The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

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She deserves a prize, and there’s only one thing to get my bold librarian who faced down the beast of her fear and slayed it.

An hour or so later, I hold out the door to An Open Book on Fillmore Street. It’s close to my house, but beyond that I can’t tell anyone much about it. I don’t hang out here.

But Josie lights up as she walks through the entrance, passing a sign for the Page Turners Book Club. “If I’d known I was getting a book as a prize, I’d have been a little less dramatic before class.”

“My bad,” I say dryly. “I should have told you.”

“It’s okay. I forgive you.” She beelines for the thrillers. That’s not what I’d expected. I’d have pegged her for something…sweeter. I join her as she flips through a book with a dark window on the cover. “I’m into thrillers this month,” she explains before I can ask. “Since it’s October. Halloween and all. Next month it’ll be lit fic. The month after, romance. I’m an omnivore when it comes to books.” She snaps up a paperback called The Woman in the Hotel. “What about you? Can I get you one too?”

For a guy who’s quick on his feet, you’d think I’d have anticipated this moment. But nope. Didn’t cross my mind she’d want to get me a reward gift as well. “Nah, I’m good,” I say, keeping my answer light and easy, hoping she doesn’t ask more questions.

But no such luck.

“I don’t mind. I have the money,” she says. Ah, hell, she thinks it’s a finance thing, like when I refused her rent offer. “I pay my landlord in a couple pieces of fruit a week, so I’ve got extra.”

“I’m all good,” I say, and just so she doesn’t try to buy me something, because she would—the fruit is the evidence—I add, “I prefer to read digitally.”

That’s a lie, but it’s one that must make perfect sense to a reader like her since she says, “Oh, sure. I get that.”

But as we head to the counter, I picture her sneak attacking me with a gift later, in the form of an e-book delivered to an e-reader I don’t have. I’d be a jerk if I let her do that. For now though, I try to ignore this guilty feeling though as I buy her the book, then nod toward the café. “Want a cup for surviving item number two? Or is it too late for you?”

“It’s way past my bedtime, but I will still take that victory cup, thank you very much,” she says, lifting her chin, proud and rightfully so.

After we order and sit with our coffees, I say, “You should know I wrote your eulogy during the yard of the month bit.”

“You did?”

“You demanded it,” I say, then take a drink.

She sweeps out an arm. “I want to hear it.”

After the other night when I unbuttoned my shirt for her in the kitchen, and after this evening when we flirted on stage, I don’t hold back. I lean back in the chair, then, like I’m speaking before a crowd, I say, “She died flirting with a sexy stranger.”

“Not a bad way to go.”

“Fucking the sexy stranger would be better,” I say, before I can think the better of it.

She blinks, her lips parting, and I love that look. Love her response even more when she says, “Yes, it would be a preferable way to go.”

For a moment, the air between us is charged, sparking with possibilities. Her blue eyes darken, flames flickering in them.

But the flame gutters out because of those damn roomie rules. Because we’re not going there. Because flirting during improv is one thing. Doing it in real life is another. Best to steer this ship elsewhere. “What changed for you? On stage? You seemed pretty good at improv in the end,” I continue. “I’m curious.”

“I thought about my aunt. She once said—when I was heading into a debate class in high school—that it was okay to be afraid. That memory sort of boomeranged back to me tonight. Like a reminder that it’s okay to sit with discomfort.”

I chew on that, thinking of how I’m sitting with the discomfort over her wanting to buy me a book. “Good advice. I probably feel that more than I’d admit.”

“Discomfort or fear?”

“Both, if I’m being honest.”

“What are you afraid of?”

I turn the cup, sitting with my discomfort over what I’m not telling her about myself. I can at least start with answering her honestly. “Not being able to play hockey. Not being able to play it well. Life without hockey. I want a life besides it, but I also want a long life with it.”

“It’s a paradox,” she says, nodding thoughtfully. “But that also makes sense why you’re so disciplined about it—so you can play for a long time.” She pauses, tilts her head. “You’re not afraid of public speaking at all though. Is it because of media training and stuff?”

I picture her list. The item we worked on tonight. The item wasn’t go to improv. It was overcome a fear. She overcame one this evening. I ought to do the same. I dig down and face that fear head-on—sharing parts of myself. “No. I chose to be good at it from an early age. Because I hated it at first.”

Questions flicker across her blue irises.

This isn’t my fondest memory, but I share it anyway. “In second grade, when a teacher called on me to read something out loud to the class, I hated every second of it so much. I felt really stupid, because I could barely…read.”

Her eyes widen, but she says nothing—just waits patiently for me to go on.

“Later, when I finally could, and we had to read out loud in class, I would count the number of kids in front of me so that I could take a guess at what I’d have to read. I’d spend the whole time reading that over and over so I wouldn’t mix up the words. When it was my turn, I wasn’t truly reading it—I’d have memorized it. But eventually, I had to get over my hatred of speaking in front of people, so I worked on it. Since speaking in public is easier for me than writing or reading is.”

I don’t offer this intel to most people. Not because I’m ashamed, but because it’s no one’s business. But Josie’s shared herself with me. She’s earned this knowledge. So I finish with: “I have dyslexia.”

Her brow knits, then her eyes flicker with…interest. That’s not what I’d expected to see in them. I’d figured sympathy would cross her gaze. Instead, I see genuine care, and curiosity. “I had no idea. But thanks for telling me,” she says.

And that’s that. She doesn’t ask how to fix me. She doesn’t say she’s sorry. She doesn’t give me a look like I’m too different from her. I scratch my jaw, feeling a little unburdened but also still uncomfortable. So I bite off the rest of the truth. “Actually, I hate reading,” I say, and wow, that’s freeing. “I don’t want you to buy me a book. I can read. I learned how. I just think it’s…well, let’s just say I feel about reading the way you feel about improv.”

“It’s Satan’s work?” she asks with a wry smile.

“It really fucking is to me.”

She nods thoughtfully, clearly taking the time to absorb that comparison, then she winces. “Did the notes I left bother you?”

I shake my head. “Nah, your handwriting is like Comic Sans MS. It’s awesome.”

She laughs, bright and happy. “I always knew that was the best font.”

“It is. That’s just facts.” Then, I tell her something else that I’ve held back. “I like your notes.”

“You do?” She sounds delighted.

“They’re a window into you,” I add.

“You sure you didn’t hate reading them? I can leave you voicemail messages in the future.”

I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary. “Voicemail is fine, but I don’t want you to stop leaving notes because you think I don’t like it. I definitely didn’t hate reading them.” But that’s only a slice of the truth. I decide to take it a step further and give her all of it. “Actually, they’re kind of my favorite thing to read.”

Her smile blooms like a sunflower as she takes another drink of her coffee. When she sets it down, she says, “Be careful what you wish for then.”

I lean back in the chair, cross my arms. “Have at it, Jay. Let’s see those five things you should know about me start to pile up.”

“Oh, it’s on, Bryant. It is on.” She pauses, her eyes curious again, then she asks, “Can I ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“Why is public speaking easier?”

That’s a good question. One I’ve thought about a lot. “I prefer speaking to writing—a whole helluva lot—so I made the effort to be good at it. And my dad hired like a million tutors, and got me all sorts of assistive technology, like text-to-speech and even this pen that scans documents and reads it to you. He got me everything.”

“And that helped?”

At the time, it was so much work. Exhausting work learning new ways to, well, learn. But I’m grateful for how over-involved he was. He gave me the tools I needed. He had the right toolbox. “It did. I like the text-to-speech more than the pen. But yeah, I learned how to work with my dyslexia.” Then I pause. “But it’s not something I tell a lot of people. Like the team and stuff. It doesn’t affect my ability to do my job.”

“That makes a lot of sense.”

But that’s not all there is to it. There are other reasons. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I also don’t want people to see me differently,” I say, serving up that raw truth. “Or to think I can’t do something or handle something because of a learning disability. Like, what if Everly thinks I can’t prep for a media interview for some reason, or Coach thinks I’d have trouble reviewing plays? I can do those things.” Then I give an easy shrug. “But honestly, I don’t have the kind of job where reading is really a big issue, so I guess I’m lucky.”

“I get that. And we don’t owe every part of ourselves to the world. You don’t have to share it with anyone you don’t want to share it with.”

She’s quiet for a beat, and I can see the cogs turning in her mind. It’s coming. I know it’s coming. Anna tried this tactic with me, and I need to cut it off at the knees or it’ll piss me off. “You’re not going to tell me to listen to audiobooks, are you?” I ask it defensively. I feel it defensively.

Laughing, she shakes her head. “No. I’m not. I don’t think you told me this so I could give you book recs. You told me because you wanted to share.”

“I did. I want you to know me,” I say, as my chest floods with a new emotion—something warm, something soft. Josie understands me and that’s rare. It’s not magic though. It’s not fate. It’s not even chemistry. It’s effort—she takes the time to listen, and puts in the work to understand. But I like to think I understand her a little more each day too. “You’re going to research the fuck out of this, aren’t you?” I ask, teasing her.

She gives me a look like I’ve nailed it. “You know me so well.”

Because she’s let me in, and that’s rare too. I want to treat it like the gift that it is.

On the way home, she pulls a tube of lipstick from her little bag and slides it across her lips as I drive along our block. I steal a glance at her as she presses them together. They’re pink and shiny now, and I’m fucking aroused.

Great. Just great.

When I pull into the garage, I make up some excuse about checking a group chat with the guys. “I’ll be inside in a second,” I say.

She goes ahead, and when my dick settles down a minute later, I follow. She’s on the couch already, waving the list. It’s not like I want to be anywhere else but near her, so I join her. She grabs one of her pens and crosses off item number two, but only half of it. “We both did this tonight,” she says, giving me the pen so I can finish the strike-through.

“We did,” I say, seconding her as I draw the rest of the line.

Together, we look at the list of ten items with three completed so far.

1. Have a one-night stand with a sexy stranger.

2. Overcome a fear (take a class you can’t prepare for, baby! Psst—improv class time!)

3. Make a friend who’s nothing like you. You learn the most from them.

When I give the pen back to her, she taps the fourth thing on the list. “Are you ready for number four?”

I shudder at the thought. It’s a simple item, but a terrifying one too. I draw a soldiering breath. “I’d better be.”

“We can do it next weekend. You have a game tomorrow and also on Sunday, so I’m guessing next weekend is better. Sunday morning?”

A surge of happiness floods me from this detail—she knows my game schedule. But then, I try not to read too much into it. We live together. It’s just good sense to know your roomie’s sked. Strategic too.

“Next Sunday works,” I say.

“Good. We can plan this week.”

“Of course,” I say, amused at how thoroughly she does homework for everything in her life.

She caps the pen, looks at the clock on the wall with a wistful gaze, then says, “I should go to bed. I have an early meeting then I’m working late at the library tomorrow.”

She pushes up from the couch, but pauses, like she wants to say something else. Or maybe do something else. “Wesley,” she begins in a voice full of promise.

My chest seizes with a feral sort of want. A hunger rises inside me, climbing up my body. “Yes?” I ask hoarsely.

“I never showed you the video of the pigeons.”

A laugh bursts from me. “Do you want to show me pigeon porn?”

“It’s worth your while,” she says, a teasing lilt to her tone.

I pat the couch and she returns, sinking back down onto the gray cushion. This time, she’s a couple inches closer to me. This time, I catch her scent—the fading notes of cinnamon, twined with vanilla. Her hair, I think. The combo scrambles my brain, and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to tug on her hair, dip my face to her neck, inhale her.

Especially when she leans closer, clicks on the folder on her phone, and scoots another inch nearer. We dip our heads toward the screen, but I’m acutely aware of how close she is as she shows me a video of birds banging.

“It’s…not what I expected,” I say when it’s over. But then again, she’s not either.

“I know, right?” Then she pulls back to meet my eyes once more in the near dark. “You’re not either.”

And tonight, I decide that’s a good thing. “Same to you,” I say, then narrow in on her glasses. They’re a little smudged. Probably from the day. She doesn’t need me to do this, but I do it anyway. “Your glasses,” I say, then reach carefully for them. “They’re dirty.”

“Oh,” she says, raising her chin toward me, a subtle way of giving me permission. Carefully, I hold the delicate arms and slide them off her face.

Her breath hitches. She swallows noticeably as I bring them to my mouth, and blow on them. Lifting the hem of my shirt, I gently rub the lenses, cleaning them. Her gaze drifts down to my stomach, visible now.

Did I do that on purpose? Maybe. She likes to look, and I like the attention. A lot.

I take a good long time cleaning her glasses. When I’m done, she shudders in a breath. Then holds in another one as I glide them slowly, carefully back on her face.

We stay like that, inches apart in the almost dark, neither of us moving for several stretched-out seconds.

Till she says, “Thanks. They’re all better now.”

“Good.”

This time, she leaves, heading off to her room under the staircase while I go the other way, trying not to think of her as I get ready for bed.

No such luck. She’s exactly what I think of after I shut the door, change, and slide between the sheets. She’s precisely what’s on my mind as I turn off the lights and deal with all this lust for my roomie that’s starting to feel like a little more than lust.