The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

Wes said to presume a few weeks ago, but I can’t presume tonight. I can’t presume he wants me upstairs. I can’t sleep either. That’s the problem.

I never have trouble sleeping—never. But tonight, I’m in my own room for the first time in more than a month. The lights are out and I’m trying so hard to bring sweet dreams my way.

But as soon as I hear him return to the house and head up the steps, I know he’s looking for me. I know he’s disappointed. Even if I feel him pulling away from me, have felt it since we danced in the living room last night, I don’t want to be another thing that hurts him. I want to help him like he helped me the night we met.

Besides, I’ve been trying to be brave. I’ve been trying to be bolder. I fling off the covers and push out of bed, pushing open the door right as he’s stepping into the doorway.

I flinch in surprise, then back up. “Oh.”

“Hey.” That’s it. A heavy syllable breathed into the night. He looks terrible. Devastated.

“What happened? Do you want to talk? Did your dad give you a hard time?”

He grits his teeth then breathes out hard. “Yeah. He said I’m distracted. Coach said as much, too, when he moved me to the second line.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, guilt lancing through me. This is my fault. Wes is distracted, and I know why. Still I have to try to make him feel better. “But that’s where you started the season. It’s not that bad, right? You know exactly what to do there, and you can keep working your way back.”

But that’s the exact wrong thing to say to an athlete. A step back isn’t fine. He’s wired for excellence, not acceptance.

“No, Josie. It’s bad,” he says in a hard voice, correcting me sternly.

I feel stupid all over again. “I’m sorry.”

He frowns, apologies in his brown eyes now. “Shit, baby. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” He reaches for my face and cups my cheek, and it feels so good as he strokes my jaw. But it feels awful at the same time because it’s an I’m sorry gesture.

I’m sorry I’m about to hurt you.

“I’m a wreck right now,” he says, his voice strained, full of potholes and self-loathing. “But it’s not your fault.”

Except…is it my fault? That’s what I can’t shake—the feeling that I’m to blame. “Do you think you’re distracted? By me and us and my job search and by what’s going to happen? Is it stressing you out? All the…unknown?” My chest aches horribly but I have to ask these questions.Material © NôvelDrama.Org.

He pauses for a long while. In that stretch of silence, his face is honest, brutal even, with the truth in his eyes—the truth is yes. We are a distraction. I am stressing him out.

But Stoic Wes takes over and erases the emotions on his face. “No.”

That’s a lie.

He has another game coming up in two days. Then another after Christmas. They’re important games, especially after the last few rough ones. I could ask him what happens next for us. I could mention the long-distance thing. I could say I want us to make this work. But what can I offer him right now that’ll settle him? Nothing. I’m still in limbo. I don’t know if I’m staying or leaving.

But I know this—I’m not the one trying to play professional hockey in front of twenty thousand people every other day, with media who breathe down my neck, fans who cheer and jeer me, and a father who gives me a hard time.

I do know what that’s like though.

I was raised with it.

From the comfort of my books, I watched that world unfold as my parents focused on my superstar brother. Gave him every opportunity to succeed. They were right to channel their energy into him—look where he is now. At the top of his game. Growing up, he was the plant that required a lot of water.

Me? I’m the cactus after all.

My family barely notices what I do, and really, it’s okay. I’ve always had books and friends. I’ve always done a good job taking care of myself and getting out of the way. My aunt taught me to cook, to bake, to learn, to read. Most of all, she taught me to be independent.

With a cold, stark certainty, I’m sure I have to do for Wesley what I did for my family growing up.

Get out of the way.

With a gentle smile, and I hope, a caring one, I reach for his forearm, rub my hand along the dog and music notes. “But what if you are too distracted by everything that’s happening here? With me? I mean, I’m kind of a lot.”

“Don’t say that,” he says, but it lacks his usual…vigor. His usual bossiness.

“I am,” I insist. “The night you met me I was locked out and half-naked, and you saved me. The next time I lost my short-term rental, and you saved me. Then, you found my list and you offered to do it with me.” Emotions climb up my throat, tightening it in a chokehold. But I try to push past the tears stinging the backs of my eyes. “I’m a lot. You’ve given me a lot. But you need to leave something for yourself.”

His brow knits. “What are you talking about?”

I roll my lips together, fighting off the waterworks, then I dig down and say, “Would it be easier if I finish the list on my own and give you a little time to refocus?”

Time—it’s the one thing we don’t have.

But right now, that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because Wes is quiet again, chewing on that, perhaps.

That’s another sign I’m doing the right thing for him.

Wes is quick and passionate. He doesn’t mull things over. He doesn’t stew. For the first time ever, he’s stuck.

The man is twisted in knots.

I have to give him this lifeline. I throw him some more rope. “You didn’t want to dance in the park anyway, and that’s okay,” I say gently, kindly. “The list is a lot too. I could do it with my friends. I haven’t done anything on it with them. Maybe I should.”

He breathes in deeply, nodding the tiniest amount, absorbing that.

“And the cocktail-mixing class,” I say, exonerating him more. I wave a hand. “Let’s do it another time.”

That’s a futile promise, because we don’t have time.

But he doesn’t correct me so I continue, “Right now, you should focus on hockey.”

He runs a hand down his face, closes his eyes, then breathes out. For a few seconds, I hope so damn hard he’ll resist my overture. But when he opens his eyes, he grumbles, “You’re probably right.”

My heart breaks. But I try to keep it together.

What he doesn’t say next is, “Let me hold you all night. Come to bed with me. Or we’ll figure it out together.”

Instead, he nods to my room and the bed I haven’t slept in in weeks. “I should let you go to sleep.”

What I hear is, “I should let you go.”