The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)
Chapter 45

Wesley

When I hit the ice that night, Asher’s advice repeats in my head like the chorus to your favorite song, an Arctic Monkeys tune or a Yungblud number. Something anthemic, a love song you can’t get out of your head.

Have fun.

As I play hockey that night, I try to have a good time.

And a funny thing happens.

I do.

After the game, I’m in the weight room like usual. Not because I have to be, but because I want to. It might’ve been my dad’s idea originally, but the fact is I like the way these post-game workouts make me feel—strong, resilient, ready. In my body and my mind.

As I’m doing dead lifts, Christian strides in.

“Hey,” I say.

He gives me a chin nod and starts racking the bar on the bench press. “Been meaning to ask,” he says, then clears his throat, “do you want to come over for Christmas? Josie and everyone will be there.”

I stop midway, barbell in hands. Things I didn’t have on my bingo card—a Christmas invite from the captain. As I finish the lift, I grunt out, “Um. I’m not sure.”

He narrows his eyes, looking me up and down like I’ve given the wrong answer in class. “You broke it off with my sister?”

I blink. Am I that transparent? “No.” But I say it defensively and frankly, in the shape of an obvious lie. “It’s just…I’ve had some bad games, as you know, and she offered to give me space.”

Christian stares at me for a long, shocked beat. “And you took it? You, the guy who came barreling into my house a few weeks ago, just took her offer for space?”

When he puts it like that…

“I did,” I say, wincing, because I’m pretty sure that was the wrong answer again. I did the wrong thing. I fucked up big time.

He shakes his head in disgust. “Dude, I don’t leave my wife when I have a bad game. You had a couple of bad games. Get your shit together.”

It’s said authoritatively. The captain in charge. And the captain is right. But what am I supposed to do to fix this—both the hockey and the romance?

I swallow past my discomfort and ask a hard question. It’s one I’ve only ever asked of my dad before. “What do you do when you have a bad game?”

His expression is thoughtful, open as he says, “I talk to a teammate, or I see the athletic trainer, or I speak with a coach. I ask for help.” He sits on the bench and fixes me with a no-nonsense stare. “You could come to me.”

He’s right. My gut churns with regret. But the world only spins forward, so I step past my discomfort, and I do one of the hardest things I’ve ever done on the team. “Can you help me?”

Christian smiles. “I thought you’d never ask.”

We chat for a good long time, and when I get home, I peer longingly down the hall, checking for a sliver of light from Josie’s room.

But it’s dark, so I go upstairs and dictate his advice on a note on my phone.

Then I visualize tomorrow morning when I can start over.

Around eight a.m., when I hear Josie moving around, I do the same. I fly out of bed, brush my teeth, and throw on shorts and a sweatshirt. I hustle downstairs. I’m dressed and ready to take her to work. At her fucking service.

I’m buoyed by Christian’s advice—set short-term goals, not long-term ones; focus on the positive; and lean on your teammates—when I replace her in the kitchen. She’s gathering her things and wearing a black pencil skirt and a soft pink sweater. She looks like the polished, put-together, young librarian she is. I want to pull her close and run my fingers through her hair and tell her I’m an ass. But I focus on her needs first. “Can I give you a ride to work?”

She flashes me a soft smile and shakes her head. “I’m going to Petaluma.”

That throws me for a loop. “You are?”

“Yes, I have a job interview. Thalia gave me the morning off so I could focus on it. And since it’s kind of far.”

Right, right. She mentioned the interview. I didn’t realize it was today. Because you’ve barely been talking to her, you dumbass. “That’s huge,” I say, my heart racing five steps ahead, hoping this means she can stay, but do I even have the right to ask her that anymore? I need to fix things first.

“And I should really go because there are about three buses I have to catch. At least it’s only two buses back to work though,” she says before I can get another word in.

Nope. No way am I letting her catch a trio of buses on the way up alone. “I’ll drive you. I want to. I can,” I say, playing the bossy card.

She shakes her head. “Actually, I kind of want to do this on my own,” she says, then gives me an apologetic smile. “I should go.” She pauses, frowning, looking like she wants to say something more. After a beat, she exhales. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re too hard on yourself. I really do, and there are a ton of things I want to say.” Her voice is laced with emotion, but her gaze strays to the clock on the wall even as her eyes shine. “I have to go.”

But what do you have to say?

The desire to hear those ton of things claws at me, like a wild beast let loose in my chest, but I have to give her space.

She heads to the door and I watch her leave, strangely impressed by her gumption, and her guts.

I want to chase after her. I want to insist she lets me drive her. But I flash back to what she said the other night—that she was a lot.

To how she felt I’d kept saving her, like I did on the first night, then less than a week later. I get it. Some things you have to do on your own. You have to save yourself.

She closes the door and leaves.

I wander aimlessly, a lost kid at the zoo. But a few minutes later, my phone rings. Maybe it’s her. Maybe she’s changed her mind. Maybe I can go pick her up on the corner at the bus stop.

I’m about to say all that when Natalie’s name flashes on the screen. I answer it, a little defeated. “Hey. What’s going on?”

“Listen. I need to know, are you going to Frieda’s for Christmas?” That’s where Dad is hosting this year—with his girlfriend.

I groan. “I tried to pretend that isn’t happening.”

“But it is happening. And Lila and I want to know if we should go.”

That’s her girlfriend. “You two should go,” I say dryly.

“What we’re trying to say is we want to go if you’re there.”

But I want to go to Christian’s with Josie—if she’ll have me. “I don’t know if I will be.”

“What’s wrong, Wes?”

My sister’s the one person who understands me completely, so I say, “I had a couple bad games. I was pretty distracted, and at first I thought it was because of Josie.”

“Wes,” she says kindly. “Do you think maybe the pressure isn’t Josie, but Dad?”

I don’t move. I don’t say a word. I stand in the kitchen with a simple and obvious truth.

She was never the distraction.

“You’re right,” I say to my sister, then end the call, my mind spinning over this revelation.

I have to tell Josie right away. Trouble is, I won’t be the complication in her life. Not today. Not when she’s worked so hard to achieve her dreams.

But I can leave her a letter because I finally know what I want to say.

I head into her room, grab her notepad of blue paper, and bring it back to the kitchen. I write her a short letter and leave it on the counter. She’ll replace it when she comes home from work.

When I return the notepad to her room, I catch sight of the list sticking out of the blank book. I take one step toward it. Then another. It’s a tractor beam pulling me closer. I’m so tempted to look. I reach out a hand, my fingers itching.

I’m dying to replace out what she’s crossed off without me.

But I stop, close my eyes, and shake it off. Then I open them and I tear myself away from her room, shutting the door.

I don’t have to see the list to know she’s crossed off more items. The question is—how many?

I take a yoga class, grab some lunch with the guys, and go to the animal rescue and volunteer. All day, I count off the hours till she comes home. Till I can apologize. Till she replaces this letter, and I can talk to her and try to figure us out. But the day moves too slowly. The hands on the clock trudge by. I’m convinced her work will never end. Around four, I wander around the house. It’s eerie and dark since it’s late December. My footsteps creak on the floorboards, and I’m painfully aware that she’s not here.

And I’m just…waiting.

What is wrong with me? In hockey, you don’t wait. You do.

Spurred by a burst of adrenaline, I run upstairs, change into a nice shirt and jeans, and race to the garage. I can wait outside the library. Surprise her with a ride home. Be the guy who’s leaning against his car, ready to pick up his woman and celebrate her successes.

I hightail it to the library with the letter in the passenger seat. I park in the tiny lot. But when five o’clock ticks by, she doesn’t emerge from the main doors. With nerves strung tight, I march inside, looking for her and replaceing Thalia. “Hey, is Josie here?”

“She left early. She had some things to do,” Thalia says, and I can’t read a thing into her tone—if that’s good or bad or if she even knows.

I race back outside to the lot, stabbing Josie’s name on my phone. She doesn’t answer. I pace, dragging a hand roughly through my hair. Where the hell did she go? Home is the obvious answer, so I hop back in the car and return to the house. But she’s not there, and she’s still not answering.

“Where are you?”

Then I remember—there’s someone who might know.

I call Asher and ask him for Maeve’s number. Then I ring Josie’s friend immediately.

The first night I met Josie, she’d told me she’d turned on her location tracker for Maeve. Later, she told me that she never turned it off. “It amused us too much,” she’d said.

When Maeve answers, I waste no time. “I need to see Josie now. She’s not answering. Do you know where she is?”

Maeve laughs, clear and bright. “As a matter of fact, I do. She’s at Dolores Park.”

I drive so fast to number eight.