Connor
CONNOR Her dad was sitting in a lawn chair on the front porch.
I pulled into the driveway and wanted to laugh when I saw Tony in a Coyotes jersey and the team
flag fluttering in the breeze as he obviously waited for my arrival.
Subtle. Their house was a little stucco ranch, one of those built-in-the-’50 s numbers that you saw
all over South Saint Paul. Small, well maintained, charming as hell. I turned off the car and got out,
and just as I did, I watched the front door open at the house next door.
A guy in a Coyotes sweatshirt gave me a chin nod and started walking over, and by the time I
reached the porch, someone from across the street had come over, as well.
“Hey, Connor, can I get a picture with you?” the next-door neighbor asked. “Would you mind?”
“Of course not,” I said. Obviously these people knew I was coming; had Tony told them, or had it
been Duffy?
“Will you sign my sweatshirt?” the guy from across the street asked. “Sure,” I said, still not used to
the fact that people wanted my autograph. Who the hell was I? Just yesterday I was still in college,
going to classes and fucking around on Friday nights, yet somehow now I was living a life where
people on the street knew me and wanted my signature.
So fucking bizarre. Especially when the majority of the time, when I wasn’t on the field, I was
pretty much on my own.
A woman showed up with cupcakes—I had no fucking clue where she’d come from—and ten
minutes later, I was no closer to picking up my date. Three guys who said they were her brothers came
out, two other neighbors strolled over, and I swear to God it felt more like a neighborhood barbecue
than a date.
“This is really nice,” I said, kind of to everyone, “but is Duffy home?” That made the group laugh,
and one of her brothers said he’d go get her. It was such a weird vibe, this
meet-and-greet-slash-prom-date-pickup, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Was I supposed to just
continue chatting with these very nice strangers, or was it more polite to blow them off because my
date was waiting?
The what-the-hell vibe got even stronger when the front door opened. Because her dad started
taking pictures as she exited the house, and so did the neighbors.
“Oh my God, will you knock it off?” Duffy said, rolling her eyes. Whoa. She looked really good.
Like, really good, dear Lord. She was wearing a black skirt with a black sweater, one of the slouchy
things that tended to slip off a shoulder every few minutes in the very best way.
And the black boots she was wearing really accentuated her long, toned legs.
If she was cute the first time we met, she was a knockout this second time around.
“Stand next to Connor and smile; then I’ll let you go,” Tony said. “I just want to get a picture.”
“This is two adults grabbing dinner, not the prom,” she said, and her cheeks were pink like she was
embarrassed. “I need everyone to disperse so we can go get some food.”
She glanced at me and said, “I’m so sorry.” “No, it’s fine,” I said, forcing myself not to visibly
inhale when it was all I wanted to do because she smelled so fucking good. “I don’t mind.”
“Yeah, I bet you get this a lot,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “I’m sure everywhere you go, people
treat you like a celebrity.”
Oh. She does not mean that as a compliment. “I mean—” “Just smile fast so we can get out of
here,” she said, st epping closer and facing her father.
We smiled while everyone in the neighborhood took pictures of us, and then I led her to my car and
opened the door for her. She apologized again when I was backing out because everyone in the yard
was taking videos of our d eparture.
“I am so sorry about all of this. My brothers and my dad—well, hell, all of our neighbors, to be
honest—don’t know how to behave around a Coyotes player. They’re just such huge football fans that
they kind of lose their minds.”
“It’s fine,” I said as we turned onto a main road and slowed at a red light. “And you look really
nice, by the way.”
“Oh, thanks,” she said with a small laugh. “I had to borrow some clothes from a friend because I
don’t usually wear anything that hasn’t come from Target or Amazon so trust me, it’s all her.”
“I’m looking at you and it’s definitely not all her,” I said, a big fan of her freckled shoulder. I
suddenly appreciated that the nice night didn’t allow for jackets.
Her skin looked ridiculously soft and I almost had to restrain myself from reaching out and
brushing my fingers across it.
“Oh-kay,” she said, raising her eyebrows even through her blush, almost like she was calling me
out for the cheesy line.
“God, that’s right,” I said, remembering the show. “You’re gonna bust my ass all night, aren’t
you?”
“What?” she asked with a laugh. “What does that mean?” “It means that I’m pretty sure you
insulted me more than you were actually nice to me on the show, so I’ve kind of convinced myself that
tonight will just be more of the same.”
“I didn’t insult you, I gave you shit—there’s a difference,” she said, and I liked the level of sarcasm
in her tone.
“You mentioned my dropped pass,” I pointed out. “Was I not supposed to mention it? Your ego is
not seriously so fragile that you can’t recognize you dropped the ball, right?”
“It’s not, but people don’t usually mention it to me on account of polite conversation.”
“They’re probably intimidated by you because you’re so big,” she said. “You’re not?” “Nah,” she
said. “You might be bigger and stronger than my brothers, but I feel like the three of them together is
probably equal to one Connor Cunningham and I can take them... sometimes. So, no, not intimidated
by you.”
“Did you just threaten me with your brothers?” “No, I threatened you with me because I’m
occasionally stronger than them. Where are we going, by the way?” she asked.
“Fratelli’s, down on Ninth,” I said, hoping it was okay. “Ohh,” she said, nodding. “Have you been
there?” “No, I’ve never heard of it, actually,” she said after a brief pause. I raised my eyebrows. “The
way you said ‘ohh’ made me think you were familiar with it.”
“No, I was just pretending,” she admitted. “I don’t really, uh, do upscale dining so I have no idea
what Fratelli’s is. Italian?”
“Yes,” I said. “Well, that is great because it’s the one genre of food where I like everything,” Duffy
said. “Pizza, pasta, tomatoes, calamari, wine... all good.”
“Excellent,” I said, trying not to grin. I could tell by her fast-talking that she was nervous, and it
was... charming.
I wasn’t sure why, but I liked the idea of putting her on edge. And as I merged onto I-94, I realized
that even though this was just a favor to the PR d epartment, I was enjoying myself. Not only that, but
suddenly I was compelled to know more about her before the night was over and I likely never saw
her again.
“Okay, so tell me every little thing about Duffy Distefano,” I said. “And don’t leave anything out.”