Page 2 of The First Kind of Love
Oh, “a little” is putting it nicely. If I humiliate myself and say the wrong thing to her, she’ll never want to see me again—which will be hard because my teammates and I frequent this coffee shop.
Hayes—the scariest and most penalized player on our team—is getting married to the sweetest girl I’ve ever met—Aeris—who’s somehow convinced him to trade in his playboy days for a lifetime of calm, peaceful domestication. They couldn’t be more opposite from each other, and they couldn’t be more in love. He’s the biggest softie in the world when he’s with her. I once saw him gluing together a five-hundred-piece puzzle for her because she mentioned that she “liked” the sunflower on it. He’s all scars and trauma and temper, and she’s pretty much the embodiment of a sparkly unicorn.
None of the guys are forcing me to find a date. I think they just want me to go after what I want. And they’re probably tired of hearing about how this girl’s hair is the color of midnight and as soft-looking as silk—how her skin’s a shimmery olive color like she’s been brushed in caramelized sugar. Also, she smells incredible. Granted, that fresh bread and vanilla undertone is probably the baking supplies that I’m smelling, but I can’t have angel food cake without thinking about her.
She’s burrowed so far beneath my skin that I can feel her in my veins—a paralytic agent that I can’t shake, a thought that I can’t bury beneath power plays, an overwhelming craving that I can’t satiate with your run-of-the-mill sugar fix.
And fuck, she’s so out of my league, you know? Like, it’slaughable. I don’t have a shot with this girl, and I’d rather not have my first experience in the dating pool start off with a rejection of epic proportions. I’m content with not bringing a plus-one. I’m used to being the eleventh wheel. I’m used to seeing all my teammates in happy relationships. I’m used to the pitying looks and the soul-killing shoulder pats.
Nausea simmers on low in the back of my throat, and I discreetly wipe my clammy palms on the sides of my legs. “I can’t do this, Gage.”
I hate feeling overlooked, discounted. I had a childhood full of it thanks to my absent dad, and I don’t want to relive that helplessness. Not to mention the walking disaster that was my ex-situationship.
While I appreciate Gage’s belief in me, it’s sorely misplaced. I’m not like him, and I’ll probably never be like him, no matter how many Fuckboy 101 classes he gives me.
Gage’s lips flatline into a supportive grimace. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
Death.
Death is the worst thing that could happen, because right now, my pulse is a battering ram against the side of my neck, and I’ll probably drop dead from a heart attack by the time I make it up to the counter.
I steal admiring glances while she’s not looking, watching as she floats effortlessly through her work area, her nightshade ponytail flicking behind her. She’s bobbing her head to a track of the latest pop hits, and when a patch of golden sunlight hits her just right, her entire silhouette glows with an ethereal quality, little dust motes dancing in the coffee-shrouded air. The mechanical whir of a frothing machine and the backtrack of hushed chatter all compete fruitlessly for my attention, but Ican’t tear my eyes away from the beauty inside her that smolders like a newly birthed ember. She isn’t just drop-dead gorgeous on the outside. Whenever I see her serving other customers, there’s always this beam on her face, and her laugh…
Well, her laugh could cure a lifetime of loneliness.
There’s only one person ahead of me in line, so I have all of two minutes to come up with a script, practice that script in my head, and hold down the heavy lunch doing one hell of an anxiety-induced roil in my stomach.
Be cool, Fulton. Just…make small talk. Don’t be creepy. She’s just a girl. There’s no pressure to ask her to be your plus-one. Your teammates aren’t going to look at you any differently if you show up alone. You’ve done it a million times. And a million times over, you would have killed to have someone by your side.
Every nervous thought rolls around like billiard balls inside my skull, and my feverish equilibrium spins, nearly making my knees buckle underneath me. But then, as the broad frame of the customer in front of me moves aside, there’s a direct, sun-drenched shot between me and my future wife. Her thick, feathery lashes flick up in slow motion, making way for her big, doe eyes to pull me under with a single look.
I don’t know how, but my legs move on their own accord, lured to that wood-grain countertop by her siren call. The nerves are pleading with me to retreat, but my heart is practically crawling to her, needing her attention to revitalize its now-sluggish beats.
“Hi, Fulton,” Shiloh says, and the airy tone of her voice wraps me in a powder-soft cloud, immediately liquefying my muscles and unraveling the fear that’s been knotted like a cherry stem in my gut.
She’s a work of art, chiseled from my very dreams and desires, stunning enough to be immortalized in marble. A small, heart-shaped face, a button nose, and big, plush lips thatglisten with a thin sheen of pink gloss. She’s a foot shorter than me—all compacted into this lithe, petite body—and she has to tip her head up to address me.
I lose the ability to speak. It feels like she’s plucked my vocal cords from my throat with her dainty, manicured fingers (in the least violent way possible). My legs may have led me to my demise, but now that I’m here, grappling for a foothold on the side of a precarious ledge, a calamitous freefall looks like my only option.
“Uh, hi, Shiloh,” I greet with deliberate and slow syllables, wary not to butcher anything that comes out of my mouth.
Shiloh lights up brighter than an illuminated Broadway sign, her lips curling up into one cheek-plumping smile. “Just your usual today?”
Oh, shit. What do I say? I wasn’t expecting her to ask me that. Why wasn’t I expecting her to ask me that? It’s her job. Come on, Fulton! Get it together!
Judging by the way my belly’s rumbling ominously, food probably isn’t the smartest idea right now. Fuck, I’ve never been this nervous before. Not for any games, not for any interviews (although I do despise them), not for anything. Do you think she notices how nervous I am? Oh my God, do I smell? Do I have pit stains? What if I’m freaking her out right now because I’m doing a long-ass internal monologue in my head and not responding to her?
Eventually—when I remember to function like a regular human being—I shake my head, the forelock of my sweat-slicked hair tumbling down my forehead. “No, thanks. I, uh, well…”
Shiloh leans against the counter a bit, inadvertently bridging the distance between us, the delicate arch of her collarbone rising when she sucks in a breath. Just like the rest of her, she’s cut from perfection.
“You know, I caught the game a few days ago,” she tells me.
She’s going off script! SHE’S GOING OFF SCRIPT!
I blink a few times, confused beyond belief because there’s no way in hell that someone likeherwas watching someone likeme. “Y-you did?”
Pearly teeth drag against a pillowy bottom lip, a coy twinkle kindling in the dark pits of her eyes—tantalizing, tempting, and a whole lot of trouble. “Yeah! You did really well. Like, you wereamazingout there. But it sucks that you guys lost the first round of the playoffs.”
