The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Wesley

On Monday morning, I grab another book from the shelf, adding it to the stack in my arms. “So that’s what I’m going to do.”

Max stares at me like I just told him I’m going to skate with my laces untied. “This is your big plan?”

“Yup,” I say, resolute as I pass a stuffed frog chair in the children’s section of An Open Book, having just told my two closest friends about my meeting with the captain in, oh, thirty minutes’ time.

I’m incredibly calm though, and also determined. Like a play unfolding on the ice, I can see what I need to do and what I need to say to make this happen. The moves I have to make. The way I need to skate.

All that’s left is the execution.

Max blows out a better you than me breath, “Then I have a question for you.”

Before he can ask it though, Asher comes over and drops a metric ton of copies of Where the Wild Things Are onto the pile in my arms.

Oof. It’s getting heavier. “Dude. Can you not hold these?”

“Dude. Are you not strong enough?”

Fighting words. I hoist the books higher. “I can carry them all, dickhead.”

“Language,” Max chides. “You’re in the children’s section.”

“No one’s here yet,” I point out since it’s early and the store just opened.

“But you’re a good guy, Bryant. Be one all the time, even in the kiddy section,” Max deadpans, and he makes a fair point—one I’ll use very shortly.

“Anyway, what was your question, Lambert?” I say to Max as I weave past a tiny castle filled with beanbags and head toward the front of the store. I already left a huge stack at the counter earlier.

“Can you record it for us? The whole interaction with Winters? I feel like it would be really great for team morale.”

I roll my eyes while Asher jumps in, saying, “Not a bad idea. We might want to look at it when we review video.” He pauses, like he’s deep in thought, then holds his hands out wide. “How to handle the puck you didn’t see coming.”

I groan. “You did not actually make the world’s worst pun.”

Asher flashes me a grin. “I did.”

We arrive at the counter where I buy several boxes of kid books, then wait as a man behind the counter gift wraps a small handful for me.

The woman who rang me up smiles. Her name is Trina, and she’s a fixture at Sea Dogs games. “So glad Ryker told you to shop here,” she says with a smile.

“As if we’d shop anyplace else,” Asher says.

“Except Once Upon a Good Time,” she points out helpfully. “That’s my romance-only bookstore. But I still work here from time to time too. I guess I’m just a ‘why choose’ girlie with bookstores,” she says with a knowing smile. Trina’s married to two of our teammates—Ryker and also Chase. It’s unconventional, but it works for them.

“And I’ll be sure to stop there when I need something new to read,” Asher says.

“You read romance?” Max asks with a dubious arch of his brow.

“Don’t you wish you knew?” Asher retorts.

Max grumbles, “Actually I don’t need to know.”

We thank Trina and leave. My friends do help carry boxes, though, since we have a big haul. My car’s parked at the curb, so we set the boxes of books in the backseat, along with the stack of wrapped ones.

I take a breath then check my texts, confirming Christian’s address. I messaged him this morning and said I need to stop by to chat with him before morning skate in an hour or so.

I give a tip of the hat to the guys. “Pick you up in thirty at Doctor Insomnia’s?”

“Unless we need to pick you up in a body bag,” Max deadpans.

“We’ll get you a nice body bag, Bryant,” Asher says.

No more Newman, no Muffin Man, and no Poker Face. I’ll take just Bryant. “No body bag, thanks.”

I say goodbye then hop in my car. Before I turn it on, I send Josie a text.

Wesley: I’m on my way.

Then I add a heart, because I know it’ll make her happy.

Josie: Don’t worry about me. I’m totally not glued to my phone waiting for an update while I’m worried to five million pieces about you.

But I’m not worried. When I first met Josie, my entire life was prescribed by what I do for a living. I’m not just a guy who plays hockey.

I’m a guy who has dessert for breakfast sometimes. Who knows how to sit with discomfort. Who cares about his friends and also his teammates.

And I’m a great teammate. Part of being a great teammate is communicating. Even when it’s hard. Sometimes it’s telling a guy you play with that he needs to cool off. Sometimes it’s telling the goalie he’ll have a better game next time. And sometimes it’s telling the captain how you feel about his sister.

I send her one more text.

Wesley: And you don’t have to worry about me. I’ve got this.

I drive to Christian’s home on California Street, park, and grab the wrapped books.Property © of NôvelDrama.Org.

I bound up the steps, take a deep fueling breath, and ring the bell. I wait but not impatiently. I’m simply ready. After twenty or so seconds, Christian comes to the door, swings it open, and says, “Hey.”

It’s friendly but also comes with a question baked in. That’s understandable. No doubt he’s curious as to why I wanted to meet with him.

I nod toward the inside of his house. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, of course.”

I head into the foyer, glancing down at his socked feet. I toe off my shoes. When in Rome and all…

I follow him into the living room that boasts a stunning view of the Golden Gate Bridge. He gestures to the couch.

I hand him the stack of wrapped books, then sit. “I realize I never got you a gift when you had your twins. These were my favorite books growing up. My parents read them to me over and over. It’s a pretty good series.”

“Thanks, man,” he says with genuine appreciation as he tugs off the ribbon and rips open the wrapping paper, picking up the first one, a warm smile taking over. “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.”

He taps the cover approvingly, and that eases any remaining bit of tension in me.

I don’t hem and haw. I don’t search for the right moment. The right moment is now. I go for it like I do when I’m on the rink. “I have a question for you.”

“Hit me.”

I meet his blue-eyed gaze straight on, no bullshit. “You think I’m a good guy, right?”

His brow knits. Down the hall, an infant cries softly, and he holds up a finger. “Give me one second.”

A couple minutes later, he’s back, holding a baby, patting the kid’s back, soothing him with a there, there.

It’s sweet, this side of the captain I’ve never seen. The doting dad.

“He’s probably hungry, but he might also fall back asleep on me.”

“Is that Cooper or Caleb?”

“Cooper,” Christian says with a holy shit grin, like he can’t believe I remembered his kids’ names. But his smile erases and he sits again, giving me a serious look. “You’re a good guy.”

Grateful, I move on to my next question. It’s all part of the plan. “You think I’m a good teammate?” To make it easy, I add, “The kind of guy who has your back on the ice. The kind who would step in for you if you didn’t want to talk to the press. Who would help you out in a pinch.”

His forehead knits. He’s not dumb. Maybe he’s even putting this together. Hard to say. He gives a direct “yes.”

There you go.

“Good. Because I’m crazy about your sister, and I wanted you to be aware of that.”

He blinks. Furrows his brow. “You. Are?” It comes out a little strangled.

“One hundred percent.”

I don’t need to explain anything more. I’ve come to realize that just because I’m new to the team doesn’t mean I owe him an explanation of the choices I make when I’m not playing hockey. Or the choices his sister makes. All I owe him is the courtesy of the truth.

But there is one thing I want to underline. “Just to be clear, I’m not asking you for permission to date her.”

Christian swallows, pats his son’s back, starts to say something, stops, then says, “Right. Right.”

Like he’s adjusting to this new world order. Aren’t we all?

But with all that out in the open, maybe there is one more thing I need to say. Or really, it’s something I want to say. To show him that I prioritize her. Because that’s what a good teammate would do. “She was honestly worried about coming to you, Christian. Worried that you might freak out. Team rules and all.” I sketch air quotes, then pause, letting that sink in before I say, “But I don’t think you’d do that.”

He gulps. Rearranges his face. “Right. Of course not. I wouldn’t.” It’s a backpedal, but I get where he’s coming from and why he’s doing it, so I give him some grace.

“I didn’t think you would,” I say, even though I had no idea how he’d react. I’m just glad I don’t play hockey with a douche.

“I wouldn’t,” he says.

“Good,” I say, relieved to have this uncomfortable conversation done. Can’t say it was easy. But it wasn’t supposed to be. “I’ll see you at morning skate in an hour?”

“Definitely. Always,” he says.

As I push up to leave, I hear laughter, like bells. Then the sound of footsteps as a woman emerges, holding a small baby. Christian’s wife, Liv. She gives her husband a look. “Please tell me you didn’t pull that don’t touch my sister routine?”

I smirk as she stares daggers at him.

Christian shakes his head several times. “Not really.”

His wife turns to me, lasering her sharp stare my way. “Did he do that?”

And because I am a good teammate, I know how to handle this moment too—by having my teammate’s back. I smile and say, “We’re all good.”

Christian meets my face and mouths a relieved thank you.

Liv’s eyes drift to the table, then sparkle. “Oh! I love these books. I can’t wait to read them to the boys. Did you get these, Wesley?”

“I did.”

“Thank you so much,” she says, then turns to her husband. “I think the twins are hungry.”

That’s definitely my cue to go. I point toward the front door. “I can see myself out.”

But before I leave, Christian clears his throat. “My sister…Josie…she’s pretty cool. She’s five years younger. And she spent so much time with my aunt while I was playing hockey that there were times when I didn’t feel like I totally knew her. But that was because I was busy. Not because I didn’t want to get to know her. She was also really, really good at taking care of herself.” He pauses, his eyes thoughtful. “I get the sense, though, that you do know her.” There’s another pause—a weighty one. “And I appreciate that.”

“Thank you.”

He blows out a breath as he adjusts the fidgety baby in his arms. His tone shifts back to the commanding locker room voice I’m used to at the Sea Dogs arena. “And Bryant? Don’t be afraid to use your top hand a little bit more when you take a wrist shot. It’ll help with control.”

Instantly, I can visualize holding the stick, lifting it, smacking the puck. As if I’m already practicing the move, I flick my wrist, picturing the path of the shot. Yeah, that does feel good. “I’ll do that. I appreciate it.”

I guess that’s how team chemistry works.

A few minutes later, I’m waiting outside the coffee shop, feeling pretty fucking good as Max and Asher pile into my car, with expectant eyes. In the passenger seat, Max peers at my face, studying me intensely. “Hmm. Don’t see any new bruises or scars.”

“And you won’t,” I say.

From the backseat, Asher claps my shoulder with pride in his grip. “Look at you, man. Look at you.”

I peer into the rearview mirror, doing just that. Yeah, I like what I see. I like it here in San Francisco with my team, my home, my life. There’s only one thing I wish California had.

A permanent job for Josie.

For now, we drive to her library and bring several boxes of books to donate to the children’s section, handing them off to Thalia. Then, I give her a box of a dozen headphones I bought too—I ordered them online for same-day delivery. “For anyone who wants to read with their ears but who doesn’t have their own headphones.”

“This is amazing,” Thalia says warmly. “And I promise they will be flying off the shelves and put to aural use.”

“Glad to hear,” I say, and it’s time to hustle over to morning skate, but it’s also time to see my girl. Yet before I can head up the stairs to the second floor to find my sexy librarian, Josie’s flying down them in her pencil skirt and blouse, flats slapping the tiles, hair twisted up. At the bottom of the steps, she’s breathless as she says, “How did it go?”

Max points at me. “He has no bruises.”

“That’s good?” Josie asks, with a bright smile.

It’s her place of work. So even though everything inside of me screams to haul her against me and kiss her senseless, I curl my hands around her waist and drop a chaste kiss to her forehead. “You’re with me.”

I can feel her smile against me as she whispers, “I am.”

I tear myself away but not before the sound of clapping rips through the air, chased by a loud wolf whistle.

“Told you so, Josie.” It’s Eddie and he’s on the stairwell, clapping, then turning to Thalia. “I was right, boss.”

Josie’s boss is smiling. “Yes, you were.”

Josie blushes. “You did.”

And I guess they don’t mind a little show of affection, all these book lovers. So I give Josie a kiss on the cheek, savoring her cinnamon scent, then I go.

On the way to the rink I remind myself to make the most of the next five weeks. But here’s what I want to know—does she really have to leave?