The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Wesley

Two solid weeks does not a season make. But it’s a better way to start than the alternative. Still, I put our 5-2 start out of my mind when I hit the ice two nights later. I always put our record, the past, and other games out of my head when it’s game time. Years of working on mental fitness—thanks, Dad; no really, I do appreciate his insistence on mental prep—have honed me. When I’m on the ice, I’m all about the present.

Like now.

As I skate across the ice with the puck, racing behind the net in the third period, I’m determined to break this annoying fucking tie. The arena’s alive with the thunderous beat of the crowd, their cheers and roars fueling every move as I narrow in on the prize.

Trouble is this bruiser of a Seattle defenseman has been up in my grill all night. As I fight like hell to hold on to the little black disc, Number Seventy-Eight looms in front of me, a giant clad in red and black, blocking my path to the goal.

But Asher’s free, so I slip the puck to him seconds before their defender slams into me, then I slam into the boards. Goddamn, that hurts. Pain shoots along the side of my abs, a sharp burn. Gritting my teeth from the impact, I crumple to the ice, tangled up with the other player for a few seconds.

The crowd chants fight, fight, fight, but this moment is nothing. These moments happen in every game when you crash into each other. I get to my knees and push myself back up, and a few seconds later, I’m right back in the zone next to Hugo, who’s blocking. This time Alexei, our center on the second line, passes the puck to me.

I slap it right toward the goalie’s open legs. But Seattle’s not our toughest foe for nothing. Their big goalie blocks it.

Frustrated, I skate to the bench, hopping over the boards for a line change, then grabbing some water. I’m next to Christian, who taps his stick to mine. “We’ll get it next time,” he says.

“We fucking will.”

After his shift, I’m back out there as the seconds tick down on the game clock. Adrenaline courses through my veins as Seattle goes on the attack fast and hard across the blue line, two of their guys flicking the puck back and forth, barreling toward Max at the net.

But when Seattle’s winger flings it toward our goalie’s shoulder, aiming to send it whizzing past him, Max blocks it easily with a glove. Our defender gets the rebound, sending it to Alexei, who spins around, flying the other way.

I don’t want to go into overtime. I really don’t. I stick by Alexei. Their big defender is all over me again, but I’m not in the mood. I’m faster, and I’m open when Alexei sends it my way.

And wouldn’t you know? Asher is ready. I slip it to Asher like a goddamn pickpocket. Then, he’s shooting it and the puck smacks against the crossbar and ricochets into the net…yes, fuck yes!Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

I smack gloves with my buddy. There’s one minute left and all we have to do is hold on. Sixty seconds later, the arena is playing our victory song—“Tick Tick Boom” by Sage the Gemini—and I swear my shoulders loosen a little, the knot in the pit of my stomach unwinds.

Then, I relax a little more. Max, Asher, Hugo and I head off the ice and into the tunnel.

“Dude, we should call you Poker Face. That’s your new nickname,” Max says to me.

I tap his stick, earning the name by hiding a smile. “Works for me.”

“Poker Face,” Asher repeats, like he’s trying it on for size.

“But you’re the man,” I say to the golden boy, since he’s been having a helluva start to the season.

The dude flashes me a winning smile as Hugo seconds the praise. “I’d say stop showing us all up, but never stop,” the teddy-bear defenseman says.

“That’s the goal,” Asher replies as we reach the corridor, where Everly’s waiting as she usually is post-game. She’s holding a tablet against her team-blue blouse, and she’s ready for negotiations with that professional slicked back hair. Some of her requests will be easy. Others, not so much. She’s smiling, but she’s always smiling post-game. It’s her superpower, I’m sure, come rain or shine.

“Asher. Wesley,” she says, in her upbeat tone. “Will you two rock stars talk to the press tonight?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Always,” Asher seconds. He is not shy. The camera loves him, and he loves the camera.

“Hugo, I won’t bug you tonight, because you were a sweetheart to talk to that sports podcaster earlier in the week. I can’t even begin to tell you how happy the GM was about that,” she says, and I’ve got a feeling she’s heaping on the thanks both because she means it and as a way to needle Max.

“Anytime,” Hugo says.

After Everly takes a quick—and likely soldiering breath—she turns to Max, amping up the wattage on her grin. It’s part of their dance. They do this tango every time. “Max, are you up for it? That was a great game tonight.”

As he rips off his helmet, our goalie flashes her a smile that’s dripping with irony. “Aww, thanks for asking, but I have a bingo thing to get to.”

It’s a game, the excuses he makes to avoid the press.

“I’d be happy to charter you a helicopter to make it on time after you chat with The Sports Network,” she says with a tilt of her head. “Would that help? You can talk to the media and still be at your bingo thing with minutes to spare.”

He stops, seems to give it some thought, then asks, “Will there be strawberries and champagne on the helicopter?”

I roll my eyes, right in tandem with Asher. This is a new level of theater.

“If that’s what it takes,” she offers brightly, going toe-to-toe with the grumpy goalie.

He taps his helmet against his padded thigh. “Let me get back to you. Your generous offer does not go unnoticed.”

I can tell she’s biting back a fuck you, Lambert even as she says, “Can’t wait to hear.” Then, with genuine gratitude, she says to Asher and me, “And I appreciate your help, guys.”

“Anytime,” Asher says, speaking for both of us.

When we turn into the locker room, Max says, “What’s it like being the nice guys?”

“Let me see if my agent wrote a new sponsorship deal and I’ll let you know,” I say dryly.

“I’ll check my bank account too,” Asher says.

Max huffs, then trudges ahead to his stall and I go to mine—where Christian’s waiting for me.

“I told you we’d get it next time,” he says.

“You did, Winters,” I say, but out of nowhere, a flash of tension rushes through me. That’s weird. I don’t usually feel tense post-game. Usually this is when I start to unwind. But I keep the focus on the ice as I undo my skates. “And nice goal earlier,” I say since Christian scored the first point.

“Thanks.”

“How are the kiddos?”

“Perfect,” he says, a proud dad, then clucks his tongue. That sounds ominous. “Listen, how’s everything with Jay?”

It takes me a beat to align Jay with Josie. But when I do, I try not to think of her list, or their aunt who passed away, or the fact that I know things about her that her brother doesn’t.

Besides, well, the obvious thing that’s a secret between Josie and me.

I don’t want to misstep with him so I’m careful forming an answer. “She’s cool,” I say, figuring that sounds low-key.

“Yeah? Everything going okay? No problems?”

It’s not like I’d go telling on her to her brother if we were having problems. But it’s easy to tell the truth. “Everything is super chill. We get along and give each other space,” I say.

That’s accurate-ish.

No, it’s not. Space is not having dinner in the kitchen, hanging out on the couch, and planning to go to an improv class together as part of her get-out-of-her-comfort-zone bucket list.

“Awesome,” he says, offering a fist for knocking. I knock back as he adds, “Really appreciate you helping out, Bryant. You’re my eyes so I don’t have to worry about her.”

I bristle. She’s a grown woman. She doesn’t need a babysitter.

He seems to be waiting for me to say something, but it’s not like I’m going to tell him all the details of her life like what she’s eating, and when she leaves, and if she did her dishes this morning. “It’s all good.”

He sighs, contentedly. “My kiddos are good, my wife is good, we won the game. And my little sister is fine. I guess my work here tonight is done.” He stands and surveys the post-game scene, then shoots one last look my way. “You still doing those post-game workouts?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll join you when you’re done in the media room.”

This is when I really need a poker face because I did not expect that response. “Cool,” I say evenly, and after I talk briefly to the press, I take off for the weight room.

Here, I definitely don’t have to fight off teammates for use of the equipment. It’s only the team captain and me, moving through push-ups and bench presses, shooting the breeze about the game, the guys on the other team, and who we’re playing next.

When we’re done, he says, “If you ever need anything, Bryant, you let me know. I’ll help you out. Like a mentor thing.”

Oh, shit. He did not just offer that. Please tell me he did not offer that. I feel like a liar, and I haven’t even touched his sister since before I knew who she was. “Appreciate it,” I say, since that’s not really an RSVP, even though the captain definitely offered to take me under his wing.

On the way back to the locker room, we pass Coach. He gives a crisp hello without cracking a smile. “Good game, guys. See you at morning skate?”

Christian nods. “I’ll be there.”

I’ll be there too, and it feels even more important now than it ever has, and I’m not sure why. But I tell him I’ll see him there.

After I’m showered and changed, I head home, my muscles tired as I drive. Once I’m in the garage, I walk quietly, then stop mid-step before I open the interior door to the house.

This is still new—this moment. So far, I’ve only come home once post-game with Josie in the house. She did say she goes to bed at nine-thirty, so I’m quieter than usual, slipping out of my shoes, then carrying them up the steps. Don’t want to wake her. She gets up way earlier than I do.

The home is silent in that slightly eerie, slightly creaky nighttime kind of way. After I set my shoes down by the door, I head to the kitchen in the dark, my stomach growling.

I’m dead quiet here, too, and I grab an acai bowl from the fridge and⁠—

Berries. There’s a carton of raspberries sitting next to it, with Property of Wesley written on top, like it’s in an office kitchen or similar. Seems she’s still paying me in fruit. I can’t say no.

I grab the bowl and the fruit while listening to my new tunes playlist, my earbuds in as I eat, getting lost in the beats of Frank Ocean and GIVĒON.

A soft light flickers on nearby around midnight. I hit stop on the playlist and peer down the hall. The bathroom light’s on—the one by her bedroom under the staircase.

She’s awake and my heart stupidly speeds up.

Get a grip. The woman is up to fucking pee. Not to see you.

I admonish myself for wanting a hello, or a good game, or a how’s it going. I try to focus on the lyrics, listening for every word when the light shifts again, and I hit stop on the music once more as she wanders into the kitchen.

She’s wearing a cami with her pajama shorts, and I can’t stand how ridiculously hot that whole look is. Her glasses are on, but her hair is down, and my mind unhelpfully shifts to its own playlist, playing the refrain to My Morning Jacket’s “Librarian,” and the bit about the title character taking off her glasses and letting down her hair.

“Nice assist,” she says.

I flinch in surprise as I take out my earbuds. She can’t have just said that. Really, she can’t. She’s not into sports. She’s definitely not into her brother’s sport. “You watched it?” I ask, incredulous and grateful all at once that she gave me a reason not to think about her new anthem.

“Maybe.” It’s stretched out, a little coy. Her smile lifts. “Did I watch it or did I watch the highlights? What do you think?”

She’s flirting. She’s fucking flirting, and I’m not sure I can resist it.

I consider her question, then roll the dice. “I think you watched it.”

She shrugs playfully, and it’s chased by a slide of her teeth along her bottom lip. A thoroughly distracting move.

“I wonder,” she says, teasing me more with the possibility of her watching me play. A possibility that is lighting me up, that has electricity crackling under my skin. “By the way, do you have a new bruise from when you hit the boards?”

I grin. I guessed right. She watched me play. And this excites me. Because that is not roomie behavior. That’s the behavior of a girl who maybe wanted another night with me too.

I pluck at my shirt as I meet her midnight gaze. “You want to check?”

Her blue eyes flicker with heat as I up the ante. She matched me, then she raises me saying, “If you want to unbutton that shirt.”

Briefly, I think of Christian, my impromptu workout partner, my mentor. But thoughts of him evaporate as his sister’s eyes roam up and down my torso. What is with her tonight? I don’t know, but I’m not about to stop whatever this is. So I unbutton the shirt, letting it fall open so she can see my bare chest.

She steps closer, studying me through those glasses. Checking me out for a good, long time. “Yeah, you have a new bruise.”

“Shame,” I say, then lick my lips. “I know how much you hate those.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps her gaze locked on me as the air sizzles. Then sparks. “So much,” she says, then yawns. “Good night, Bryant.”

“Good night.”

She leaves and I watch her till the door to her bedroom closes, wishing I could leave this kitchen, march to her room, and knock hard on that white door.

Then tell her everything I want to do to her.

But I force myself to replay tonight. The moment on the bench. The moment in the locker room. The moment in the weight room. My team captain’s not in charge of his sister. He doesn’t get to make decisions about what she does or who she sees.

But I’m in charge of me, and I should not do a damn thing to create a single ripple effect across the team. I finish my acai bowl, go upstairs, and get in bed.

Counting down the clock till Thursday night.