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.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and first chapter from First and Forever by Lynn Painter, which releases on May 12th 2026.
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.
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 ap- propriate 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 stylish compared to my Amazon Basics black cardigan, long black skirt that I borrowed from my neighbor because my dad thought all my pants looked too “dodgy,” and three-year-old black flats that I’d Sharpied on the way to the studio to cover all the scuffs.
My dad and I had loved him since he’d been drafted by the Coyotes—the guy was a beast of a tight end—but we’d become superfans after he’d been the only person to sort of defend my actions.
At the press conference after the loss, when they showed him a clip of my “attack” on Coyote Carl and asked him about it, he laughed his ass off.
But when he stopped laughing, he said the most amazing thing.
Kind of makes you wonder what ol’ Carl did to deserve it, though, right? I didn’t see him ask for consent before the hug, so he might’ve deserved to get laid out.
I would never forget those words, because it felt like there was at least someone in the city who didn’t want to murder me for pushing down an oversized man-dog.
My breath caught in my throat when Connor looked at me, when he moved to shake my hand. Dear Lord, that is a handsome man. His blue eyes were all I could see as his big hand wrapped around my sweaty palm, and my breath was coming too fast as I attempted to speak but instead just moved my gaping mouth like a fish gasping for air . . . or water . . . How did fish breathe again?
The noise of the studio suddenly sounded far away, like I was in a bubble, and I felt light-headed and dizzy as Connor released my hand.
“I can’t believe your hands actually are nine-point-six-three inches—” I breathed out, unsure why I was saying it out loud— Is the audience laughing?—but unable to stop my words because his hand was ginormous.
“Hey, are you okay?” he interrupted in that deep voice of his, his dark eyebrows furrowing together as he looked down at my face.
“—yet you still managed to drop that pass against the Raiders,” I continued, wondering why I sounded like I was slurring. “How is that even possible?”
His face froze in a look of surprise, and then he disappeared as everything went dark.
Excerpted from FIRST AND FOREVER by Lynn Painter, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2026
