Connor
CONNOR What a fucking gift.
Honestly, it was wild that the goofy ploy landed in my lap. Because the bottom line was that I
meant exactly what I said—it truly was no skin off my back to do this. Tony seemed like a great
person and even greater dad, and I didn’t care what the Distefano kids let their dad believe about us.
Hell, I lied to my grandpa every damn day out of love, but that was a whole other thing.
Suddenly, though, I had the opportunity to show Duffy what a great fucking boyfriend I could be.
At a base level, I knew it was asinine that I was thinking this way. I barely knew her, so I was way
overdoing it by bringing the thunder in this... courtship. I didn’t absolutely need to stick an “attached”
label on myself, but on the other hand, it wasn’t every day that you had the chance to audition for a
role you were actually interested in.
And I was all-in on nailing this challenge. On the way to the stadium, I called a florist. Flowers
were always a slam dunk, right?
But as soon as I hung up the phone (after ordering an insanely expensive arrangement), I realized
Duffy might not be a flower kind of girl.
She actually had strong not-a-flower-kind-of-girl vibes.
So as soon as I pulled into a parking spot, instead of getting out, I found a place online that created
customized craft beer bouquets. That seemed like something she could get into, so I put in an order for
a gargantuan Schell’s arrangement that had peanuts and jerky woven into the bouquet.
Better, I thought. And then for fun I put through yet another order, this one a gift box filled with
catnip and toys for Dale Earnhardt Junior. It was overkill and a bit pathetic, but I wanted the record to
show that one hour in, I was already invested in this burgeoning—albeit fake—relationship.
But once I entered the stadium and took a seat in the meeting room, I left it all behind. Wednesdays
were kind of like the first official day of game week, where the core schemes were installed and first
and second downs were the focus for both sides of the ball.
Workouts, meetings, on-field walk-thrus, and practice; Wednesdays were our longest days by far,
and they felt like the most important to me because of the pressure situations we ran through.
If we were going to start winning major games, we had to get that shit locked down.
And God, we need to start winning major games. Because not only did I want to stay in Minnesota,
but I liked the personnel we had at the moment. Josh was a great quarterback and overall team leader,
and he and I fucking jelled on the field; it felt like we were always on the same page.
Call me delusional, but I couldn’t stop myself from hoping if we somehow managed to pull
together a solid season, maybe the front office would wait on the whole “fire sale” reorg.
Stranger things had happened, right? It was after six by the time I got back in my car and checked
my phone, and there was something about having a massive string of texts from Duffy waiting for me
when I was drained and exhausted that I didn’t hate.
Duffy: Thanks for the flowers but you didn’t have to do that! This lie for my dad doesn’t require
any work or expense from you, Connor.
Duffy: THIS BEER BOUQUET HOLY SHIT! If there was ever a way to make me fall in love with
my fake boyfriend, this would be it lol!! And the poem you wrote in the card? We need to discuss
poetry and how you should maybe never attempt it again.
I heard myself laugh out loud in the quiet darkness of my car.
Duffy: Screw you and this gift for Dale. Now you’re going to have to marry me because my
father’s officially in love with you. TOO FAR, CUNNINGHAM. WAY TOO FUCKING FAR.
Duffy: Also how is this a workable business model for The Cattastical Giftery (also how did you
find them)? Does this place actually get enough traffic to make a living delivering baskets of kitty
reefer? Are you already a loyal customer?? I need more information. I started my car, then texted: Just
seeing your messages. Leaving work now.
How was your day, dear?
I didn’t expect an immediate response, but I got one.
Duffy: So many unexpected gifts from my unpredictable boyfriend. It was good. I texted: So Tony
bought our ruse?
Duffy: Oh, he did and he definitely lost his shit. He called three of his buddies, swore them to
secrecy, then texted photos of the flowers and beer like they’d been delivered for HIM.
I pictured Tony’s excitement and got another idea on how to make him lose his shit over what a
great boyfriend I was. As soon as I was done texting Duffy, I had a call to make.
Me: BTW how did the rest of his appointment go?
Duffy: It was kind of what we expected. He’s got to face the reality that he’s going to be on oxygen
forever even though he hates it. I didn’t want to pry, but I texted: Is it COPD? My grandma had that.
Duffy: It’s similar. The hard thing is knowing that there’s no r epairing the damage to his lungs, so
it’s just a matter of trying to find ways for him to have the best quality of life.
I wondered what the prognosis was. If they had an idea of how long he had. We hadn’t with my
grandma, we’d known only that it was going to get worse.
I rubbed the back of my neck and pushed those thoughts away. Thinking about my grandma made
me think about my grandpa, and I couldn’t handle all the guilt and stress that came along with his
situation when I was this tired.
Duffy: So how was practice?
I felt grateful for the subject change. I texted: You got in my head and now I’m terrified of
dropping passes because my
girlfriend might lecture me.
Duffy: And I will because your hands are 9.63 inches. You shouldn’t drop ANYTHING.
Me: Just because my hands are big enough to catch the ball it doesn’t mean the pass is always
perfect, for the record.
Duffy: A whiner says what?
Me: You’re mean.
Duffy: Exactly what a whiner would say.