The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Wesley

How can one person make so much noise? It’s like a pack of howler monkeys have barged into my home. Are they ripping cabinet doors off hinges? Swinging from the chandelier in the living room?

Rubbing my eyes, I squint at the clock. It’s not even seven-thirty. No one should be up at this hour.

As sunlight streams horrifically bright through the bedroom window, I grab a pillow and yank it over my head. I’ll just go back to sleep in three, two…

“FUCK!”

The scream doesn’t just ring through the home. It echoes through the halls of time, reverberating back to the Stone Age.

I jump out of bed and fly down the stairs as the next round of the soul-rending fuck, fuck, fuck chorus continues from the kitchen. I skid along the tiled floor where Josie’s hopping on one foot, gingerly clutching the other.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” she says, but she’s clearly not okay, since she’s breathing out frantically and grasping her bare foot. There’s a puck on the floor, along with her canvas bag, where a tube of lipstick has escaped, along with some sunscreen and a glasses case. Ah, shit. I think I know what happened.

“Did you stub your toe on that puck?” I ask, advancing toward her like she’s a thrashing animal.

“Yes. No. I mean, it fell on me,” she bites out, and it’s like she’s trying to hold in all the pain. But no one on the planet can hold in the abject misery of a jammed toe.

“Let me see,” I say.

She peels her hand off the toe. It’s bleeding a little, just along the nail. Still, it’s all my fault.

Grabbing her hips, I lift her onto the counter, then reach for a clean towel and press it to her toe. Carefully, I hold the towel in place as my brave woman fights off some rebel tears. “Just another few seconds, then I’ll get you some ice.”

She nods, and I hold her toe, rubbing her other leg. She’s wearing a flowy skirt today with a white fitted T-shirt. If I’d known librarians looked like her I might have spent more time in the stacks. I check one more time. “No more blood,” I say.

“Good,” she says quietly.

I scoop her up into my arms, and carry her through the kitchen to the living room. She doesn’t protest. She just groans, still in obvious pain as she wraps her arms around my neck, clinging to me. I tighten my hold on her, so she feels safe. Yeah. That’s the only reason. “You need ice and a Band-Aid,” I tell her, shifting into triage mode.

“I need to go to work. I have a meeting.”

“It’s gonna swell if you don’t ice it.”

“I’m going to lose my job if I’m late, and the bus comes in fifteen minutes and I already woke up after my alarm.”

When I reach the couch, I set her down gently, sliding my arms out from under her. “Ten minutes of ice, Josie,” I say in a tone that brooks no argument. I hightail it to the bathroom upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, and grab a Band-Aid, hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin, and a couple washcloths. Back downstairs, I snag an ice-pack from the freezer.

Briefly I set everything down and slide her glasses case, sunscreen, and that lipstick I’m obsessed with back into her bag, then I pick up the puck—a signed one I left here last night before we went to improv so I wouldn’t forget to drop it off at the animal rescue this morning for a fan who volunteers there—and set it on the counter. She must have put her bag on top of the puck this morning, then it fell off when she grabbed her bag. Just a guess, but it seems logical.

Supplies in hand, I return to Josie, putting the first-aid items on the table. “Lie back on the couch. Let me clean it up.”

She complies, then offers me her foot.

I pour some hydrogen peroxide onto a corner of the towel and clean the cut as she bravely rolls her lips together, keeping in her whimpers. With that done, I gently apply some Neosporin. I wrap the Band-Aid around the little toe. A tiny sound escapes her lips.

“Good job,” I say, then rub my hand along her exposed calf as I reach for the ice. “It’s going to be cold,” I warn.

“I had no idea,” she says dryly, and that’s my Josie. Sassy as fuck.

I press the pack to her toe, and she grits out a long, “Ohhh god.”

“This is my fault,” I say.

“It’s the puck’s fault. But also mine since I grabbed my bag off the counter to get my lipstick at the same time that I was trying to open the fridge for a yogurt, since I was running late. The puck fell off the counter and landed right on my foot,” she says as I keep the ice pressed to her little pink toe.

My gaze stays there, studying her feet. I’m not a foot guy, but her toenails are all polished an aqua green. The big toe sports a decal of…Alexis from Schitt’s Creek. I scan the other toe. David. “These are cute,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says through gritted teeth. “At least it wasn’t David the puck killed.”

“Thank god for small miracles,” I say.

She draws a big, shuddery breath, then closes her eyes. It’s clear this hurt, which I get. “Did you know swearing mitigates the pain of a stubbed toe?” she asks.

That’s so her to say that. I clasp the towel firmly, the cold seeping into my hand. “Let me guess. You researched that?”

“Not for me. For a patron.”

“A patron wanted to know that?”

“He was British. He stubbed his toe on the Oxford English Dictionary. Which he’d left on the floor by his carrel. And he cursed up a storm of buggers, bollocks, and bloodies. This was back in grad school. I worked at the school library, and I learned swearing actually is a natural pain-reliever.”

“I guess that explains why hockey players curse all the time.”

A faint smile settles on her mouth. She must be feeling a little better.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” I begin, relaxing a little now that she seems to be okay. “In your first few weeks here, you’ve been attacked by a couch spring, a cactus, and a hockey puck?”

“Yes! Why can’t I be attacked by, I dunno, a lifetime supply of free chocolate? Or too many orgasms to count?”

“I could help you with the last one,” I say, then shrug. “Hypothetically.”

“I know you could. Hypothetically. My O Supplier.”

Funny, how a while ago I was sure she didn’t want another night with me. Now, I’m pretty sure she might have.

Which is good, in a way. But also bad, because it just makes everything a little bit harder. A little bit more tempting. Temptation’s like discomfort though. I’m learning to sit with it.

She’s quiet for a little longer as we stay here, my hand on her foot. With my free hand, I rub her other leg, sliding it up and down her shin, soothing her.

At least, that’s what I tell myself I’m doing as my palm slides over her soft skin. What if I let my hand glide a little higher, past her knee, underneath her skirt? Would she part those thighs ever so slightly? Would my fingers brush a damp panel of lace, lace that I’d want to push to the side, slip past, tear off?

She takes a deep breath, then opens her eyes. “I’m oka—” But the word cuts off as she stares at me quizzically. “Wesley?”Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

“Yes?”

Her eyes roam up and down me. “What exactly are you wearing?”

I glance down for the first time, noticing my clothes. Or lack thereof. “I believe these are called boxer briefs.”

“You’ve been in boxer briefs this whole time? I must really be in pain if I haven’t noticed,” she says. Then she stares a little longer, and I think about where all the odd socks go and what kind of toothbrush I should buy next as I will my dick not to impersonate a flagpole. “You sleep in just boxer briefs?”

“I do.”

“And you flew down the stairs in boxer briefs?”

“I did.”

“And again, I didn’t notice till just now?”

I smirk. “Evidently.”

Sighing, she wiggles her toe. “I must be better since I’m noticing my surroundings.” She pushes up. “Thanks. I should go finish my makeup and catch my bus.”

I reach for her hand to help her up. “No.”

“No what?”

“You should finish your makeup and meet me in the garage. I’ll give you a ride.”

She grins ever so hopefully. “In your boxer briefs?”

“You wish.”

“Well, yeah.”

I head upstairs to brush my teeth and change. But I don’t change too much. Sometimes you just have to give a woman what she wants.

I come downstairs in a pair of running shorts and a workout tank. I sail past the fridge and grab her a yogurt, a spoon, and a cloth napkin. When we get to the car and I turn it on, I hand her the food. “Breakfast is served.”

Then I flash her a cocky grin as I take off the shirt and back out of the garage.

Her eyes pop. “Drive me every day.”

“Maybe I will,” I say.

Then I amend it to definitely when she takes out her lipstick and slicks some on. It’s like she knows what it does to me.

That night, I return home from an exhausting hockey game, where a puck didn’t attack me but the boards did when I slammed into them during the third period. We lost, but I’m done replaying what went wrong. I did that already in the weight room when the game ended, with Christian. As we did push-ups and dead lifts, he went over a few key moments, like when the Phoenix team’s star player kept getting the puck, and how we need to keep guys like that on the outside and away from the middle of the ice. Christian was serious about this mentorship thing.

But I need to put the captain and the loss out of my head, and I’m pretty good at that—at moving on, and taking what I need from a game and leaving the rest behind. I head up the steps from the garage, my shoulders sore, my thighs screaming.

Except when I get to the kitchen, I forget all that. There’s a note from Josie on the counter. I’m a junkie. An addict. I can’t get enough. I grab it, unfolding it in record time, needing my hit.

Dear Wesley,

You knew this was coming, right? Of course you knew. Once you said you didn’t mind my notes, you really only had yourself to blame. I am a note monster unleashed!

And fine, since you never wrote back to my first note and told me five things I should know about you, I decided to write my own damn list of fun facts about my roommate.

Here goes. Five things I’ve learned about you.

1. You were a stripper in a past life.

2. You clearly moonlight as an EMT in this life. (That was hot—the way you showed up with first-aid supplies.)

3. You will be a singer in your next life. (You know all the lyrics to songs. I hear you singing when you’re wearing headphones.)

4. You will never beat the zombies in your video game. Never, ever. (Sorry, you can’t be good at everything! The universe gave you elite hockey skills and teeny, tiny video game talent.)

5. You are still the most generous person I’ve ever known. Thank you for the ride to work. Thank you so very much.

Your friend, Josie

P.S. I’ll send you some ideas for number four! And next Sunday morning is perfect since it’s right before you leave for your road trip.

When I set it down, my skin is hot and my bones are buzzing. From the words, from her knowing the specifics of my schedule, from everything. Without thinking twice, I leave the kitchen, crossing the hallway to her bedroom door, lifting my hand to rap my knuckles on the wood.

But before I make contact, I force myself to stop. Frozen in place, a statue of desire, I stay like that, picturing her in her room. Then, flashing back to an hour ago with her brother. He’s not in charge of my decisions, but what would he think if less than a month into living with his sister, I banged down her door to strip her naked and give her more orgasms than she could count?

More importantly, what would I think of me?

That’s not what a good friend does.

Not what a good roomie does.

Taking a deep, centering breath, I find the will to walk away.

As I’m returning to the kitchen, my phone pings with a message. It’s late, so I grab it right away, sliding open the screen.

My pulse spikes when I see Josie’s name. Is she awake? Did she know I was this close to breaking down the door to her bedroom?

I swallow roughly and open the text. It’s a voicemail. And I’m both psyched and touched. I hit play.

“Hi! I’m probably asleep. I scheduled this voicemail to send at eleven-thirty. You probably have ibuprofen, but I left you two next to the toaster anyway. You should take them after that game. Also, I got you something for next Sunday morning. It’s by the toaster too.” There’s a pause, then I hear footsteps on the recording and I picture her walking around the house while she left this. “Good night…Wes.”

Hardly anyone calls me Wes. But the girl who likes nicknames does now. I don’t even know why, but I love the way it sounds on her lips.

I head straight to the toaster. I ignore the pills, grabbing the canvas bag instead and reaching inside it. After feeling some kind of fabric, I pull it out, then laugh when I shake open the gift.

It’s an apron with lipstick marks all over it.

I’m so fucked.