The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

Thalia was right. The Great Grimaldi is worth it. A week later, on Friday afternoon, I work with the former magician to help digitize his stage shows from the eighties full of close-up magic. By the time we’ve worked through a few VHS tapes, I’m convinced I can turn a glass of water into a deck of cards.

“Does sharing this with me violate a magician’s code or something?” I ask him.

“Not if you don’t tell a soul,” he says, then brings his finger to his mouth. He still sports an old school magician’s mustache and an air of elegant mystery.

“I’ll protect your secrets,” I say.

“Very good,” he says, then whips his cape around him and vanishes. Okay, he doesn’t vanish. But he’s just like a character in a fantasy novel so I like to think he does.

As soon as I join Thalia at the reference desk, she tips her chin toward a group of teenagers spread out at a table in the study room. “Save me. There are some high school students working on a research project on the use of artificial intelligence in healthcare, and they have no clue where to go besides social media,” she says, adopting a this is making me batty smile. “Please help before I melt into a puddle of dismay?”

Way to speak to my soul. Plus, this is why they have me. Why the foundation made this grant.This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org: ©.

“On it,” I say and if I can impart any wisdom in this lifetime, it’s that there are many, many better resources than social media. I help the group of teens find reputable resources online, and I barely even look at the clock.

Fine, I check it a few times. I’m looking forward to shopping with Everly after work today, more than I usually look forward to grocery shopping. I took her up on her grocery store offer—we’re going to hit her favorite hidden gem store in the city. I can get supplies for my project with Wes, and I kind of can’t wait to tackle the fourth item on my list. Maybe because I like baking? Or possibly because I like our blossoming friendship? Spending time with him makes me feel…seen. I haven’t felt that often. Not growing up at least, so it’s a little thrilling.

His messages are too. We’ve been trading recipe ideas all week for number four, even when he flew to Vancouver for a quick away game a few days ago. He returned yesterday though.

As the day winds down, a new message lands on my phone from him, and seeing his name makes my pulse spike. Since it’s quiet at the desk, I read his text right away, feeling a little bubbly.

Wesley: Take that back. What you said last week about my video game skills. I’ve been killing it today.

Josie: Really? You got shot forty-two times by the undead in the abandoned warehouse the second you started the game last night.

Wesley: That was an improvement!

Josie: All I can say is don’t quit your day job.

Wesley: Damn, woman. Way to hit a man when he’s down.

Josie: Need a Band-Aid for your wounded ego?

Wesley: Evidently. Will you put it on me?

Josie: If I can find one big enough.

Wesley: If I’m ever roasted, remind me that you should be the emcee.

Josie: I hate roasts but deeply appreciate the compliment.

Wesley: Agree. Roasts are evil. Like, you’re my friends, and you want to tell me why I’m awful?

Josie: And make fun of me in public?

Wesley: But pranks on teammates are another story.

Josie: That is such a guy thing to say.

Wesley: I am a guy.

Josie: I know, Wes. I know.

Wesley: BTW, you’re the only one who calls me Wes.

Josie: And…?

Wesley: Don’t stop.

Josie: I won’t…Wes.

I almost feel like I could text him all afternoon, but there’s a patron heading toward the desk, so I slip my phone back in my skirt pocket and return to work.

When the day ends, I tell Thalia I’ll see her tomorrow since I offered to take a Saturday shift for Eddie in research so he could go to his husband’s mini-golf tournament. Then I leave, passing the fire station where the guys are washing their truck—again. And doing it shirtless again. I smile again. They wave back, then I catch a bus to a small store in Russian Hill. Everly’s waiting at the door, wearing tailored slacks and a pretty blouse but dressed down with Converse sneakers.

“You look like a cocktail of business and casual,” I say, admiring her outfit.

“I like you. I think I’ll keep you around,” she says.

The part of me—that part of everyone that wants to be liked—does a little jig. “Good. I’m very keepable.”

She gestures to the entrance, waggling her phone. “Fair warning. I’m a little into coupons.”

“Me too,” I say, and we’re clearly new besties as we head inside. She’s another thing I like about San Francisco. I’ll miss her when the job ends in three months. Actually, it ends in two months now, but I try not to think about the end date too much. This was always going to be a short-term gig, and there’ll be other jobs when I get back home. Besides, there’s plenty to keep me busy while I’m here.

Like the list. With a basket on my arm, I pick up supplies for number four—eat dessert for breakfast from time to time—with a little more vim and vigor than I usually employ when I’m picking up supplies.

“You look like you have something fun planned. What are you baking?” Everly asks as I grab cinnamon from the spice aisle with an eager hand.

Should I tell her? It’s not a state secret. “A cinnamon sugar puff pastry. Wes and I are making it,” I add. Nothing wrong with sharing that. We’re roomies and all.

But that nugget seems to catch her attention more than I’d expect, maybe since I called him Wes. She tilts her head. “You guys are baking together now?”

Is it weird to cook with your roomie these days? “Of course,” I say, fighting to stay nonchalant. “Sometimes we cook together.”

And I leave him handwritten letters, and he drives me to work, and I give him ibuprofen, and he buys me books, and we’re working through my aunt’s bucket list for me in our free time. That’s all totally normal, right?

“I guess that answers my next question—how it is living with one of the Sea Dogs,” she asks, a pleased smile shifting her lips. “Sounds like you two get along.”

“We get along great,” I chirp out, feeling like a liar even though we do get along well. But I know I’m covering something else up. And it’s not the burgeoning friendship. It’s the reason I can’t wait till Sunday. It’s the flutter in my chest. The tingle sliding down my spine. The ache I feel when I’m near him.

“I’m so glad there’s no weirdness, like sharing a bathroom,” Everly says as we leave the spice aisle.

“We each have our own,” I say quickly, trying to breeze through this uncomfortable conversation. I know she’s not intending it to be uncomfortable. But it is since I’m keeping a secret from my brother, and in turn, her.

“And he’s not parading around in a towel?”

I wish he were. “No,” I say, but it comes out strangled because I would love if Wes did that. He drove me to work again on Monday. And a third time today. Shirtless both times. So thoughtful.

“I didn’t think he would,” Everly says as we reach the self-checkout. “But you know how they make it seem in the movies. The burly athlete walking around in nothing.”

Flames lick my chest over that image. “He never does that,” I say, and mercifully the conversation ends when two registers free up. We separate, giving me and my lies of omission some breathing room.

After Everly and I both pay and pack our reusable bags, we head to the exit, then to Everly’s car parked by the curb.

Once we’re inside, she drives me home, chatting the whole way. She’s upbeat and friendly, but she still surprises me when she says, “I’ve been taking pole-dancing classes, and they’re so fun. I had a friend who always wanted to do them.” Briefly my mind latches onto those words—had a friend. But quickly, she moves past that, asking, “Would you ever want to go?”

Pole and me? Sounds like I’d get another scar on my chin. Or my eyes. Or my vagina. “I’m not coordinated at all.”

“I’m not either. But it’s so fun,” she says as she pulls up at Wes’s home. “If you ever want to try it out, let me know. It’s a great workout, and…I’d love to do it with friends.”

Her voice seems to wobble a bit there at the end, and I can tell this matters to her.

“I promise I’ll think about it,” I say, meaning I’ll look into every single aspect of it since I get the sense she really wants me to go.

But there’s no time to look into it now, since I have to leave in ten minutes.

I don’t even see Wes when I unpack the items for our Sunday morning baking session, plus a few extra apples for him as my “rent” for the week. But I’m not surprised I miss my roomie since he mentioned he was going to a Sea Dogs yoga class and then heading out for a bite to eat with some teammates. I’ll be busy too. My brother’s taking Liv for a quick dinner and I offered to babysit since the babies’ nurse is off tonight.

When I arrive at my brother’s home, he lets me in but immediately Liv hustles me away and tells me everything I need to know about newborns.

It’s an ocean’s worth of information, and my head is swimming. By the time she’s done fifty thousand hours later, I don’t know how Christian and Liv are going to have a moment left for their date. “I’ve got this. Now go,” I say, shooing them to the door.

“Call me if you need anything at all,” she says.

“I will,” I say, but I probably won’t call her. I want to show them I can do this. I owe it to them. The least I can do is help out with the one-month-old twins, after all my brother’s done for me. Christian found me a place to live rent-free, after all.

That’s another reason I shouldn’t think inappropriate thoughts about my landlord. I don’t need a complication in my life. There’s no way I’d land another place to live like Wesley’s ever again.

As they head to the door, Christian turns back and, like he just remembered to ask, says, “How’s the bodyguard? Is he looking out for you?”

I’m twenty-six. I don’t need looking out for. But Christian sees me as his kid sister rather than a grown woman. Considering I came to him in tears four weeks ago, begging for help, I suppose I haven’t given him a reason to see me any other way.

“He’s a great roommate,” I say as an answer, and I’m ready to rattle off all the ways we help each other to show that it’s a give and take with Wesley and me.

Maybe to show me that it’s a give and take.

But even after I rack my brain, I’ve got nothing. What are a few pieces of fruit every now and then when you have a meal planner dropping food off every day? Do I help Wesley at all? Is this whole roommate thing a one-way street, fueled by Wesley’s boundless generosity and my unlimited needs?

My stomach churns in worry as I add up our accounts. Wesley’s made a practice of saving me from the second I met him—the plus-one to get into the gallery, the clothes to get out of my half-birthday suit, the cozy room under the stairs to give me a roof over my head. The list of his kindness doesn’t stop there. He volunteered to go to improv with me. He bought me a book. He drove me to work when I jammed my toe and then even when I didn’t.

My gut sinks. What do I do for him? Tease him about video game skills? Leave him ibuprofen? That’s nothing. A dark cloud moves over my head and I frown, so lost in my own gray thoughts that I barely register Christian’s response, only keying in when he says, “He can be a great hockey player too.”

That knocks me back into sharp focus. “Can be?”

Does Christian think Wesley’s not good enough? I’m ready to fire off all the reasons why Wesley’s an excellent player. How dare my brother think otherwise?!

“Yeah. He’s good—so good I think he could be on the first line real soon,” Christian says, with obvious pride in his tone. “So good I think he could be one of the great ones. That dude busts his ass in every game.”

Oh. It wasn’t a dig. It was a compliment—one of the great ones is huge.

Stand down, Josie.

“That’s awesome,” I say, pleased that my accomplished brother is impressed by my roommate.

“He’s gonna go far,” Christian says, and I’m glad. But his praise is another reminder why I really should stop imagining romantic possibilities with Wesley. My brother depends on my roommate for every game. Wesley made it clear, too, he doesn’t want to take a chance at damaging a work relationship or hurting the team chemistry. “There is no one more disciplined than Bryant,” Christian adds. “Did you know he works out after every game?”

Did you know I want to lick all those muscles he works? “I had no idea,” I say with a big cover-up smile as Liv pats my brother’s arm, like enough, sweetie.

“Babe, I’m pretty sure your sister doesn’t want to hear about how many reps you two do at night.”

“You two do?” I repeat, confused.

Christian nods vigorously. “Dude inspired me. I started doing these post-game workouts with him.”

Great. Now, they’re workout partners. I really need to give Wesley some space. His career is on the rise. He probably doesn’t have the time to be my list sidekick. But he’s too kind to say otherwise.

Liv rolls her eyes at her husband. “Why don’t you tell Josie about his stats too? Let’s go, babe,” she says, then to me, she adds, “you’re the best, Jay. Seriously. I appreciate you coming by tonight.”

“Anytime,” I say.

They take off, and Christian’s remarks hang over me for reasons he can’t know. But for the next hour, I don’t wallow in my worries or think about number four on the list. I can’t think about a thing but diapers and bottles and crying newborns and pacifiers and how to hold two tiny humans at once. It’s literally the longest hour of my life, and by the time my brother and his wife return, I’m ready to collapse into my bed.

But seeing my brother with his arm wrapped around his wife, and her shoulders lighter from the date, fills my cup. They needed this, and I’m glad I was able to help.

Even though I am so not a baby person.

When I finally make it home to a quiet house, I’m sure I’ll crash right away on my bed. Instead, my mind fast forwards to Sunday morning. To my plans with Wes. I wince when I finally realize why I’ve been watching the clock all day—it feels like I’m counting down to a date with him. I’ve been letting it feel that way. I’ve been bathing in that feeling, sinking into the warm water of foolish romantic hopes.

But it’s not a date. It can’t be one. And the more I act like it could be, the more I could hurt him. He’s on the cusp of greatness while I’m only a girl trying to get out of her comfort zone.

Fact is, I’ve been trying to get out of that zone for a while. It’s been two long years since Greta reached for my hand one rainy day in her little bungalow in our small town in Maine, more tired and frail than she’d ever been before, the days left for her on earth inevitably shrinking, and said, “My sweet girl, I’m going to give you something that I desperately want you to have.”

“More time with you?” I croaked out, tears leaking down my face.

She smiled sadly, shaking her head, then said, “If only I could.” She squeezed my hand as hard as she could, which wasn’t hard at all, then pointed to a blank book on her nightstand. “This is for you. So you don’t spend too much time thinking about me.”

“That won’t happen,” I said.

“But maybe it should.”

Then, she handed me a sheet of paper that was on top of the book. A beautiful, handwritten list of the Top Ten Things I Never Regretted, and she said, “Think about doing it, baby. Sooner rather than later.”

It was like she knew I’d drag my feet. She was right.

I stalled out. I didn’t do it. I didn’t even try. I let it sit in the blank book, undone, untackled. Unseen for most of two years.

I could blame the grief. I could blame my master’s degree. But the blame is all mine—I’m the kind of person who takes her time before she does something.

I started the list without Wesley, and truly, I should finish it on my own. That’s the point, after all. I know how to do things solo. I know how to be invisible. I spent most of my life that way, except for when I was with my aunt.

I swallow past the uncomfortable knot in my throat then breathe out hard, past the residual pain of missing. A pain that’s lessened over time but hasn’t fully abated.

Once the emotions subside enough, I peel myself off the mattress, trudge to the bathroom, and wash my face. When I’m makeup free, I rub in vitamin C serum and night cream till my face is shiny.

I look in the mirror. Square my shoulders. Smile. There. I can do this alone, just like I read books alone. Study alone.

I return to my room and take out the list once more, unfolding it. In the quiet of the house, I stare at the fourth item once again—eat dessert for breakfast. I can’t ask him to join me. Wesley is Mister Discipline. True, he had ice cream the night we met. But now that I’ve seen his meal plan and witnessed the way he treats his body like a temple, I can’t ask him to break his rules again. Besides, the list was supposed to help me get out of my comfort zone.

Wesley doesn’t need to change. I do.

I draw a deep breath and leave him a voice memo rather than writing a letter. “Hey! I was thinking about the list. You don’t have to do this. Any of this. Especially number four. It’s not fair for me to ask you. You don’t need to wake up early or anything. I can totally do it alone! Also, you really should let me pay rent, and if you don’t, I’m going to have to donate the money to your favorite animal rescue or something. Just watch me!” And so I don’t sound ungrateful, I add in a brighter, cheerier voice: “But seriously. Thank you for everything you’ve done so far.”

I hit send.

That’s a start. I can do more though. Just to show him I appreciate all he’s done, I get on my laptop and I hunt for tips on Wesley’s zombie video game. I dive into Reddit. I hunt through forums. I rappel through all sorts of tips on how to improve his gameplay. When I’m done, I send him a list of tips in bullet-point form on how to play better.

There.

It’s a small thing, but at least it’s a thing I’ve done for him—not the other way around.