The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

Three days into my new job at a small branch of the San Francisco Public Library, and my stomach didn’t growl embarrassingly during my meeting today, my teeth didn’t become a net for lettuce when my new boss took me to lunch at a nearby salad bar yesterday, and I didn’t trip and fall on my face, ass, or knee at all this week.This content belongs to Nô/velDra/ma.Org .

Not that I am prone to those things. But I am human after all. And I’ve read enough books where the heroine has a Very Bad Day during the first week on a new job and thus needs to drown her sorrows in chardonnay and cookie dough that weekend.

I’m counting the fact that I don’t need a double dose of food and wine sympathy as a big win.

Bonus points I’m giving myself? I didn’t once try to massage the kink out of my ass, neck, or back while at work. This might be the biggest victory of all since that loose spring in Maeve’s couch is no joke. I’m so convinced it’s out to get me I’ve named it The Kid. As in, The Kid from Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree—also known as the greatest villain in all of literature.

The Kid is sharp, pointy, and merciless, and my body is paying the price. But I’m moving into my short-term rental tomorrow after work, and I refuse to complain about another night on the floor (since The Kid was so vicious last night, I moved to the hard wood at Maeve’s, hence the migration of said kink to my back and neck.)

Besides, I’m all about looking on the bright side after my week kicked off with the world’s greatest one-night stand. My string of good luck then continued. My new boss, Thalia Rosenstein, is super cool. She told me there’s a guy named the Great Grimaldi and when he comes in to use the library’s recently opened digitization center I should jump at the chance to help him, since he’s digitizing his old magic shows and you can learn the coolest things. She also spilled that Eddie, who handles the city’s research collections, likes to nuke tuna fish in the microwave every day at 12:01 so the break room is best avoided then, and the rattling noise in the stairwells isn’t a ghost but a raccoon, who may or may not be living in the walls, but who occasionally has been spotted in the ladies’ restroom on the third floor.

Thalia also set me up with real projects on my first day—not just busy work. Thanks to a newly established grant the library won from The Violet Delia Foundation for Library Digital Empowerment, I’m here at this branch in the Upper Haight on a three-month position to work on its digitization initiatives. That includes teaching some classes to patrons on how to best use online resources and helping the public digitize their own materials, like cassette tapes, Super 8, and floppy disks. I’ll also work on managing the library’s existing digital collections and promoting them to the public. Since digital archives was a key focus for my master’s degree, I jumped at the chance.

As I’m packing up behind the second floor desk, I turn to Thalia, who’s taking a pile of books from the returns tray.

“Thanks again for the raccoon tip. I’m not sure if I want to only use the third floor restroom or never use it now,” I say. “I mean, raccoons can be cute.”

“It’s a real dilemma,” she says dryly, then swivels away from her desktop, and lifts a finger, covered in silver skull rings that match the silver bracelets jangling up and down the light brown skin of her arms. How she wears bracelets and types all day is a mystery to me, but the bracelets sound like pretty bells so I don’t mind the intrigue. “Oh! One more thing, Josie. On Fridays, Dolores from the children’s wing brings her special brownies.”

I pause, digesting that nugget. When I hear special and brownies I think of the ones some of my friends made in grad school—special as in laced with a little something extra to make the day, or night, feel real chill. I arch a curious brow but keep my tone even as I ask, “Special in what way?”

“As in they’re made with melted dark chocolate.”

Oh, that’s a relief. “What time do I need to be here to make sure they aren’t all gone?”

She nods approvingly. “I knew you’d understand.” She looks around furtively, then whispers, “Eight fifty-five. The vultures from circulation descend at nine. Also, tomorrow afternoon we have a training session on how to help people experiencing homelessness. Might last into the early evening since there are often lots of questions.”

“I’ll be there,” I say, glad the library is tackling this important topic since any library staff member these days needs to work compassionately with the unsheltered, as well as patrons with substance use disorders or mental illnesses who come through our wide open doors.

For now though, I’m happy to leave work behind. Because this little information specialist has a project and a plan for her Thursday night.

After I sling my bag over my shoulder, I grab the tiny cactus I picked up last night at Welcome to the Jungle, a plant shop over on Fillmore Street run by a retired hockey star from the Sea Dogs. I smooth my free hand over my white button-down blouse, then along my black pencil skirt and head to the circular stairway. My flats click clack with a loud but satisfying echo through the weird little library that’s quickly become my home away from home.

I reach the exit, then walk past the fire station next door. Some of the guys who work here are out washing their cherry-red truck. I smile a hello, and the three of them smile back. I continue on in the San Francisco evening. It’s warm since it’s October, but I still instinctively reach for my scarf to wrap it around my neck. But of course, it’s not here. A pang of sadness hits me every time I do this phantom move. I realized when I left the hospital on Monday afternoon, after cuddling my little nephews as much as I could, that I’d probably left the accessory behind in the hotel room.

But when I popped into The Resort that evening to see if it was in their lost and found, the clerk checked and then frowned an apology.

“Sorry, Greta,” I say to the sky, since that scarf was her favorite. It was the scarf I’d played dress-up with as a little girl when I’d stayed with her. I’d wrap it around my head, put on her glasses, and pretend I was a granny. Or we’d dress up her rescue Labrador, turning Lulu Blossom into a cowgirl with it, or Rosie the Riveter.

“Scarves are the unsung heroes of the fashion world. They add personality to an outfit, they add flair, and they add a certain je ne sais quoi,” Greta had said, then tucked a finger under my chin. “And you, my love, are a je ne sais quoi type of person, so wear it that way.”

I’d like to think wearing it as a belt on Sunday night was so very je ne sais quoi.

And if I had to lose the scarf, leaving it at the scene of my night in sex heaven seems the perfect place to let that part of me go. I straighten my shoulders and walk like I’m still wearing it. I’ll find another one. I’ll hit the thrift shops this weekend once I move into my new place. Once I’m settled, I can tackle the rest of Greta’s list in earnest. I’ve already started researching the second item she left for me to do. Now that I’ve tackled the first one, it’ll be easier—I think—to work my way through the list.

But even though I’m researching item two, I can’t stop thinking about item number one.

The way Wesley touched me. The way he teased me. The way he talked to me. A hot shiver slides down my spine.

And the way I see it—I was faithful to the list when I checked that first item off. It was a one-night stand with a sexy stranger through and through. Since I completed the task so perfectly, I figure I’m free and clear to see him again. Not as a one-night stand.

I mean, the logic holds up. That is, if I can find him again. My stomach dips with nerves and hope.

I’m almost tempted to tell my mom I started doing the list her sister gave me before she died. Mom hasn’t seen the list, but she knows it exists. She’s asked me a few times about it. Right now though, she’s way too focused on her athlete son’s babies. Understandable. Truly it is. Though, she’s always been focused on him. She’s a former athlete, so I get it. My dad is too. Mom played college volleyball and won an NCAA championship, and Dad ran track, so they’ve always just had their bond with their firstborn who skated before he walked. It’s fine. I’m used to it. Mom’s flying in this weekend to help out for the next week.

As I walk, I text Maeve since she knows about my plan to try to find Wesley tonight.

Josie: I’m doing it! I’m on my way.

Maeve: I know, my little tiger!

My brow knits. She knows? I voice dictate my reply as I weave past early evening crowds in the Upper Haight.

Josie: How do you know?

Maeve: You’re on the corner of Webster and Hayes. You’re almost there!

Dammit. I never turned off my location tracker.

Maeve: Also, looking at your location history, I see you went to Elodie’s Chocolates today at lunch. I’m hoping you got me some. But I’m most interested in this visit you paid last night to my favorite “toy store” after work. I thought you were just going to the plant shop. Did you go into Risqué Business and pick up a battery-operated gift for your girl? You holding out on me?

Red splashes across my cheeks. Of course Maeve would notice that. She was the devil to my angel one Halloween in college after all.

Josie: Yes, but your toy is so big it’s requiring a forklift. Hope you can carry it up the stairs!

Maeve: Now that just makes me want it even more!

I put the phone away and check the numbers on the storefronts. The gallery’s on the next block. As I walk the final fifty feet, I steel myself. Frieda didn’t like me when I begged her to let me in on Sunday. There’s a very good chance she won’t help me tonight. A great one, in fact. But this is my only recourse. If I can convince her to give me Wesley’s last name, I can track him down. The Internet and me are tight, and I can find anything on it.

All I need is that one tiny detail.

I’m prepared, though, to bargain with the ice queen. I researched Frieda, learned she studied art history in London, she loves fine wine (I don’t have the budget for that), fine art (definitely don’t have the budget for that), Antibes (as if), and cactus plants.

Yay, plants! I picked up a tiny bunny ears cactus and I’m hoping to use it as an apology gift, and, well, a lubricant. After all, when I first met Frieda, she pretended to be someone else so as not to have to deal with me.

When I arrive at the gallery, I gather my nerves and head inside the sterile place with futuristic art. My shoes clack louder than they do at the library, echoing around the white walls, adorned with nightmarish visions.

“I’ll be right there,” she says warmly in a somewhat British tone from a back room.

Butterflies flap in my chest as I say, “Thank you” as cheerily as I can.

But when Frieda emerges, her expression turns stony, a brow elevating in disdain as she sizes me up. “I see you discovered the existence of clothing stores.”

I absorb the blow, deflecting it. “I did. I wanted to thank you. For letting me into your event the other night.”

Her right eye twitches. Like she doesn’t want to say it wasn’t her choice. “I do so hope you were able to locate your phone. Maybe consider a lanyard or a crossbody bag to attach it to next time. That’s what parents do for young children,” she offers with so much false kindness it’s as impressive as the white pantsuit with the plunging neckline that she wears.

“Great tip. I appreciate it,” I say, trying my best to appear upbeat and undeterred. “I’m here to offer a little thank you gift.”

“You’re going to buy a piece of art? How lovely. Come on now, darling. I’ll show you around.”

“Actually, I can’t.”

“Oh, why not?” It’s asked with so much concern.

Because each piece of this horrid art is over five thousand dollars, you snob. “I don’t have the budget,” I say honestly, then brace myself for the toughest ask of all. It feels like scaling a ten-story wall. In Louboutins. “I was hoping you could give me Wesley’s last name.”

She blinks, peering at me first with utter confusion then villainous delight. “Your date? Your plus-one? The one who likes to surprise you with his fantastic date ideas, so he told you to meet him here?”

She parrots my words back to me so precisely that my stomach twists. I knew this wouldn’t be easy. I didn’t know it would be this hard. Make me feel this small. But she has the moral high ground and the information, so I can’t argue with her. “Yes,” I say, swallowing roughly. “Do you think you could give me his last name?”

I hold out the plant in a peace offering.

“Do you not have it, darling?” Her tone is dripping with concern.

Sadly, I shake my head. “I don’t.”

“Let me see if I can remember it. Hmm.” She sighs, taps her chin, stares at the ceiling. “It’s coming back to me.” She lowers her face, smiles serenely, and says, “His name is…”

I hold my breath. She’s not an evil ice queen after all. She can melt.

“Wesley,” she continues, then mimes typing on a keyboard. “The guy I met at a gallery who doesn’t want to see me again. There. Just put it into Google. Just like that.”

I feel two feet tall. Talk about a slap in the face. I’m reeling as she crosses the distance in her spiky heels, sticking out a bony hand, reaching for the plant. “The bunny ears, please.”

Briefly, I fantasize about flicking my hair, channeling the scarf power even though I’m not wearing it, and saying ever so coolly, “You can find it online. Just search for unkillable plants that even I could kill with my bitchiness.”

But I don’t. Instead, I yank the plant closer to my chest, spin on my heels, and get the hell out of there, race-walking away from her gallery, powered by my own frustration.

It was stupid of me to think that could work. Just foolish to believe I could pull off that kind of request. What’s the point anyway? Frieda’s smack back is probably a sign the one-night stand is supposed to stay a one-night stand.

As I unleash an annoyed sigh, my phone rings. I’m reaching for it when I realize too that my chest feels a little strange—a bit scratchy and uncomfortable. But before I can figure out why, I check the screen. It’s a 415 number from Johnson Properties—that’s the place I’m moving into tomorrow. The landlord probably wants to give me the passcode or something.

“This is Josie,” I answer.

The rough, gravelly voice on the other end says, “Hey, hey, hey, Ms. Winters. This is Barry Johnson. I have some good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

Probably a broken pipe. Possibly a toilet installed upside-down. I can handle either. “Bad news, of course,” I say.

“Cool. I’ll start with the good news,” he says.

Why did he even ask? “Okay.”

Barry wastes no time. “So it’s more like world’s greatest news since I just signed a sweet deal to sell this building. Ten percent above asking price.”

This is worse than I’d imagined. I feel like I was just dropped out of a plane without a parachute. My stomach bottoms out as I say weakly, “The bad news is I don’t have a place to stay?”

“You are sharp, girlie,” he says with a whistle, like he’s genuinely impressed with me adding up two plus two. “But the other good news is I have a buddy, Donny, who’s got a deal for a short-term rental, just for my referrals. He can lease a one-bedroom to you at a bargain.”

There’s hope on the horizon! “Where? When can I move in? How much?”

“Russian Hill. Sunday, and a helluva deal at $3999 a month.”

My eyes bug out. “I can’t afford that on my starting salary.” I wouldn’t be able to afford that for many years. If ever.

“No worries. He thought you might say that. More good news is this—he’s got a one-bedroom that you can share with three other people as long as he doesn’t disclose how many are on the lease. Plus, there’s a bathroom down the hall for you all to share.”

I stop, lean against the wall of Better With Pockets, and close my eyes for a beat. When I open them and look down, my chest is bleeding right above the neckline of my shirt. Great. Just great. The cactus has pricked me.

“Thanks, Barry. But I’ll have to pass,” I say, then hang up.

My throat tightens as my chest bleeds into my white shirt. Tears well behind my eyes. From Frieda’s insults to the cactus attack to the terrible news, I can’t deal anymore with my upside-down luck that seems to flip-flop by the day.

My eyes sting, but I suck back tears and stab my brother’s name. I hate doing this. I truly do. Especially now when he has his hands full.

I call my brother.

Christian’s blue eyes are tired but also pleased. The gold flecks in them almost seem to be twinkling. Which is a weird reaction to me telling him my sob story on the back deck of his spacious home on California Street, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, as he holds Cooper while Caleb nurses inside with Liv. But I try not to read anything into his reaction—he’s a new dad and is also in the starting lineup for tomorrow’s season opener. He has a lot on his plate. Which is why I wish I didn’t have to come to him.

“Don’t worry, Jay,” he says, reassuringly. “I’ll help you out.”

I look at him with still-wet eyes. I can’t believe I’m crying over a lost rental. But it’s not only the rental falling through. It’s how much I want this job. I’m three days in and I already love it. I don’t want to lose it simply because I have no place to stay. Jobs like this are hard to come by. Cities like San Francisco, though, are even harder to live in.

Maeve volunteered to let me stay with her, but her place is too small. And, well, The Kid haunts it. So here I am, with a Band-Aid on my chest, a bloody shirt, and an attacking cactus, asking my brother for help. I hate asking anyone in my family but my aunt for anything.

But I have no choice.