The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

Maeve flips through the shelf of memoirs at An Open Book as I finish telling my friends my tale of woe. Fable is here too. She’s the lead designer for the San Francisco Renegades and a friend of ours as well.

“And you didn’t recognize him at all the night you met him?” Fable asks, but it doesn’t come out as an accusation—more a legit question.

“I’m not into sports. I mean, they’re fine. I don’t hate them. But I don’t know rosters. If any pro athlete but my brother was walking through this store I wouldn’t recognize them,” I say. “Would you recognize all the football players?”

“Yes, but I love the game,” Fable says, as she tucks a strand of her red hair behind her ear and sets down the book she’s been checking out. Freckles dot her fair skin.

“I’d recognize Asher Callahan,” Maeve puts in.

I roll my eyes. “That doesn’t count. He’s your brother’s friend!”

“I’m just saying. I would,” Maeve adds.

I toss my hands up. “You two are not helpful. You’re supposed to be on my side. Hockey players are not that recognizable.”

Fable gives me that point. “Fine, that’s true.” Then she snickers. “Still, it’s funny that Wesley Bryant is kind of known around town for being this hot tamale and you banged him without having a clue who he is.”

“And now you’re living with him,” Maeve adds with a snort, her wild golden hair falling in her face as she doubles over.

“You two!” I say, exasperated. “I called this meeting today for you to help me deal with living with him. To give me tips.”

Fable’s lips go ruler straight as she says, “Like can you have…wait for it…just the tip?”

Maeve points at her, nodding. “That’s totally acceptable. That won’t violate any rules.”

“You should definitely play ‘just the tip’ with him,” Fable adds, with a so helpful smile.

My face flames hot. Why am I cursed with being easily embarrassed and also overly sexed? As if I haven’t been thinking about Wesley like that already. “Shh,” I say as an elderly woman walks past, a small child tugging her hand along.

“The other tip is this—just sit on a bucket of ice for the next three months,” Maeve offers. “Freeze out your vagina.”

“Or buy stock in toys,” Fable adds with her signature confidence, and I can’t get a word in edgewise with these two.

“Speaking of, have you figured out that issue?” Fable asks with mock concern.Têxt © NôvelDrama.Org.

Maeve parks an elbow on the shelves, her face going serious as she echoes, “Yeah, have you?”

“How I’m going to masturbate with him around?” I whisper, incredulous that they’re really asking that.

“Yes. That’s a real problem. Will you? Won’t you?” Maeve asks with a straight face.

I am a beet. But I hold my chin up high and answer them: “When he’s out of town for games I will. So there.”

After they buy their books, and I make note of ones I’ll borrow from the library, we leave. On the way down the block, my phone pings with a message from my roomie, asking me if I like Bridgerton.

I don’t show it to my evil friends as we walk to a coffee shop. I reply quietly with: Is that a trick question?

Then I tuck the device away, only to be met by the Cheshire cat grin on Maeve. “That smile means he’s texted.”

I groan. “I can’t have any secrets with you.”

Giving in, I show them the text. Since I’m a glutton for punishment I tell them what happened this morning when I confessed to Wesley why I’d seen Frieda. “I couldn’t very well tell him I wanted to track him down to see if he was up for hanging out again. He made it perfectly clear it was a one-night stand.”

“And so did you,” Fable points out as we reach Doctor Insomnia’s.

She’s right. But just because I actually wanted more doesn’t mean we can have it. “Look. It’s fine. It’s for the best if we try to be nice to each other. To get along.”

Maeve grabs the door and yanks it open. “Yes, Josie. You should text him back because it’s nice. Not because you still want to ride his dick.”

“You’re not making this easier,” I say.

“I know, and I have no regrets,” she says.

“Speaking of no regrets, let’s talk about the list,” I say, as my stomach dips thinking about item number two. Maybe I’ve been avoiding it. No, there is no maybe about it. I’ve definitely been avoiding the second item Aunt Greta left for me. Because it’s about overcoming a fear.

Once we grab our lattes and seats, we shift gears to the list of the Top Ten Things I Never Regretted. “Question,” I begin, with a hopeful smile. “Do you think it’s possible I could get a pass on number two?”

Maeve stares me down sternly. “Josie.”

Fable clucks her tongue. “Pretty sure that’s a violation of the rules of Bucket Lists from Relatives.”

I groan. “It’s just…so not me.”

Maeve pats my hand. “I know. But you didn’t think number one was either. And Greta knew you well.”

She’s too right. I set my face on the table and groan some more, like a wounded beast. “Why do bucket lists have rules?”

It’s asked of the universe.

Of course they don’t have rules. I know that. But when the person who loved you most gives you one, you probably shouldn’t skip a turn.

“And I thought the first one was hard,” I mutter.

Maeve smirks.

Fable’s eyes twinkle. “Well, wasn’t it?”

I roll my eyes. “Very, very hard.”

I sigh, lift my face, then brainstorm a plan for number two.

That afternoon, I take off to see Christian, Liv, the twins, and my mom, who’s here in town now, helping out.

My brother and his wife are in another room in their palace of a house, napping. Mom spends the whole time parked on the living room couch, holding the babies and talking about the babies—what they eat, what they weigh, what they’ll need, and how they’ve slept. I get it. They’re her first grandkids. I’m not really bothered that she hasn’t asked about my job—which is the reason I’m here in San Francisco.

She shifts gears, asking if I want something to eat. “We ordered pad thai with chicken for lunch. There are plenty of leftovers,” she says, then catches herself. “Except…you’re still vegetarian?”

Like it’s the same as my pony phase. My Sweet Valley High phase. “I still am,” I say.

“They have some carrots,” she offers.

I shake my head. “I’m good, Mom.”

A few minutes later, she finally says, “How is the library?” It’s asked with clear interest, so I tell her the full truth.

“I love it already,” I say. “I just do.”

“Tell me everything,” she says, and I give her the highlights, including Raccoon, which delights her.

“I’m so happy, Jay. And you know Greta would be happy too.”

She would. She truly would. Sometimes I feel like Greta’s all mine, but my mom lost a sister too, far too early. Then, since she knows it exists even though she hasn’t seen the list, I draw a quiet breath and say, “I started it. The list Greta gave me.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh. You did?”

“Yes, I finally did,” I say.

“That’s wonderful.” She pauses, swallows, perhaps collecting her emotions too, then says, “Does it make you feel closer to her?”

Well, the one-night stand made me feel closer to my roomie. But I don’t tell her that. I just nod. “It does.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

Later, when I say goodbye and head out with my map on my phone and a plan to check out the Painted Ladies, I think back to some of my fondest memories with my aunt. Days spent wandering the library she took me to in her town. Afternoons getting lost in the stacks. Early evenings back at her little cottage, eating tomato soup and grilled cheese and playing Monopoly while my parents took my brother to one hockey thing or another.

“How do you do it? How do you take me for everything I’m worth in Monopoly?” she’d ask when she’d land on Park Place and I’d ask her to fork over so much rent.

I’d just smile and say, “I’m good at following the rules.”

“The rules aren’t why you win. The strategy is,” she’d say with a twinkle in her eye like she was sharing a secret. A secret just for me. “And you’ve got that, baby.”

Baby. I was always baby. But it was said like baby was a Broadway star. That’s how I felt with her—like the star.

I picture the list, tucked safely away inside a blank book in my canvas bag back in my room.

As I walk past the Victorians in pretty shades of yellow, lavender, and mint, I check the time. It’s late afternoon on a Saturday. What does Wesley do on Saturday nights? Will it be weird for me to punch in the passcode on the door, wander in and say, “Hey, what are you up to on a Saturday night?”

I haven’t had a roommate since my freshman year of college, and we were totally out of sync. Staying with Maeve was different. Besties don’t have boundaries that can’t be crossed. My stomach flip-flops with worry. I don’t want to encroach on his space any more than I already have.

But that’s what books and book nooks are for. That’s what I’ll do—escape into a book.

With that resolved, I walk up and down the blocks around Alamo Square, getting to know my new temporary home and settling into a plan for the evening. I’ll make a cheese sandwich, slice an apple, and return to my room to enjoy the spine-tingling thriller about a suburban mom who becomes convinced her neighbors across the street are murderers.

But that settled feeling disappears when I head up the steps to Wesley’s place. Returning this morning from my fruit and grocery errand was different. It was daylight. It’s dusk now and nighttime is, well, its own mood.

Maybe I should call first? What if he just got out of the shower and is slinging on a towel? My chest goes hot. I stop mid-stairs, grabbing the railing. Not a helpful thought, girl.

I take a beat to let that tempting image subside, then reach the door, poised to tap in the code. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m an interloper. With a wince, I knock instead, offering a cheery, “Knock, knock.”

I listen for noise. It’s quiet. Then peer into the slim, rectangular window right next to the front door. Nothing.

I start to punch in the code when my breath catches.

Oh god.

This is not a drill. Repeat after me. This is not a drill. Wesley’s in gray sweats and nothing else.

The man is shirtless, and I’m just dead.