn’t hurt, either.
I let a smile slip as Josh Cannon’s kick flies through the goalpost, securing a needed on-the-road win for the team. They let the clock run for the last seventeen seconds, coaches and players flooding the field for hugs and displays of good sportsmanship.
Eddie and I head toward Alex for our postgame interview. He smiles when he sees us come into view. He walks past the teammate that was approaching him, making his way to us. He nods his head at me as we finally meet, and I smile. He looks tired, the bags underneath his eyes more evident than usual, and his eyes that are typically vibrant and icy blue look more calm and reserved. His dark hair clings to his forehead with sweat and he runs a hand through it as I tear my eyes away from him. Turning to the camera, we stand side by side as Eddie lines up the frame. “Good to go,” my control room says in my ear. I nod.
“I’m here with Alexander Bradford after that close game that came down to the wire! Alexander, tell us how you feel after a win like that with the playoffs now cinched?” I ask.
“Let me tell you, Eleanor, it feels freakin’ great. The team came together, we really fused as one well-oiled machine to pull off our win tonight. We still have a lot of work to do before the playoffs, and even our next game,” he nods, t
Alex gets into his head a lot. Whether it’s about his performance in the game, the way the team played, or even how he looks in his postgame interviews, he’s a very anxious person. It’s not something he advertises, obviously. On the outside, he’s very serious, very confident, and put together. When he puts the walls down, he’s a totally different person.
I lean into a question that has an easy answer. “You took a few hard hits tonight, but one in particular in the second quarter. How are you feeling?”
That’s what I like about what I do. Over the last couple of years, I’ve gotten to know so many of these guys, on the field and off. I can tell when they have had a bad day and answering questions after a game is the last thing they want to do. I can tailor my questions to reflect that, even if no one but them notices. It’s all in the way you ask things, through the inflection of your voice, and even the way you word your questions. Those little things can make all the difference in whether or not you get genuine answers or offhand answers from guys who just want to get off the field.
“Oh, I’m alright. Just a few bruises. There were a few scary injuries out on the field tonight, my thoughts and prayers go out to Kam Locke,” he says sympathetically. Kam Locke is the defender who went out on the stretcher. I heard in my earpiece that he was up and moving, but it’s not my place divulge that at the moment, so I just nod along with what he’s saying sympathetically.
Anxiety or not, I have to address the elephant in the room. I know he understands, but it doesn’t make me feel like any less of a dick when asking. “What do you have to say about your offense? Is it where you want it to be at this point, considering you were sacked five times?”
“Nothing’s perfect, but with practice and a lot of conditioning these next few weeks, I believe we can build a great support system on the field. We won today, narrowly, but hopefully, we can make that gap bigger next week and go up from there.”
“Absolutely. Thanks for your time, and good luck next week against the Ducks,” I smile, going in for a side hug. His hand curls around my waist for a beat.
“Thanks, Elle,” he nods. Once Eddie signals we’re off the air, I quickly— and quietly— mutter my congratulations.
“Congrats on the win, Al,” I smile softly.
He winks before moving on to the next, as do I. I do two more on-air interviews. The Comets Head Coach Nick Portwell says the same as Alex about the offense, they’re going to work on building it stronger as we lead up to the playoffs. After talking to Portwell I have a quick chat with the Comets star wide receiver Alonzo Hayes, he caught two of the three touchdown passes today.
Because I covered pregame and on-field postgame, I don’t have to stay for the postgame press conferences. My belongings are back in the press suite, it’s the only secure spot for reporters in all the stadiums. I check my phone on the walk there, snacking on the protein bar I had stashed in my pocket.
Thx for the sack question. Lol.
I wouldn’t be a good friend if I let you off the hook every time.
Haha. Press is staying at the same hotel we are, I have a decent sized suite with a mini bar. I’m so sore and don’t want to go out with the team. I’m down to hang out though.
Yeah, I suppose I’ll come for a bit.
I’ll be another hour or so.
Sweet. Room code is 818823
Throwing my purse over my shoulder, I navigate my way through the tunnels of the stadium to find a car that’ll take me to the hotel. It’s a few blocks away from the madness of the central hub near the stadium. There’s a driver standing in front of a car holding a paper with “PRESS CORPS”. I show my credentials before he lets me in, and then we’re off.
Opening Twitter, I retweet the interviews I did, as well as adding my own commentary to other sports reporter’s threads. Social media is such a big—albeit annoying—part of my job. I just wish I could cover the games without having to manage such a large online presence.
It gets draining, sometimes. After games I get online and see people pick apart how I dress, how I styled my hair on that given day, whether they think I’ve gained weight or if I’m pregnant, or if it’s just the outfit or if I’m just bloated. It’s fucking exhausting.
That’s not to say I didn’t know what I was signing up for when I took this job. I knew the misogyny I was going to face, but I still took it anyway. I shadowed one of the greatest sports reporters of all time while I was in college. What she faced as a woman in the male-dominated industry wasn’t a secret, and I’m learning it’s worse when you’re fresh on the scene.
When I get to the hotel I go to my room first, changing out of my work clothes that have become stuck to my body from the heat of the day, and into something much more comfortable. I opt for a pair of sports shorts and a black hoodie- I think I’ve nailed the incognito look. Alex and I hang out after games that I cover sometimes, usually when they’re in Chicago, but it would rain hellfire for both of us if we got caught doing so. Obviously, it is not what it looks like but there’s no way for us to prove that.
I quickly move to his hotel room, and thankfully he’s just a floor above me. Sneaking into his hotel room is different from Ubering to his house after a game, and it feels juvenile. I take the stairs in case there happens to be any press or players coming back from the game. It’s still pretty early, but better safe than sorry. Bumping into a colleague and trying to explain this would be weird.
That’s just a good way to put how my life has been since I took a job as a sports reporter—weird. For three years in college I worked for Carrie Manthaw, the greatest of all time. She was a beast of a reporter and is the reason I have the job I do now. She retired when I graduated and the league essentially handed me her job on a silver platter. I spent my weekends traveling with her to games, studying during the commutes, and busting my ass to get where I am now.
My job is unique, as I’m not contracted to one network, I float between them. The league assigns me to certain games—as of late, Comets games,—and I report to whichever network has game rights.
So, as I’m unlocking the door to Alex’s suite, I do find it weird, but apparently, that’s my new norm.
Just as I’m shutting the door behind me, he texts saying he’s just leaving the stadium. It should be about ten minutes until he arrives, so I make us each a drink while I wait.
The mini bar is a nice touch. Perks of being the quarterback, I suppose. My room doesn’t have one. I make myself a vodka diet coke, and him a whiskey neat. After a long day, I have to say this sounds like a great way to end it. It’s been a few months since we’ve been able to see each other after a game. Lately, it’s just in passing on the field. This will be a nice, needed change of pace.
The door clicks behind me, and in comes Alex. “Hey, Elle,” he says, a bright smile on his face.
“Hello, Alexander. This is for you,” I smile, handing him the glass of whiskey. “I figured you’d be sore and hurting.” I shrug.
“Um, yeah,” he nods, a groan escaping his mouth. He drops both of his backpacks to the ground, letting out a sigh as he sits on the chair across from where I’m standing. “God, that fucker knocked me to the ground so hard. I haven’t taken a hit like that in a long time. After the game they did a thorough examination, nothing broken, no concussions. Just a nice, big ass bruise forming on my chest.”
“It looked like it hurt,” I nod. “Zahra is turning into quite the rough player. I was at the Miami-Baltimore game a few weekends ago and he got ejected, you probably saw.”
“Yeah. We were worried about that when we watched the game tape, getting ready for today,” he replies, rubbing his chest.
We continue to talk about the game, things I observed from my end, and he from his. We’ve finished our first round of drinks, so I offer to make us another.
“What’s new with you outside of this?” I ask. “Anything?”
“Not much of anything. Not this time of year anyway,” he shrugs.
“Ah, football. The all-consuming cluster fuck that controls every aspect of your life,” I smile sarcastically. He lets out a bellow of laughter but winces as soon as starts. I frown. “Alex, let me see your bruises,” I sigh.
