God, I hated the old-man mentality.
“I might do it,” I said, “but you guys have to promise to get off my case. I don’t want to hear anything about this.”
“Like that’s going to happen,” Matty said with a smirk,gesturing at my father. “Do you think he’s ever going to shut up about this?”
“I’ll shut up about it,” Dad insisted. “Really.”
I knew he wouldn’t, but I figured it was the least I could do.
It was too nice to see him smiling like that again. Yes, he’d smiled since my mom died, but it’d been a long time since I’d seen that mischievous eye-twinkling side of him.
I texted Ellie.I need to borrow an outfit for an important date.
Ellie:HOLY SHIT HE CALLED??????
Me:I cannot believe it, but yes.
Then I textedhim. Connor.
Also, how the hell was it reality that I had Connor Cunningham’s personal number?
Suddenly “Gimme More” was going through my head, complete with that ridiculous montage of CC throat-porn I’d watched three times on TikTok.
I texted Connor:I cannot bring myself to use the house phone twice in one day, so I’m responding via text like a normal human. Dinner sounds fun. Where and when?
6
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-’50s 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 toeveryone, “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.