The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Wesley

I know what’s coming before my dad even asks.

“Yes, Dad, I had the high-protein jerk chicken breast with quinoa and lime cucumber salad for lunch,” I say to him on the phone as I stride through the sleek, state-of-the-art kitchen of my townhome in Pacific Heights, the black plates washed clean from the lunch he made sure the meal planner prepped and sent over to me.

“Good. Because it’s a recovery day and tomorrow you’ll have⁠—”

Does he actually have the meal plan memorized? Wait. Stupid question. Of course he does. And so do I, since I knew this was coming too. I had my phone’s text-to-speech app read the meal plan out loud till I learned it by heart. “The chicken and squash bowl.”

“You got it,” he says, pleased, like I’ve answered the right question in class. “You know what top nutrition leads to.”

“Top performance on the ice.” I finish the thought easily having heard it since I was in youth hockey.

His voice crackles through the line, persistent and unwavering. “You need to fuel your body right, son.”

“I’m like a Bugatti, Dad,” I say, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Good. That’s what we want on the ice. The better you fuel yourself, the lower the chance of injury. The lower the chance of injury, the more ice time…”

The better the chance for a great season and so on. I don’t really disagree. I’ve just heard it before, and there’s no mood lightening with Mister Serious, so I let it go.

“I know,” I say, as I leave the kitchen and head into the living room, staring longingly at the TV and the video game controller. A round of zombie slaying would be real nice right now.

“Are you heading to the gallery? Your walls were almost bare the last time I was at your place.”

So much for destroying the undead. Or seeing some of my teammates. I was this close to a round of pool with Max, Hugo, and Asher when Dad swooped in earlier today with his request. No, his insistence that I attend his new conquest’s—sorry, his girlfriend’s—art gallery show.

“On my way, Dad,” I say, as upbeat as I can manage about checking out the exhibit Frieda’s created called Dark Futures—whatever that is. But it feels fitting—the future of this night is dark, even though I’m still meeting my guys—just a little later now. I’m going to need to detox after an evening at an art gallery.

I glance at the handful of framed concert posters I hung in the townhome I bought when I was traded to this team last February. “What’s wrong with the art I have?”

“Tame Impala? Wesley, you’re not a rock critic or a beat poet,” he says.

Are concert posters the de facto art of beat poets? I scratch my jaw. “Is anyone even a poet anymore?”

It’s another attempt to lighten the mood, but Dad sighs heavily. I can picture him in his office in Los Angeles, where he works half the time—thank god he’s most of the state away. I bet he’s pinching the bridge of his nose.

“That’s not the point. The point is it’s a contract year, and you need to manifest an attitude of success. Remember what I’ve told you?”

Repeat after me. “Be the whole athlete,” I say, and it’s empty but he won’t be able to tell.

“It’s a mentality, Wesley. And Frieda is expecting you so you should go.”

Well, I’d hate to disappoint his flavor of the month. “I’ll manifest a new persona as an art connoisseur.”

“Perfect.”

My sarcasm was entirely lost on him.

I hang up, then head to the garage, passing a sleek mirror in the foyer on the way. Wait. I can’t wear a polo shirt. Frieda will tell Dad, then he’ll say I’m not looking the part.

Having your father as an agent is no joke. But the dude is sick with contracts, and a beast in negotiations, so I change into a tailored sage green dress shirt I usually only wear on game days with a suit.

I hop into my electric car and take off for the gallery at the edge of Hayes Valley, where I snag a sweet parking spot. When I get out, I check the gallery address once more. Passing by quaint cafés and designer boutiques, I picture the season ahead. Our training camp has gone well. Our first game is in less than a week, and if chicken and squash bowls do the trick for me on the ice, then fine. Bring them on.

When I pass The Scoop, a small-batch ice cream shop though, I try to manifest a hatred for ice cream. But my manifesting skills are not that good. My mouth is watering for a salted caramel cone.Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

No way is that on the meal plan.

I jerk my gaze away, then head down the block, weaving through the evening crowds, bracing myself for an encounter with Frieda with her slicked-back hair and fake British accent. Maybe I can avoid her. Perhaps she’ll be so busy entertaining clients, I can pop in, go eenie, meenie, miney, moe at the walls, and then head to the bar with my friends. I’ll be in and out in a flash, like a breakaway shot to the net.

And I’ll still get credit for having shown up.

But when the gallery comes into view, the tall, bird-like woman is staring down her nose at…what in the ever-loving fuck is that other woman wearing?

I peer more closely at the subject of Frieda’s disdain. A brunette with wavy hair, dressed in a long T-shirt and fuzzy slippers with a flowery black scarf tied around her waist. That’s not what people wear to art galleries. That’s what people wear when it’s laundry day.

Is she down on her luck?

As I come closer, I catch pieces of the conversation.

The younger woman places her hands together in prayer. “I just need to get a passcode from one of your caterers. I swear, it’ll take one minute, and I’ll be done.”

Frieda’s tone is faux warm. “I desperately want to help you. But Frieda has made out a list, and you need to be on it. See? I’m in a quandary.”

She’s pretending she’s not Frieda? Give me a break.

“Yes. Same here! I’m in a quandary too,” the woman in the makeshift outfit says desperately, clearly hunting for common ground. “I’m locked out of my friend’s place without any of my things. I’m new in town, and I just need to get back in there.”

“I would think your phone could be useful,” Frieda offers oh-so-helpfully.

Gee. A phone. Why didn’t that occur to her?

“My phone is in her place. If you could just tell Maeve that Josie is here,” she says, begging Frieda, “I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

Frieda pastes on an I don’t give a shit smile. “I wish I could help, truly, darling. I do. But I can’t. Frieda has made it clear. You need to be on the list.” She pauses, sighs, then frowns apologetically as she stage whispers, “Plus, we have a dress code, love.”

Oh, hell no.

The woman in the T-shirt—Josie, she said—turns around, and her eyes are shining with the threat of tears behind those cute glasses.

Well, if Frieda has made it clear you need to be on the guest list, I can make some things clear too. I stride right up to the woman in need and flash her a helpful grin. My dad might think I have zero taste and a lack of focus, but one thing I do have? My improv skills are unparalleled.

“Hey, sweetie. Glad you could make it. I love your dress. You’re so fashion-forward, I can’t even keep up with you,” I say with a smile that I’m sure gleams.

The brunette whips her gaze to my eyes and the breath is nearly knocked out of me. Her lips are pink and glossy, her chestnut hair is wavy, and there’s a faded, pink jagged line on her chin—a scar somehow makes her even prettier.

Her blue eyes are bright and full of question marks. But it doesn’t take long for her to connect the dots. In seconds, she’s figured out my plan and she pops out a hip, showing off her outfit with a no-big-deal wave. “Oh, thanks, I just threw it together. A little DIY.”

“You look…incredible,” I say, and that’s not a lie. It’s the whole damn truth. Smugly, I turn to Frieda, then fasten on my most apologetic look. She already thinks I’m an idiot anyway. She’ll buy this next lie easily. “My bad. Did I forget to put my date on the list?” I tap my forehead, like details are just so hard for this guy. “Josie’s with me. My plus-one.”

“Your plus-one, Wesley?” Frieda’s lips twist into a doubtful scowl as she glares at me, then stabs a finger suspiciously in Josie’s direction. “I thought you were locked out of your friend’s place?”

“Oh, I am.” Josie looks up into my eyes and floors me again with the intensity of her stare. Then she flashes the sweetest, most apologetic smile Frieda’s way as she says, “And I was in such a rush to leave because Wesley likes to surprise me with his fantastic date ideas, so he told me to meet him here. I’m excited for the show.”

Frieda’s false warmth recedes. She’s an iceberg now. “Of course. Enjoy the exhibit, Wesley,” she bites out, smiling so falsely that it’s a goddamn pleasure to watch her try to keep her shit together.

“Thanks, Fri,” I say since she hates nicknames and effectively blowing her cover with Josie. “Appreciate your generosity.”

I offer an arm to the woman in the T-shirt and slippers, and walk her into the gallery, all thoughts of seeing my teammates later as far from my mind as the chicken and squash bowl.