Connor CONNOR The girl fainted the minute the insult left her lips. I caught her—oh, the irony—as the crowd gasped, but before anyone could even react to the situation, a silver-haired guy came running out from backstage, yelling, “She’s fine!” What the fuck? The guy—who was wearing a vintage Coyotes jersey that I was guessing he bought in the ’80 s—rushed right up to me and said, “She’s fine. She always faints when she gets nervous. It’ll only be a second.” As if on cue, her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at me. “See?” the man said, both to me and to the studio audience, seeming desperate to reassure everyone that this was no big deal. “She’s fine.” “What happened?” she asked, blinking fast as she began to reorient herself, her body still fairly slack against my arms. “You insulted me and passed out,” I said, making a few people laugh. “I insulted you?” she asked, sounding surprised. Duffy Distefano was kind of cute in person. She looked like every photo I’d seen of her on the news over the past couple of weeks—dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup, no nonsense—but her brown eyes were wicked sharp, like she had a million things going on behind them. “You brought up the pass he dropped in overtime, Duff,” the older man said accusingly, his disapproving tone hinting he was very unhappy she’d mentioned it. “Well, that’s not an insult,” she said plainly as she looked up at me. “It’s just a fact. You did drop that ball, did you not? But I mean, I suppose you can’t catch every pass, so—” “So I have your permission to make a mistake?” I said around a laugh, because I couldn’t believe she was giving me shit about the drop after I’d just saved her from a face-plant. Who the fuck was this girl? “Well, I mean, I would prefer you don’t drop the passes you’re intended to catch,” she said with the perfect amount of sarcasm in her voice, “but—” “Can I butt in with a wellness check here?” Kel interrupted. “Are you okay, Duffy?” “Oh, she’s fine,” the jersey-clad man said again, waving a hand dismissively. “She’s totally fine. This happens all the time.” “This happens all the time?” I asked, wondering if she realized she was still leaning into me. “No,” she said in disgust, her eyebrows crinkling together. And then I saw the exact second she realized my arms were still supporting her because she literally jumped away from me, her cheeks turning pink. Which I somehow just knew she would hate. “Only when she gets nervous or sees someone she’s got a crush on.” “Oh, really?” I said, suddenly more entertained than I’d been in quite some time.
“Relax, Football,” she said with an eye roll, tucking her hair behind her ear with one hand while tugging on the bottom of her sweater with the other. “There are a lot of people here. It’s nervousness, trust me.” I heard a few laughs from the audience at that. “Yeah, you shoulda seen her the time she bumped into Bill Cowher at the airport. Her eyes glazed over and she went down like a grizzly with a tranquilizer dart. Hit the deck so hard she got a concussion.” “Dad, can you—” “Oh, you’re her father?” Kell asked, grinning like the situation was hilarious. “Bill Cowher?” I said quietly, looking down at her with a grin because what the fuck. She had a crush on the retired football coach who was probably the same age as her dad? “I’m going to need to hear this story.” “Absolutely not,” she said. “Actually, we would all love to hear this story,” Kel said. “Can we please get a chair for Duffy’s father, um...?” “Tony,” her dad supplied, smiling a cheesy first-day-of-school grin and holding up a hand to the audience. “Tony Distefano.” “I thought we were going to talk about the groping coyote,” Duffy said, and it sounded like she was gritting her teeth. “You said you were gonna be nice, Duff,” her dad said, pointing a finger at her, which made the entire place erupt into laughter. “I think this is where Kell and I should take over,” Kel said with a giggle, “because it’s our show and we prefer to be the ones controlling the conversation. Is that okay with you, Tony?” “I’ll allow it,” he r eplied, making the crowd laugh even harder. I fucking loved him. Since the Coyotes organization sent me to the morning talk show to smooth everything over and make nice with Duffy (and the public), this bizarro situation was perfect. I wasn’t sure what the fuck was going on, but as long as Coyotes fans were happy, things were going well. Thank God. Because I’d been in trouble with the front office ever since the press conference. I’d st epped up to the podium that Sunday, expecting to be grilled about the goddamn dropped pass, but instead, the guys in the press room showed me footage of the mascot getting his ass handed to him by a woman and asked what I thought. I was so relieved to not be on the hot seat about the pass that I’d laughed my ass off and made some jokes, gave my two cents without really thinking much about it. And suddenly, my comment about consent was getting me all sorts of good press. I was being called “the greenest flag” (for being a decent human—hello, low bar) thanks to my comments and jokes going viral. Jokes that management didn’t find remotely funny when multiple women started coming forward to share that they’d also been groped by the mascot. Apparently Carl was hella handsy, and suddenly the media wanted to know if the team—and management—had been aware of Carl’s behavior beforehand. They hadn’t known. To be honest, though, if Carl was a disgusting asshole, I was glad that this all blew up so these women could get some form of justice. I knew the higher-ups were horrified by
Carl’s behavior, but at the same time, they were still mad as hell about the team’s shitty publicity. Which was why I was here. I really wanted to stay with Minnesota after this season. I’d always looked up to the players who spent their entire career with one team, and the Coyotes had felt like home since the minute they drafted me. Bigger than that, though, was the simple fact that Minnesota was the only team I’d ever wanted to play for. I knew the realities of my career and the nature of the business, and that was obviously the top priority, but my grandpa had been a die-hard Coyotes fan his entire life. He loved that team and still recited stats from the old days, even though now he struggled to recite what he’d had for breakfast. But last season had been yet another disappointment for the team. The Coyotes were like the football version of the Chicago Cubs with the whole “lovable losers” label. The stadium was full every Sunday and the fans were rabidly faithful, but there hadn’t been many winning seasons in the last decade. Which led to the rumors. Rumors of a reset at the end of this season. They were only rumors, but it wasn’t unheard of for a team in this situation to get rid of all the valuable players, like a massive fire sale, and start over with a fresh budget. And if that happened, I wanted to be the one they fucking k ept. So I needed to be kissing asses, not pissing people off. Which, again, was why I was here. “Duffy, we are absolutely going to talk about the reason why you’re both here,” Kel said as the extra chair for Duffy’s dad was brought out and we took our seats. “But first we’d all like Tony to tell us the Bill Cowher story.” “Wonderful,” Duffy muttered, which made the crowd laugh and applaud as her father beamed. “Okay, so the kid’s been a die-hard Coyotes fan since birth, right?” Tony Distefano had a thick northern accent that was reminiscent of the old SNL “Da Bears” skits. He leaned forward and spoke to the audience like he’d been born to tell them stories. “So way back in the day, when she was in first grade, we were watching that game against the Steelers where the officials got it wrong so Cowher stuck a Polaroid in the ref’s pocket, right?” It was Coach Cowher’s legendary power move. The Coyotes attempted a field goal and missed, but the refs threw a flag for twelve men on the field. Just as the coach was losing his shit because it was a bad call—there were clearly only eleven lined up—someone handed him a Polaroid so he had fucking proof the call was wrong. But it wasn’t reviewable, so it stood. As the half ended and the team was running off the field, Cowher— even more livid now that the penalty had led to the Coyotes converting for three—sprinted over to that referee and jammed the Polaroid into his pocket. “Little Duff was happy as a clam that they screwed up the call and we banked three points, but she fuckin’—shit, sorry, I mean freakin’,” he corrected, which got him a few more laughs. “She freakin’ caught a killer crush on the coach. The kid watched just as many Steelers games as Coyotes that year, I swear to God, and she made a collage of the man on her wall—in elementary school.”
“No shit?” I said to her, loving this story. “I was in first grade.” Duffy looked like she couldn’t quite decide whether to kill her father or run off the stage, but ultimately, she shrugged and said, “I simply chose football over unicorns; not a big deal.” “But Bill Cowher?” I said, unable to suppress my grin because this was fucking hilarious. “The man had an... intensity that spoke to my six-year-old heart, what can I say,” she muttered. “But you had a twentysomething-year-old heart when you got the concussion,” her dad said, working the crowd like a comedian with killer timing. “It was last year and we were in the security line at MSP. Neither of us noticed him in front of us, but when Cowher turned around and offered a bin for her laptop, it was like her eyes glazed over. She said, ‘Holy shit, you’re Bill Cowher’ and then she went down like someone hollered ‘timber,’ banging her head against Mrs. Cowher’s steel suitcase on the way.” “And this resulted in a concussion?” Kell asked. “Yeah, and the kid bled all over the place because Cowher’s wife had one of those really solid suitcases, the ones that cost like a grand, you know?” “Can we maybe move on from this story now?” Duffy asked her father as the entire place laughed. It was funny as hell, the way these two were almost oblivious to the audience as her dad referred to her as “the kid” when she was in her twenties. “I’m pretty sure you set up this interview to discuss something other than my unfortunate airport head wound.” “How about I jump in now,” I said, ready to make the Coyotes organization proud while noting that she’d just admitted her dad set up the interview, not her. Which actually made perfect sense somehow. “Because I’m dying to apologize to Ms. Distefano.” “I already told you that sometimes people drop passes, so you don’t have to apologize,” she said with the wave of a hand, and I couldn’t tell by her straight face if she was being a smartass or if she genuinely thought I was apologizing to her for the loss. “I mean, it was right there and definitely catchable, but Brown was also wearing you like a shirt so there probably should’ve been a flag.” “Oh, there definitely should’ve been a flag,” I agreed as the audience laughed at her criticism, “but I’m actually talking about Carl’s behavior.” “You think Carl should’ve gotten a flag?” she quipped. More laughter. Again, who the fuck was this girl? It was like I was being roasted—and flirted with—by some random sports fan who had a lot of opinions. I kind of loved it. “What I think is that the Coyotes organization would like to apologize for the actions of our former employee and assure you we don’t take fan safety lightly,” I said, forcing myself not to fall into jokes because not only did I need to nail this PR shit, but this was genuinely important to me. “We value your attendance at our games and have zero tolerance for this type of behavior.” “Um, thank you,” she said with a wrinkle between her brows. “And we’d like for you—and your father, of course—to be guests in the owner’s suite for this weekend’s game.” “Hot damn!” Tony said with a grin. “That’s really nice and I acc ept the apology,” she said, shaking her head and clearing her throat, “but I think it’s best if we watch from home this week.”
“Duff,” her dad said sharply. “Are you nuts?” “Are you?” she said, once again forgetting the audience when speaking to her father. “This is nice and everything, but I’m not going back to that stadium until I know we’re not going to get hit in the face with hot dogs and hooshed with beer. We’re staying home until we clinch a spot in the playoffs and are no longer considered a jinx.” “I’m sorry,” Kell interjected. “Did you say you were hit in the face with hot dogs?” “And what exactly is ‘hooshed’?” Kel asked with an amused smile. “So you think we’ll make the playoffs this year, huh?” I asked, turning in my seat to face Duffy. “Even with my butterfingers?” She rolled her eyes and said, “Spare me the false humility after 1,263 receiving yards last season, Cunningham.” “Oh, someone knows my stats by heart,” I teased, clueless as to whether she was a fan or a hater. It was impossible to tell. “Only because you were on my fantasy team,” she r eplied, but she was smiling. “And how’d you do?” I asked, not surprised in the least that she played. “I won the championship, of course,” she said with a huge grin, looking cocky as hell. I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “Well, you’re welcome, Distefano.” “Oh, thank you so very much, Man-Doing-the-Job-He’s-Paid-to-Do,” she said, and even as she rolled her eyes, I could tell they were sparkling with mirth. “Seems like you should have to buy me dinner or something,” I said with a laugh, “since I’m basically responsible for your win.” “Down, boy,” she scoffed. “You were important, but it was actually the kicker who sealed my dub.” “But you don’t want to go to dinner with a kicker, do you? I mean, I don’t even think they eat meat.” “How do you know I do?” she r eplied, tilting her head like she’d scored a point. “Oh, she eats meat,” her father interjected. “The kid loves a T-bone so much that I have to remind her to take small bites.” “Really,” I said, unable to look away from Duffy. She was watching me with a smartass grin. “The kid inhales her food, does she?” “Like a lion on a wildebeest,” her dad r eplied. “Kill me now,” she said with a helpless laugh, and I couldn’t stop myself from joining her. “Wait, wait, wait—back up,” Kel said into the microphone, standing up and holding out her free hand, silencing the audience. She looked like she was about to break the story of the century when she looked at the crowd with wide eyes and said, “Connor Cunningham, did you just ask Duffy here out on a date?” That made Duffy’s mouth close and her eyebrows knit together in confusion. I don’t think she meant to say it out loud, but as she looked at me, I heard her quietly mutter, “Did you?” Holy shit. I looked back at her and shrugged helplessly. Did I?