The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Wesley

I’m addicted to these pictures. I’m practically climbing out of my skin on Saturday morning when I wake up in the team hotel, flicking through them again, staring at them, enjoying them.

I think about them at breakfast with my teammates.

I think about them as we check out of the hotel.

I think about them on the way to the New York arena for a Saturday afternoon game.

But that’s the problem. I can’t have a woman on my mind when I’m playing, especially against my former team. I want to do well against everyone, but I especially want New York to miss me hard.

I liked it here in the city. Liked the fans. Liked the camaraderie. Tried not to take it personally when they traded me last season. I had the stats. Had the skills. Had the ability to play well here. Am I pissed they let me go? Hard to be when I’m playing even better in San Francisco.

Their loss—my gain.

Still, I want to show them it’s their loss. That’ll take my mind off those goddamn pictures too. When we reach their arena, I laser in on hockey, only hockey.

New York wins the face-off and charges down the ice ferociously, their center hell-bent on scoring early. He slams the puck toward Max, and like it’s invisible, the black disc flies right past our goalie. Well, shit.

The lamp lights in the first fifteen seconds. That won’t do. That won’t do at all.

Maybe I’m having a delayed reaction to the trade, but fuck them for not needing me. Screw them for casting me off. I’m not letting my new team lose to my old team.

When the line changes, I hop over the boards, single-minded in my pursuit of one thing and one thing only—a win. Whatever it takes.NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

Maybe I’m a little hungrier since it hasn’t been the greatest series of away games. It’s a rare week when we play four games. We’ve played two since our win in Vegas and lost both. I’d really like to salvage this trip and return to San Francisco evened up on this road trip.

As we’re jostling in the corners, I get knocked into the boards. They get the puck, and New York rushes ahead toward center ice. I’m flying there seconds later. But Alexei snags the puck from their forward, then passes it back to me as I spin around. I’ve got it, and I skate toward their net as fast as I can. But the toughest defenseman on the New York team—a big, mean guy named Karlsson—strips me of the puck when I’m this close to the net.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

He flashes a dickhead smile. “Looks like you missed us. Can’t say the same.”

I know this drill. I was on the same side of it when I played with him. Guy is mouthy. And yet, I’m letting it get to me since I’m clenching my jaw as I hop off the ice.

My annoyance skyrockets, though, in the second period when Karlsson’s blocking my every move, knocking me into the boards, chirping at me with real winners like “Guess you went soft on the West Coast” and “We traded you just before you started sucking.”

He’s always been such an asshole, but I vastly preferred it when he was an asshole to others.

Irritation pours through my veins, but I do my best to ignore it. A few minutes later, after Asher flips the puck to me, I try to get a shot on goal, and I’m this close, I swear I’m this close. But Karlsson barrels toward me and I rush the play, colliding with their goalie instead of slipping a puck past him.

Fuck me.

I grit my teeth, knowing it’s coming—a two-minute penalty for goaltender interference. I hit the box and stew.

Should I have tried to avoid contact? Yes. You can’t take a shot while messing with the goalie’s ability to defend the net.

And yet I did. Because of a former teammate’s trash talk throwing me off.

The New York fans are chanting power play, but the guys on my side hold them off. Thank fuck I didn’t make it worse for my team. When I’m out of the box, I try to shove whatever residual emotions I didn’t think I’d have far, far away.

Like to the South Pole far.

Once I’m back on the bench a few minutes later, Coach McBride comes over and gives me a chin nod. “Put that out of your mind, Bryant. Got that?”

It’s said gruffly but without judgment. Like he understands but needs me to move the hell on. Fair enough.

“Yes, sir,” I say, then narrow all my focus to the game.

When I’m back on the ice and get a shot on goal again, I refuse to mess it up this time. Hard and aggressively, I send the puck flying till it lodges in the twine, taking no prisoners.

Yes!

That ties it up, and in the third period, Chase scores to seal a messy win. It’s exhausting, but that’s hockey for you. The best part is when I leave the arena, heading toward the team bus, and my phone buzzes with a text.

Josie: Fuck Karlsson.

A smile has me in its grip. Immediately, I’m picturing Josie at our next game, parked in a seat on center ice, cheering me on and heckling the other team. That thought revs my engine—her ferocity. I would love to play with her in the house.

Wesley: We need to get you in the stands at the next game.

Ideally in my jersey. But I don’t add that.

Josie: I’ll wear my good luck scarf.

A burst of hot adrenaline rushes through my veins. I don’t even need to ask why she’s calling it her good luck scarf. I’m betting it’s because she wore it the night she met me. By the time we’re crossing the tarmac to the team jet a little later, the thrill of victory hasn’t totally worn off—nor has the buzz from Josie’s texts.

“Did you get a feeling that Karlsson has bad blood with Bryant?” Max drawls as we head down the aisle, claiming our usual seats.

Asher shakes his head sympathetically as I shoulder my way into his row, across from Max.

“Did you date his mom?” he asks. “Steal his girlfriend? Put Whiny Bastard as the name on the back of his jersey one night, and he didn’t notice?”

I smile evilly. “Should have done that one,” I say, then I scratch my jaw as I settle into the seat. I really can’t let the assholes of the world get me down. “But I did beat him at poker every single time. Dude has zero strategy.”

“And you, man—you’re all fucking strategy,” Max says with a proud nod.

“You are and we appreciate it,” Asher adds, just as earnest.

It’s a rare moment among these guys when we aren’t giving each other hell. When we’re abundantly honest, and I’ll take that, along with the bruises from all the hits I took tonight.

“Thanks, man,” I say, to the both of them.

“Speaking of, we should play,” Max says, then takes out a deck from his bag and shuffles. Before Texas Hold’em starts, though, my phone pings with a message.

I’m itchy to check it. What if it’s Josie again? My hand moves to my pocket, but I stop myself. I should just play cards. It’s risky to open a message now. Then again, my texts don’t automatically show pics. Max isn’t done dealing…

Screw it. I’m too amped up on the dizzying possibility of a note from her, so I click on my texts lightning fast, but groan in disappointment.

“It’s my…” I cut myself off before I say Dad to my friends, saying agent instead. He reps Alexei, too, and plenty of other pro hockey players. Best if I try to think of him as my agent.

“Go ahead,” Max says, getting it.

I shake my head. “I’ll catch him in between hands.”

But I fold easily—maybe I’m distracted by what I know is coming from him. Criticism. When they’re upping the ante on the hand, I return to his text, and yup, I’m right.

Dad: Nice goal, but you’ve got to play cleaner. Haven’t seen a goaltender penalty on you in years.

No shit, Dad. It was practically Karlsson’s fault, but that’s not an excuse.

Wesley: Yeah, I know, but being back in New York and all…

Only, the second I hit send I know that won’t fly with him, and he calls me on it.

Dad: What does that have to do with it?

My stomach churns. My teammates get it. My dad probably never will. Trouble is, he’s also…right. I don’t usually let that shit get to me. I was sloppy. That’s why Coach told me to move on. Different approach, and I like Coach’s better. I blow out a breath and suck it up.

Wesley: Good point. You’re right. Thanks for the reminder.

Dad: Happy to help! Let’s get together for lunch when you’re back in town. We also still need to find some art for your walls. Tomorrow?

I stifle a groan. I just want to…do nothing tomorrow.

Wesley: I’ll hit you up then.

I do ignore the phone this time as I play a few hands with my teammates, feeling understood with them. With how they saw the interaction with Karlsson. Who cares if my dad and I don’t see eye to eye? At least my teammates do. We play for an hour, and Max and Asher take all my money. Coach strolls by at one point and Asher tips his chin at the guy in charge, saying, “Coach, you want to get in on it? Bryant is an easy target tonight.”

He stops, peers at Asher, and gives him a stern, serious look. “But I’m not. You still sure you want me in?”

Asher gulps, blanching. “No, sir.”

We play a few more hands till the game peters out, and I waggle my earbuds. “Gonna chill,” I say, then I turn to the window.

But chilling doesn’t come easily. As we slide into that time on the flight when everyone goes into their own worlds, I can’t quite get into my playlist of new tunes. I’m antsy, revved up.

My phone is burning a hole in my pocket. My mind is flooding with those images of Josie from last night. My body is crackling as we cross the country, flying closer to home.

I haven’t seen her since last Sunday. It’s been nearly a week. I thought about her more than I’d expected while I was out of town. I’m still thinking of her. I’m not sure that’s going to stop.

I’m not sure I want it to stop.

I click open the messages, sliding my thumb over the screen, weighing my choices. I’ll be in the same space as her very, very soon. What’s that going to be like? But I know what I want it to be like. If one fuck Karlsson text thrills me this much, I’m pretty sure I made my choice. I send her a text with no guilt, no second-guessing.

Wesley: Can’t get those photos out of my mind.

It’s Saturday night. No idea what she’s up to. But she responds in ten minutes.

Josie: Maybe this will help get them out of your mind.

My phone says an image is loading. My pulse roars. Excitement pings through my every cell. Furtively, I scan the plane. It’s dark and quiet, but I angle the phone even more, so no one can see it. I’m not the first guy on my team who’s angled his phone. I won’t be the last.

My mouth waters as I click it open. I push my fist against my mouth and bite my knuckle so I don’t groan in pleasure.

The shot is artful and dripping with desire all at once. It’s like a slice of life and a moment of lust somehow combined. Looks like she’s on the back deck of my house, with a glass of wine sitting on the wooden table at the edge of the shot. There’s a charcuterie board on the table too, with some grapes and fruit on it. But that’s not where my gaze goes. The forefront of the shot is her hand on the side of her chest, looped around a black lacy bra strap. She’s tugging it slightly away from her skin—skin I want to lick and kiss.

Is that…new? The bra?

No idea, but the possibility that she bought a new piece of lingerie turns me into a furnace. I can’t hold back.

Wesley: Is that new?

Josie: The charcuterie board? No, it’s yours, Wes.

Even though she sent a text, I can hear my name said on her mouth. Can feel the vibration of the letters as she says them in a tease. All I want is to speed up time.

Wesley: Don’t take it off yet.

Too bad I have two fucking hours left.

Two hours to think.

Two hours to consider.

Two hours to debate.

But really, was there ever any debate at all? Or, to put it more accurately, I spent the last six weeks debating. The debate is over now.

When we land, I’m off the plane before anyone else. Turning on my car in no time, racing home through the streets of San Francisco at a record pace, then pulling into the garage and getting out of my car right as the garage door closes behind me.

I don’t waste a second.

I leave my duffel on the floor and head up the stairs, not even bothering to toe off my shoes.

If she’s asleep, I want her to hear me. I want her to wake up. I want to make it worth her while.

I scan the living room. No sign of Josie. I walk into the kitchen. It’s quiet and clean. I stop at the sink, quickly wash my hands, then I march to her bedroom, ready to rip down the door. But it’s wide open and when I peer inside, she’s not there.

I need to see her right now.

I stride to the back deck, a man on a mission. At the glass door, my heart stops, stutters. She’s curled up in a deck chair, a blanket around her, reading a book under the soft floodlights, the glass of wine empty, her gaze steady on the e-reader.

The heat lamp is on. I slide open the door.

She looks up, parts her lips, roams her eyes up and down me. “Hey, you.”

I’m wearing a suit, no tie. She takes me in for a beat, but before she can say another word, I close the distance to her. Lean in. Set a hand on the back of the chair next to her face. Hold her heated gaze.

“Now,” I say. “Take it off, now.”