First and Forever - Softcover

Painter, Lynn

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593817443 ISBN 13: 9780593817445

Verlag: Penguin LLC US, 2026

Inhaltsangabe

This deluxe, first-edition trade paperback of First and Forever will feature gorgeous stenciled edges.

From #1 New York Times bestselling author Lynn Painter comes an utterly irresistible romantic comedy about a football star and his team’s die-hard fan who find themselves entangled in a PR stunt that only one of them knows is fake.

Duffy Distefano loves three things: her dad, the family cat, and Minneapolis Coyote football. So after she gets booed out of a game and becomes the internet’s villain following an awful encounter with the team’s beloved mascot, she is disgruntled, to put it mildly. Eager to clear the air, Duffy agrees to an interview on a hit morning show. She doesn’t expect a co-guest to join her—especially not the Coyotes’ star tight end.

When MVP Connor Cunningham gets tasked with damage control to help his team out of a PR nightmare, he finds himself in a highly amusing verbal sparring match with a recently wronged fan on live TV. The interview instantly goes viral, and the public is obsessed with them. Despite his distaste for PR stunts, a strong push from the Coyotes’ PR team to ride the wave results in Connor asking Duffy out. But he quickly discovers being with Duffy is much easier than he anticipated, and somehow it doesn’t feel fake to him. This secret can only blow up, but all he knows is that if he messes things up with Duffy, it’ll be the greatest fumble of his life.

Oozing with chemistry that feels like fireworks and banter that makes you swoon, Lynn Painter delivers her signature blend of heart and humor in this love story that you won’t soon forget.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Lynn Painter

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

Duffy

"Are you ready, Ms. Distefano?"

Was I ready? I kind of wanted to throw up and my entire body was shaking, so yes-I was as ready as I'd ever be. For someone who hated public speaking and avoided it at all costs-my career choice is tax accounting, hello-it was surreal that I was about to willingly go onto a stage and be interviewed in front of an audience.

My entire life had become surreal as of late.

"Yes," I said, nodding and getting out of the green room chair, ready to follow the intern to my idea of hell on earth. "I'm ready."

"Wait!" my dad said in a rushed panic, stopping his nervous pacing to hold up a hand and speak like he was trying to convince a hit man to spare his life. He'd insisted on accompanying me because he was certain without his guidance I would "sink us even deeper," and his face was so serious it was almost comical when he leaned in close and said, "Duffy Distefano, this moment is of the utmost importance. I don't care how much it hurts, you gotta dig deep and conjure up sweet. Pin on a smile and pretend to be freaking perky, you got me? You know I love you, kid, but don't be yourself this time-there's too much at stake."

"Oh, that's really nice, Dad," I said, my heart beating out of my chest as the studio audience applauded about something on the other side of the curtain. My father was the only reason I was doing this. If it were just me, I'd accept my fate as a pariah and go underground forever, but being excluded from Sundays was killing him.

Minneapolis Coyote football-and being a season ticket holder-was part of his identity.

The man had proposed to my mother at a Coyote game while buzzed and wearing face paint, for God's sake.

So when someone from the Kel and Kell in the Morning show called the house a few days ago and offered me the chance to tell my side of the story, my dad called them back (without asking me first) and accepted on my behalf.

"'Don't be yourself' is exactly what every child wants to hear from a parent during a stressful moment," I said, trying to take deep breaths through my nose. "Very reassuring. Thank you so much."

"Come on, you know you suck at people," he said with a smirk.

He wasn't wrong, so I just kissed his cheek and said, "Get out of my way so I can do this, old man."

I went around him and followed the intern, shaking out my numb fingers while desperately hoping I wouldn't fall down or pass out or get struck in the face with another hot dog because that shit was getting old.

And yes, the word "another" was actually applicable in this instance. I'd been pelted with so many concession snacks over the past two weeks that I could probably nail a blindfolded test where I had to name which treat was bouncing off my forehead or which beverage was being thrown on me.

That's a corn dog. That's popcorn. That slime is the butter from a superpretzel.

Not only is that beer, but it's the fall seasonal IPA that they serve only at the north end concession stand.

We stopped at the edge of the curtain and waited, and as soon as Kel said the words "Please welcome Duffy Distefano," the intern gestured for me to move and I was walking out onto the stage.

Surprisingly, I didn't hear a single boo as I went straight for one of the two stools sitting beside the sports talk show duo; I'd gotten used to being booed everywhere I went, so this applause was refreshing (but still terrifying). So far I'd been booed on the bus, booed at my cousin's high school football game, and I'd even been booed by some rando at Sunday Mass, although my dad gave the entire congregation his slow-searching I will find and destroy you scowl which made the booer go radio silent.

The guy probably started praying my father-and my three brothers-wouldn't find him.

So why does the general population of the Twin Cities hate me, you ask?

Because they'd witnessed me "brutally attacking" Coyote Carl, the NFL team's beloved mascot, on national TV.

It was such bullshit.

Had I knocked him down? Yes.

Had I meant to? Also yes.

Had he deserved it? Hell, yes.

The oversized furball had stopped right in front of my seat to dance when the season opener was in overtime. It was third and one while his costumed ass did the Macarena and blocked my view, and when I tapped him and asked him to move-three times, for the record-instead of moving, he hugged me.

Which did nothing to improve my visibility of the field.

And as I struggled to break free of Carl's suffocating clinch, one of his gloved hands grabbed my ass.

Hard. As in, not an accident.

So I pushed that mangy pervert, which was a completely appropriate response.

Unfortunately, he lost his balance and toppled over backward, tumbling down quite a few of the steep stadium stairs. Like, a lot of stairs.

And he took out a popcorn vendor on his way down (which later led to the crazy-viral meme of his barrel roll set to "Rollin'" by Limp Bizkit).

Yes, the jumbotron cameras captured my "violent outburst" just as it happened (though they missed the ass grab), so I was now the villain, public enemy number one-God help me-Football Karen.

Especially because we went on to lose that game.

Our star tight end who never made mistakes dropped a perfectly thrown pass just before time expired, but instead of blaming him for the loss, the entire city of Minneapolis was blaming me for giving the team "bad mojo."

Apparently, I'd cursed the Coyotes.

It was absurd and ridiculous, but I was slightly terrified to think what could happen if Minnesota had a shitty season.

We might have to move states.

"Welcome, Duffy," Kel said with a blindingly white grin, crossing her legs as I sat down. "You've had an interesting couple of weeks, yes?"

"You could say that," I said, and of course the microphone screeched in a way that made everyone cringe and cover their ears.

Fabulous. The way to Minneapolis's forgiveness is definitely to damage their eardrums.

"Well, we want to hear all about it," Kell said, his bright smile matching that of his cohost wife's. "But first, we're going to bring out another guest so we can discuss it together."

Oh, God. Were they going to bring out Carl? I'd memorized all the nicey-nice things my dad wanted me to say in hopes of making us marginally less hated, but I had no idea how to play a conversation with the pervy mascot who'd ruined my life.

"Who is it?" I asked a little too intensely, wondering if I'd be able to deny the urge to push him again if he dared show his snout in front of me. "Who's here?"

Kel shot me a weird look, as if she hadn't expected me to respond like someone on the edge.

Am I sweating?

"You're about to find out," Kell interjected through his cheesy smile, his eyes slightly widened like he was worried-or excited-that I was about to have a meltdown. "Friends, can we give it up for Coyotes tight end Connor Cunningham?"

My mouth dropped wide open-I caught a glimpse of it on one of the many monitors mounted around the studio-as the crowd went wild and Connor Freaking Cunningham walked out onto the stage. Kel and Kell stood, so I stood, too, and I watched in disbelief as the man who'd single-handedly delivered my fantasy football championship last year grinned and shook Kel's hand.

Connor Cunningham was a massive human. Six five, 260 pounds, with size 15 feet and a hand size of 9.63 inches. I'd seen him on the field at every single home game, and on our TV for every away game, yet still he somehow looked even more enormous as he stood there within point-blank range of my eyeballs.

He was wearing a red Coyotes pullover and dark jeans, very casual compared to his usual suited-up high-fashion pregame fit, yet he still appeared wildly...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin LLC US
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2026
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593817443
• ISBN 13: 9780593817445
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 320
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Van Ditmar Boeken, VDB Sales; sales@vanditmar.nl; ; Hondiuslaan 44; Utrecht; 3528 AB; Niederlande