The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Wesley

The question vexes me as I head to the arena for morning skate, then home afterwards for a pre-game nap. Though I’m not sure I’d call it a nap. I doze for a couple minutes here and there, but mostly I stare at the ceiling, wondering.

I should feel lighter after talking to Christian. I should be fucking ecstatic. I got what I wanted. We figured this out in a little more than a week. She’s not a secret. She’s mine.

But…is she?

I want more, and I don’t know if I can get it.

I know this—I have to try to put these wants out of my mind or they’ll get in the way of my job. After I grab a prepared meal from the fridge and polish off some salmon, asparagus, and pasta, I head to the rink, trying to slough off these thoughts of the future.

Dark futures, indeed.

As I pull into my parking spot in the players’ lot, my phone trills with Eric Bryant Management flashing across the screen. I tense, but it’s better if I take the call before the game. Dad’s calling from his office, but he is my father. He’d never give me bad news before a game because it might mess up how I play. It’s gotta be good news. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, son. How’s it going?”

“Great,” I say, thinking of Josie this morning and how it felt to embrace her in public. Too bad that’s not enough for me since I don’t feel great right now. Not that I’d tell him. He doesn’t want me to be distracted by romance. “What’s up with you?”

“Tip for you for tonight’s game. I’ve been studying the defense on LA, and there’s a real weakness on their second line,” he says, and as I get out of the car he dives into detail on what he’s been seeing in tonight’s opponent, then with the goalie in particular. “I think you have a great chance to play hard and aggressive and win. Your stats this season are great. I’m thinking we could even get an early renewal.”

My heart rate spikes dangerously as I cross the lot. I never let myself think about contract stuff. I am compartmentalized all the way. But now I’m thinking about it—about staying here for a long time. Maybe even with her. “Yeah?”

I sound more excited than I want to. I don’t like to show too many emotions with him. He’d probably want me to regulate those too.

But my dad sounds excited as well. “All that work you’ve done—your discipline, your training, your conditioning—is paying off. I’ll keep studying your opponents. We’re going to make this happen.” I’m at the players’ entrance so I should go, but then he says, “And I’ve got interest in another endorsement deal. A health-food chain. Perfect, right?”

“It is,” I say. And truly, it is. There’s no sarcasm in my tone. I appreciate the hell out of what he does to make my future possible.

And ideally, not dark.

I say goodbye, but as I go inside, I’m not thinking of hockey or healthy food. I’m wishing it were easy for Josie to get these perks. To land the sort of work she loves as easily as a pro athlete does. Then, a traitorous thought crops up. An endorsement deal would more than cover her expenses. I could take care of her. I could make a future for us possible.

But I groan privately.

I can’t buy her to stay. She wouldn’t want that. And it’s too soon. I’d really better not get distracted. Trouble is, I think about it too much as I get ready to play. When game time nears, I need some new mental tricks to stop thinking about what’s next.

“Shake it off, buddy,” I mutter as I lace up.

And I do my damnedest to do just that during the game.

That night we lose, and it sucks. My gameplay is weak. I miss shots. I miss passes. And I can’t do a damn thing with the tips from my dad or the one from Christian. I’d be an idiot if I pretended I didn’t know why.

I was in my head tonight.

When I get home, I’ve got to face this mess my brain is making.

Overcome a fear.

I did it the night at the bookstore when I told her about my dyslexia. I can tell her this one too—that I’m afraid we won’t last when she leaves. And I want her to stay.

But once I’m upstairs, she’s asleep already, and I can’t bring myself to wake her up. Especially since she’s in my bed.

Not hers.

And I fucking love that she came upstairs and made herself right at home where she belongs—with me.

My heart squeezes in my chest as I stare at her, her chestnut hair spilled out on a pillow, her black-and-white glasses on my nightstand, a library book next to them. That’s my girl. I lean against the wall and rub my sternum, like I can ease the ache I feel when I look at her. But it won’t go away.

When she shifts, I hold my breath, hoping she’ll rouse. Please wake up, baby.

But she sighs softly, flips to her side, and slides deeper into slumber.

Enough.

I turn away, shed my clothes in the closet, then get ready for bed. When I slide under the covers, she stirs, blinking her eyes open. She smiles softly. “Rough game,” she murmurs.

“Yeah.” But not for the reasons she thinks. Rough because I was in my head too much. Rough because I was distracted. I’m never distracted. I try to shake it off since tomorrow we leave for a road trip.

But I can’t let the thoughts go. They eat away at me all night, and in the morning too as she moves around downstairs, getting ready for work. I grab my travel bag and head to her room, where she’s zipping up a skirt that I want to unzip.

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I set an arm against the doorframe, then say, “Hey.”

She spins around, eyes soft. “Hey.”

I don’t mince words. “What if you stayed? Like got a job extension? Is that even an option?” I sound reckless, but I’m, evidently, okay with that.

She smiles faintly, giving me a glimmer of hope. “I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while, but I’ve been trying for one.”

Holy shit. She’s on the same wavelength as I am. I feel like I’m made of sunshine. I feel like I could fucking dance, and I hate dancing. “You have? Why didn’t you tell me?”

But I’m not mad. I’m elated.

“I didn’t want to be presumptuous. Or seem clingy or anything,” she says.

“Presume. Cling,” I command.

“I like it here. It’d be great to stay.” But her upbeat expression falters a second later. “It’s hard though,” she says, her lips thinning, her gaze worried. “Thalia doesn’t think they have the budget to keep me. But I applied for another grant with the foundation that paid for me to be here in the first place.”

“You did?” I can’t contain my excitement. Don’t want to contain it.

“It’s a long shot though, Wes,” she says, playing the realist, before she shifts gears slightly. “I’ve been looking for jobs though. At other library branches. Even in Marin County and San Jose.”

I feel ten-feet tall. This is the best news. “I’ll drive you to work every day,” I say.

“You can’t do that,” she says, laughing.

“Like hell I can’t. Watch me. Just fucking watch me.”

“I have to get a job first. And it’s the end of the year so there are never as many postings. Budgets and all. And hiring slows in December. But I’m applying for everything.”

She brightens at the end, giving me a ray of hope. And I’ll cling to it. “But you’re trying. That’s what matters,” I say, then I close the distance between us and kiss her goodbye.

For a few seconds I taste salt. Or maybe I’m preparing myself for more of these kisses in five weeks’ time.