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THE WEDDING-ADJACENT PROPOSAL

FULTON

“ N o, 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 gets paid to 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 me into 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 I wasn’t looking 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 love with 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’s number . 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.

“Now is the 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.”

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’s laughable. 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 I can’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 that glisten 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 like her was watching someone like me . “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 were amazing out there. But it sucks that you guys lost the first round of the playoffs.”

Is this real life? Did she just…give me a compliment ? My brain is short-circuiting, and there’s no saying if my whole body will experience a total-program shutdown as well.

I pantomime my best mask of confidence, hoping that she can’t hear the loud bellowing of my heart. “Oh. Um, thank you very much. Honestly, I’m glad the stress of the season is over, but I know my team’s disappointed with the outcome.”

Shiloh just nods, as if it’s the most relatable thing in the world.

Dude, compliment her back! She doesn’t want to hear you talking about yourself.

“I really like your…eyes?”

Good job, Fulton. That almost sounded normal.

She bristles a bit, clearly caught off guard. “Oh?—”

“Yeah, they’re not too dark. They’re the perfect shade of brown, you know? Some people’s eyes are the color of chocolate. Some people’s eyes are almost black. Some people’s eyes are poop brown, and that’s…uh…unfortunate. For them. But you don’t have poop eyes! You have pretty brown eyes that are way too light to be poop colored.”

Kill. Me. Now.

Why, Fulton, would you say the dreaded P-word to the girl that you’ve had a crush on for four years? Are you trying to ruin your chance with her? (Not that you really had one in the first place.)

I want the floor to open up underneath me and swallow me whole. I do not want to be alive to revisit this interaction when I’m lying in bed tonight. Insomnia’s already bad enough—I don’t need my mind replaying “Fulton’s Greatest Hits.”

I’m expecting Shiloh to cringe in disgust or pity or whatever the hell is going on in her head right now, but instead, she breaks into a flurry of giggles, her small shoulders shaking with each harmonious chuckle. “Thank you. I guess I wouldn’t want to have poop-colored eyes.”

That laugh…God, I’m so fucked .

I’m not sure what changes, but for a fleeting moment, confidence rallies inside me, and some deep, dark, depraved—and deprived—part of me needs to hear the sound of her laugh for as long as I can, because just remembering it won’t do it justice.

With nothing to lose—except my dignity—I place one of my hands on the counter, start to feel it slide from an accumulation of sweat, and then quickly catch myself before tripping over my feet. “Shiloh, will you…” I start rockily.

Her eyes go cartoonishly wide, and maybe it’s because I’m barely riding a whisper, but she eagerly leans in to listen to me.

There’s a din of noise all around me, like how a forest of trees screams after being enveloped by the licking flames of a raging wildfire. This borrowed confidence isn’t going to last long, and neither will the state of my pathetic, loose-limbed body.

A lot of things can happen when I drop the big question—I shower her workspace in chunks of undigested food, I hightail it out of the door and accidentally knock over some elderly lady in doing so, or I decide last-minute not to invite her and slug back to Gage with my tail between my legs—so I take it as a win when a string of unintelligible gibberish comes out of my mouth instead.

“Willyoubemyplus-onetomyfriend’swedding?”

I think Shiloh takes a moment to decode whatever it is I just said, and when she finally does, another smile is waiting for me— one that I haven’t seen before, and one that I hope she’ll grace me with during our three-week-long adventure.

“It’s, uh, a destination wedding. We would be traveling for it,” I clarify.

“Let me see if the shop can run without me for a bit.”