Chapter 7
Duffy
What a terrible question, I thought.
Even if I were out with a regular guy, I would hate this question because there wasn’t anything exciting about me. I was barely out of college, I had a decent job at a solid accounting firm, I lived with my dad, had a cat, and…that was kind of it.
I didn’t have a lot going on in my life, other than trying to get my student loans paid off and help my dad navigate his post-Mom life.
I cleared my throat, my stomach going crazy with nervous butterflies.
I was well aware of how awkward I was talking to anybody I didn’t really know. I hated being the center of attention, and trying to pull out actual interesting facts about myself while the other person watched me struggle was the worst. I tended to ramble endlessly and never get to my point.
But the fact that the person asking me about myself was Connor Freaking Cunningham, while he was driving his very fancy Porsche SUV—it was just a bit much.
“Um, I work in accounting,” I said. “I graduated last year and am studying for my CPA exams. I moved back in with my father last year after my mom died and I recently had a falling-out with a professional mascot, which made me a viral meme. One cat, no dogs. That’s kind of everything about my life. What about you?”
I wanted to slap myself in the face. What about you? What a ridiculous thing to say. What about him? Oh, he’s just an NFL tight end, MVP, former Heisman candidate, fashion icon, and general celebrity.
What about you? Do you also like cats and hate student loans, Connor?
Oblivious to my two-second mental spiral, he said, “I play football, have three cats, and I just bought a place in downtown Minneapolis.”
“Wait—are you a cat guy?” I asked in shock. I had no idea why that felt like a revelation, but for some reason it did.
“I don’t know that I’d call myself that,” he said, making a face like I’d called him a pretty little princess. “But I do, in fact, have three cats.”
“When did you get them?”
“Last year after I moved here, I adopted them from the shelter.”
Oh my God, he’s a cat guy.
He’d adopted not one, but three cats.
From the shelter.
Someone get me a shot of whiskey, STAT.
I needed to wipe that little green flag nugget from my memory because that was some knee-weakening shit.
“So, um,” I said, clearing my throat, “did you decorate your house yourself?” I was always curious about single famous guys when they bought real estate.
Did they have interior designers make it look good, or did they literally do it themselves?
Did he live in a mansion filled with futons and football posters?
“Hell, no. I ordered a couch from CrashPad and then my sister told me I needed to get a decorator. Which worked out really well because the lady knew her shit and I don’t know dick about decorating, so I just pointed to pictures of things I liked and she killed it.”
“Wow,” I said, not wanting to sound gauche but kind of in awe of that process. I couldn’t imagine just being like, Make this place look lovely and not having to worry about the funds to make it all happen.
Lifestyles of the rich and athletic.
“Does your sister live in town?” I asked. “And the rest of your family?”
“They’re all in California where I grew up,” he said.
“You’re close with your family?”
I didn’t know how to casually small-talk without coming off like I was on a fact-finding mission.
And the truth was that I already knew his basic information. He was a California kid, went to USC, and Minnesota was his first NFL gig.
“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” he said with a shrug. “You?”
“I mean, whether I want to be or not, my dad and brothers are always around,” I said, and truer words had never been spoken.
“They seem nice, though,” he said, and I wondered what he really thought. My dad was probably my favorite person in the world, but I also knew he was a LOT.
“You know how family is,” I said. “Nice isn’t the problem—everything else is.”
“True.”
Even though I was nervous, being in the car with him was getting pretty comfortable.
So much so that I started to think maybe dinner would be okay.
Until we got to the restaurant.
He pulled up in front of the downtown building and a valet came out, but as soon as Connor got out of the car, I saw a flash. I literally thought, Is it lightning? for a split second before I saw the camera.
Then I realized there were actually people standing outside the restaurant, taking pictures as Connor opened my door and I stepped out. Not a huge crowd of paparazzi, but a few randos who looked like journalists or professional photographers.
What the hell?
I am a nobody, why are you here?
He placed a large hand—9.63 inches—on my lower back and led me toward the door, but my cheeks were on fire as these people kept taking pictures of us walking in. How had they even known Connor and I were going to be there?
I could feel that my sweater had slipped off my shoulder again and I was getting a blister on my left heel, but I kept my head held high and hoped I didn’t look too sweaty and ridiculous in any of these shots.
I wouldn’t want to embarrass Connor with my Duffiness.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, leaning his head down closer to mine so only I could hear him. His face was a mix of concern and encouragement that made me feel like he understood exactly how lost I felt in the spotlight. “I know it’s a lot but you’re doing great. Only a few more steps.”
I nodded, and it was impossible not to smile back as he ducked his head even closer to block some of the camera flashes and gave me a grin that felt like it was for me.
I was so happy when we got inside and away from the photographers, but the second we stepped into the quiet, dimly lit restaurant, I felt the eyes of everyone inside the place upon us. As we followed the ma?tre d’ to our table, every single person we passed was watching us.
My face was on fire.
My heel caught in a floor seam and my ankle wobbled in the way that told the world I wasn’t good in heels, dammit, and I couldn’t stop thinking about stupid things like underwear lines and proper posture.
I knew I should’ve gone with flats.
“Wow,” I said when we finally got seated, happy to no longer be upright and on display. I put the linen napkin on my lap and prayed for sweat control. “Is it like this everywhere you go?”
“I think this has more to do with us—and our appearance on the show—than me alone,” he said with the calm of a man used to being watched. “I don’t usually get this kind of reception.”
“Well, lucky me,” I said under my breath. “I don’t even know how they knew we’d be here. Do you?”
Connor shook his head as he folded and refolded his napkin.
“Did you make the reservation under your name?” I asked, curious.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding and looking apologetic. “That’s got to be it.”
“Yeah,” I said, glancing down at the menu. “It’s still weird, though, that so many people knew, don’t you think?”
“Who can figure out the press?” he said a bit sheepishly, giving me a small shrug.
How do you live like this?
I couldn’t imagine this being normal for a random weekday dinner. I looked at the menu again, stressed over what to order in a room full of observers. Could I even eat right now? Shut up, Duff, of course you can eat. You can always eat.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted loudly. I looked up at him in surprise. He cleared his throat and said more quietly, “About the photographers, I mean. They…they shouldn’t have been there like that. I know this isn’t what you envisioned.”
I cocked my head at him. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. I don’t think I even know what I was envisioning, to be honest.”
It was true. What could one even begin to expect when asked out by a football star?
“Probably me dropping something…?” he suggested, the trademark teasing glint appearing in his eyes.
“I mean, probably,” I said with a shrug, which made him shake his head and mutter “Busting my ass again” under his breath.
Which made me giggle in spite of everything.
After they brought us wine and took our orders, Connor looked toward the entrance for a moment, frowned, and turned back to me with an expression that I could only describe as pure resolve. And then he proceeded to do the impossible.
He distracted me from the fact that we were the show.
I was all in my head with my neuroses until he leaned back in his chair and said, “So I’m sure you’re sick of talking about it, but I have to ask about the whole Carl thing.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I loved every minute of it and was just being an attention whore when I kicked his ass.”
“Okay, I don’t think you can say you kicked his ass, so calm down,” he said with an easy grin. “But I do want to hear your side. What happened after that moment? You know, when—”
Connor lifted a finger and whistled as he swung it down, as if replaying Carl’s fall.
I actually smiled at that, because he had a way of discussing the incident that felt safe, like he empathized with me.
“First of all, don’t steal my thunder because the ass-kicking cred is the only good thing to come from the incident, and second of all, um…
it hit me pretty quickly. I saw myself on the jumbotron, and before I even had a chance to register the moment, the guy to my left yelled, ‘Holy shit, that bitch just laid out Carl’ while the entire Coyote fandom started booing me. ”
“Oh shit,” he said.
“Oh shit, indeed.”
“But I think it’s unfair of you to say the ass-kicking cred is the only good thing to come from the incident. If not for the throwdown, you wouldn’t have fainted at the sight of me or let me take you to dinner,” he said, raising his eyebrow.
“I think ‘fainted at the sight of’ you is a bit misleading,” I said, reaching for my water.
“Well, I’m no Bill Cowher.”
“You definitely are not,” I quipped.
He coughed out a laugh. “Ouch.”
“Simply stating a fact, Cunningham,” I said, wondering how it could feel so natural, so comfortable, to talk to him when he was, in fact, a celebrity athlete.