The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

I’m gawking. I really need to stop. I do my best to pick up my jaw right as he swings open the door, tilting his head.

“Um, you don’t have to knock,” he says.

I don’t have to stare either but I’m doing that too. That carved chest. The smattering of dark hair across his ripped pecs. The ladder of his abs, with muscles stacked on top of muscles. I can’t stop cataloging all the spots on the map of his body. That blue bruise I traced lightly last Sunday on the side of his stomach is gone now, but there’s a fresh one on his right bicep.

And then there’s the scar on his wrist. White and faded—a marker. Yeah, it’s definitely not from a bike. “It’s from a skate,” I say, entering the conversation in medias res.

His brow knits as he motions for me to come inside. “What do you mean?” He asks it like I’m the weirdo he regrets inviting to live with him.

Because I am. I try to collect my thoughts. “The scar. On your right wrist. It’s from a skate blade, right?”

He gives a small smile of resignation. Then a nod. One that says he didn’t want to tell me he played hockey the night I met him. “Happened my first season.”

I toe off my canvas sneakers as he shuts the door. “What happened? Did it hurt?”

“I got stitches and returned to the game to get an assist.”

I roll my eyes but in admiration of his mettle. “Such a hockey player move.”

He just shrugs. “It was the only thing to do.” He tips his forehead to my chin. “Also, pot, kettle. You got back on your bike after you cut your chin.”

My heart rate spikes. He remembers every detail. “I did.” I pause then get out my conversational backhoe and fill in the rest of the story. “I was chasing my brother. So I had to get back on my bike. I was determined to stay on. But I’m not athletic. Like, whatsoever. I tried soccer once, and I stood in the corner of the field wondering if Katniss was going to save Peeta or not.”

“She did. A lot.”

“She really did,” I say. “And even if I got back on the bike, I’m really not athletic.”

“You’re tougher than you think.” He gestures to the kitchen. “I’m making some food. Do you want something?”

“Sure. I can make my own stuff though. I don’t need to take your food.”

“I’m offering,” Wesley says, and I follow him through the house, walking through the living room where the TV screen is paused on a hockey game to the kitchen. He’s set up quite the spread on a beautiful blond-wood charcuterie board with a pretty array of grapes, broccoli spears, daikon radishes, nuts, blackberries, and olives.

“Wow. You’re a charcuterist,” I say.

“I took a class,” he explains.

“There are classes on charcuterie boards?”

“Josie, there are classes on everything,” he says dryly, a little playfully, and the tone makes me feel like maybe we can figure out this whole “living together” thing without every second being awkward.

But also, his comment about classes makes me think about the second item on the list. A kernel of dread swirls in my gut, but I ignore it as I survey the offerings. I half want to tease him about the lack of cheese, but his comment from last night about meal plans tells me not to. “Your teacher would be very impressed. Looks good, but I don’t want to take your food.”

He sighs. “Josie, I’m offering.”

Shit. I’m handling this badly. I meet his gaze. I can tell he’s trying to navigate this whole situation. I’m trying too but failing, so I blurt out a confession: “I haven’t had a roommate since college, and I’m pretty sure both of them hated me from day one.”

He scoffs. “Why would anyone hate you?”

“Because I asked them to raise their beds,” I say, then quickly explain. “We all had different move-in dates. They moved in the day before me into a freshman triple with three elevated beds. When I moved in both of theirs were already lowered and their bureaus and things were spread out. When I asked them to elevate their dorm beds so we could all have enough room to put desks and stuff under our respective beds, they both refused. One told me she was afraid of ceilings. The other said there’d be no room for her things then.”

He sneers. “So they hated you in response to their selfishness?”

“Yes,” I say.

“That makes no sense. Also, why didn’t you tell them that that was bullshit?”

I flash back to my freshman year, to how uncomfortable the living situation was after that. To how selfish they were. To how I dreaded returning to my dorm room every afternoon when I was through with classes. “I didn’t want to make the situation worse,” I admit.

“I’m not like your freshman roommates.”

“I know but I really don’t know how to do this. I don’t want to get in your way,” I say, choosing patent honesty.

He pauses, seeming to consider that. “I get it. And I don’t want to get in your way either.”

“But it’s your house,” I say, then flap a hand toward his bare chest. “Clearly you’re used to walking around half-naked.”

He looks down at his chest like he’s just realized he’s not wearing a shirt. When he lifts his face, he offers me a wry smile. “Maybe I was doing it in solidarity. Of your half-naked attire.”

“By all means then, please stage a march in support,” I say.

The corner of his lips twitches. “If I have to.”

“I insist,” I say.

For a hot second, his smile turns a little dangerous, but then it’s like he thinks the better of it and points to the stairs, resigned. “I’ll put a shirt on.”

I want to tell him please don’t. But instead I let him bound up the steps. While he’s gone I pour a glass of water, and do my best to think unsexy thoughts as I drink.

When he returns, he’s wearing a blue Sea Dogs shirt. He slides the charcuterie board toward me. “Eat,” he says.

“Can I at least contribute an apple?” I offer.

“You are really determined, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I say, lifting my chin. “Just like I was determined to make the best of my freshman year situation.”

“I promise I am nothing like your asshole college roomies,” he says, then wiggles a brow and shifts the broccoli, revealing a slither of red underneath. “Also, I did use your apples. Cosmic Crisps are fucking elite.”

“Dude! I know,” I say, then grab an apple slice and crunch into it. When I finish chewing, I grab another and point it at him, then gesture to the spread. “Is this on your meal plan?”

He brings a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

“Scofflaw,” I say in mock surprise.

But he just smiles. “Actually, it is. Under ‘acceptable snacks.’”

“So you work out, you eat clean, you watch hockey. I’m sensing a theme,” I tease.

His smile burns off, and his face goes stony for a minute. “I like other things besides hockey.” It’s said a little defensively.

I backpedal quickly with a bright, “Of course you do.”

“It’s just…the job keeps me busy.”

I’ve really put my foot in my mouth. “I totally get it.”

Dragging a hand through his hair, he sighs. “Sorry. Sore spot. You would have no way of knowing that.”

I feel a little better that he’s said that, but I’m still somewhat unsteady. “I’m sorry too,” I say, then shrug helplessly. “I just…I’m not sure how to do this roomie thing.”

“Honestly? I feel the same. I’ve never lived with anyone since my freshman year either.”

“So we’re in the same boat,” I say, even though I’m mentally filing away the detail that he’s never had a live-in girlfriend. Is he noting my romantic backstory too? That I haven’t lived with a man?

Get over yourself. Of course he’s not.

“But we’ll figure it out, okay?” he adds.

“Okay,” I say, focusing on food, and navigating our first night together sharing a meal in the house. I turn to the fridge to grab some cheese slices and make a sandwich.

“So…baking?” I ask, returning to my question from earlier today as I slice some bread.

“The ice cream was an exception. I have pretty good willpower in general, so I don’t mind you baking.”

And staying power, I think, remembering his stamina in bed. “But do you have the willpower to resist a cupcake?”

“Depends on how tempting it is,” he says.

I shouldn’t tempt him. Really, I shouldn’t. But as we eat dinner, standing at the counter, two very different people, I start to think about another item on the list and wonder if he might wind up helping me with that one too.

Number Three: Make a friend who’s nothing like you. You learn the most from them.

As we finish, he says, “By the way, whatever happened with your freshman year roommates? You made the most of it since that’s what you do, right?”

I smile, a little evilly. “Actually, I plotted with some other friends and arranged for a room transfer. I traded with a girl who snored. Loudly.”

He whistles in admiration. “Remind me not to cross you.”

We manage the roomie thing easily enough. I’m out all day at work most days and one or two nights a week as well since we’re open at night, and Wesley works most nights. When he is home in the evenings, I try to wander around local bookstores or check out museums not to avoid him, but to be polite. I don’t want to cramp his style. When we do see each other at home, I give him space, and he does the same for me.

But mostly, I don’t run into him since we’re on such different schedules and he’s busy with practice, workouts, and home games most of the first week. By the time the weekend rolls around, he takes off for a stretch of away games for several days.

I have the place to myself after work on Sunday, so I cook and bake, including lavender chocolate chip cookies that I bring to the library and they’re gone in seconds. At night I also read and research the city.

One evening, as I’m on the bus home checking out an online course catalog, my phone pings with a new text—this one from Everly.

Everly: How’s it going? Settling into the city? Living with a hockey player? Don’t trip over any hockey sticks!

The text sends a little zing of happiness through me. I like that she meant what she said the night I met her when she offered survival tactics. I reply right away.

Josie: No tripping yet. So no two-minute penalties either.

Everly: Damn! You know the sport! Impressed.

Josie: It’s hockey by osmosis with me, I swear.

Everly: Whatever it is, it worked. Do you need anything? I’m an excellent tour guide.

Oh, that’s tempting. I slide my teeth across my lower lip, considering. On the one hand, I want to say yes. I’m eager to make new friends. But is that greedy? I have Maeve and Fable. On the other hand, friendship isn’t a thing to be stingy with.

Josie: I love exploring. Also, if you have any recs for grocery stores that don’t charge eight dollars for bread that’d be great. I’m totally not pointing fingers at the PLETHORA of bougie gourmet markets near where I now live.

Everly: I got you, babe! Will send some recs. And we’ll go check out the Marina or Russian Hill soon!

We chat some more then make plans to visit the Marina neighborhood. It’s gorgeous there in the fall, she tells me.

When the bus arrives at my stop, I walk the few blocks to Wesley’s place, then go into the silent home since he’s not there again. These nights alone feel like ones when I was younger. When I used to babysit for the Murrays down the street. Once the kids were asleep, I’d wander through their home at night, curious about everything. The books on their shelves. The games on their coffee table. The food in their fridge. That’s how I feel at Wesley’s place as I check out a few party games on the table—Cards Against Humanity-type stuff, as well as video games, mostly involving zombies. His record collection is extensive, and I hardly know any of the bands’ names. But I’m not a music person. There aren’t any books, but maybe he’s a digital guy.

The fridge is full of nutrients. That’s what he eats—food with a purpose.

I try not to be too nosey. I’m a guest after all, so I don’t open drawers I shouldn’t, or paw through shelves. And I don’t go upstairs. Still, my cat-like curiosity keeps rearing its head every time I pass the staircase.

On Thursday night, I stop and stare, my mind spinning in new directions. Is there a dungeon up there in his room? A sex swing? Would I like a sex swing? My chest warms. Maybe I would. Does he have a bed with those straps on it for tying up playmates? Now, my chest tingles.

I’ve read too many books. But even so, wouldn’t that be something, if he had a room full of accouterments? He did seem like the tying-her-up type. A delicious chill runs through my bones at the thought.

But he also seems like the bend-you-over-the-kitchen-counter-and-fuck-you-hard-after-work type.

A sharp, hot blast of pleasure rushes through me.

Once again, I retreat to my room under the stairs and picture our one and only night together. But even though he’s in Detroit or St. Louis or who even knows, I’m quiet as I come.

I bite back my moans. I can’t shake the idea that this isn’t my place and that somehow, someone could be listening.

Or really, that he could.

And that he’d know I was lying when I said I went to Frieda’s to give him a thank you gift.

On Friday night, I’m exhausted from an energizing week at the library, helping patrons. I also came up with an idea for a digital initiative to help enhance the reader’s experience, and Thalia gave it the go-ahead so it’s been consuming my mind. Wesley told me he’s not going to be home till late, so after I clean up my dinner so the kitchen is spick-and-span—I am Super Roomie—I settle into the couch, take out my blank book and my list, then flip through the course catalog from the Community Academy, checking out class offerings, wishing I could skip number two but knowing I can’t. I need to find just the right class for the item about overcoming a fear.

But it’s almost nine and a yawn overcomes me. I stretch then head to my room, grab some jammies, and take a quick shower before bed. I rub five different kinds of lotions and potions into my face, starting with under-eye cream, then serum, then night cream.

When I look dewy as fuck, I’m satisfied. I loop my brown hair into a bun with a scrunchie, slide my glasses back on, and return to the living room, stopping when I reach it, startled.

Wesley’s sitting on the couch. I gulp. I had no idea he’d be home now. He said late Friday night. Is nine-thirty late for him?

“I didn’t realize you’d be here,” I say, feeling…caught. But why?

“I live here,” he says, with a sly smile.

“I know. I just…”

“Flight was early.”

He’s still wearing his travel clothes, and they’re too sexy. I hope the league never changes its suit rule ever, since he looks so damn good in charcoal slacks and a blue dress shirt, with a couple buttons undone. They show off that silver chain on his chest. I want to tug on it with my teeth.

As he leans back against the couch cushions, legs spread, eyes gleaming, he holds a tumbler of something. Scotch? Whiskey? Does he even drink either of those? I don’t have a clue, but he holds that glass like a man who commands a room.Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

I’m not sure what to say next, but the air feels charged. Crackling. Especially when his gaze locks with mine, and he says, “I see I was number one on your list.”