Page 1 of The First Kind of Love
1
THE WEDDING-ADJACENT PROPOSAL
FULTON
“No, Fulton, I will not show you my boobs.”
“Gage, I wouldn’t ask her to do that! And she doesn’t sound like that,” I say.
“Uh-huh. Fine then. What does she sound like?”
“Like sunshine and rainbows and butterflies.”
Me and my best friend, Gage, stake out the local coffee shop a few minutes down the road from our house, huddled behind the steering wheel in a (frankly) valiant effort to stay out of sight. Though there’s really no need, seeing as I’ll never muster up the courage to step inside. No amount of dairy-free cold brew or addictively delicious pastries will entice me—at least, not with the ulterior motive that Gage has been trying to sell to me for the past half hour.
Every time I catch a flicker of movement beyond those windows, tendrils of hope sweep through the scant spaces between my ribs, coupled with the love-drunk trumpeting of my heart. I haven’t even breached the danger zone and a swelter’s already lapping at my nape, the corrosive acid in my belly is gnawing a nauseating hole, and my legs are threatening to puddle against Gage’s leather car seat.
The girl of my dreams works as a full-time barista at Deja Brew—which I’m starting to believe is some undercover moniker for the entrance of hell itself—and I’ve only ever interacted with her on a customer-server basis. Even then, ordering is an indomitable feat that I have yet to conquer, and I’ve grown accustomed to expecting the Three P’s to take place: panic, puke, and prattle. Not necessarily in that order. I have a nervous stomach, okay?
I realize how that sounds. I’m a pro hockey player who’s decent-looking and in his mid-twenties who can’t get past the talking stage with a woman who getspaidto talk to him. I can thank my unbelievable lack of social skills for that, which I think is due to unmedicated anxiety, a bottomless basin of self-deprecating thoughts, and the fact that I have the charisma of a pet rock.
But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is lugging around the title of being your hockey team’s only virgin. I choose to withhold this information, obviously, but the reminder that my dong hasn’t been dinged by anybody is a pretty debilitating handicap to saddle a guy with in a hookup-based culture.
I wish that I was picking up chicks after every game. I wish that I could talk to women without stuttering over my words and coming across like a weirdo. I wish that I had the charm and confidence that all my teammates possess. I’m the odd one out. I’m lucky to say that I’ve even been kissed—though it was more of a deceitful peck on my lips by Renata Pulminer.
She was the first girl I was ever “involved” with before my coffee shop crush. She showed interest in me my rookie year in the NHL, and I realized afterwards that while I was looking for a genuine connection, all she was looking for was a business one.
After a month of her hanging around my team, tagging along with us to Beer Comes Trouble, and manipulating meinto believing that she actually cared about me, I was ready to ask her to be my girlfriend. I thought we were on the same page, you know? We hadn’t been intimate with each other in private, but she gushed over me in public. She’d wear my jersey to our games; she’d flirt with me at afterparties. Even the paparazzi thought the two of us were happily in love.
I should’ve realized the first red flag was that she never wanted to do something with me if we didn’t have an audience. She barely texted me. She barely made an effort to hang out with me alone. It was like I was a complete stranger when the cameras weren’t pointed at us. And I was the fool who thought things were getting better when she suspiciously wanted to play up the PDA around my friends. So, when it was time to pop the relationship question, I was in for a rude awakening.
Because not only did I get the answer Iwasn’tlooking for, but she rubbed it in my face by making out with one of my teammates, Zaven, when we were “supposedly” a thing. I was heartbroken. I was confused. I couldn’t accept the fact that this had all just been a game to her.
And when I begged her to work things out, she told me what I’ve known to be true my whole life—that my inexperience and my awkwardness was too embarrassing. She told me she could never be with someone who constantly overthinks the smallest things, who struggles to order food at restaurants, who has no sexual experience, and who’s practically the laughingstock of his entire team. She abandoned me at my lowest point, and she left me with this crippling hole of self-loathing that never really went away.
But I’m used to women treating me as a steppingstone to get to my teammates. Most of the time, all they want is some kind of exposure. Needless to say, I’ve become more hesitant about who I let into my life because they can just as easily walk out of it.
Gage is completely different than I am. Before he fell in lovewith his current girlfriend, Calista, he was entertaining flocks of adoring fans and women wherever he went. He had women fighting over him like cats in heat scrapping it out for the last male. I once saw him flirt his way out of a ticket, and not only did he evade the law, but he got the police officer’snumber. Then he proceeded to tell me about the handcuffs that he had “appropriately” used later that night.
My best friend follows my line of sight, clapping me on the back sympathetically. “Ful, you know I love you, right?”
My throat flutters with a gulp. “Y-yes…?”
“You need to get off your ass, walk into that coffee shop, and sweet-talk this chick.”
And on a dime, I’m thrown into an active battlefield, cowering from zipping bullets, artillery fire, and unimpressed shouts from my superior that get me shot about fifteen times in the back.
I open my mouth to rebut—with what, I’m not sure—but am abruptly cut off by Gage’s don’t-give-me-bullshit hand. “Nope. No. You can do this. I’ve heard you hyping yourself up in the bathroom mirror about a hundred times. You’ve had a crush on this girl for four years, and you haven’t made a move on her. Hell, you’ve barely gotten past casual pleasantries. I don’t think you’d even know her name if it wasn’t on a tag.”
WOW. Rude. Of course…of course I would know her name. I would be like, “Someone as beautiful as you has to have a name.” And then she’d probably throw a hot latte in my face and yell for security.
By the way, her full name is Shiloh Nguyen. It’s public information, alright?
I shrink in my seat, embarrassment blooming across the tip of my tongue, and the hard truth bludgeons me with a force so strong I’m surprised my ego doesn’t suffer multiple fractures. “I was waiting for the right time…”
The excuse sounds pitiful in my own ears, trust me.
“Nowisthe right time, dude! Our teammate’s getting married in a few weeks, and everyone wants you to bring a plus-one. We all want to see you get this girl. You never stop talking about her. It’s clear you want to pursue something, but you’re just a little scared.”
