The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

In the morning, I wake up to a handwritten note under the door.

You’re wrong.

Wes

A sob climbs up my throat, rising higher. I don’t even know why I’m on the verge of tears again. But maybe it’s the simplicity of his response.

Or the clarity.

Possibly, it’s the way he makes me feel okay about all my messy thoughts and chaotic emotions. The way he distills them into something clear. I want to say thank you in person. But it’s game day, and I don’t want to disturb his routine. He’ll have morning skate, then he’ll nap, then he’ll go back to the rink for warmups, and then it’s game time.

Good thing I know how to be quiet.

I’m a veritable cat as I get ready for my own workday. I zip up a black pencil skirt with a cherry print on it, toss on a red twinset sweater, then twist my hair into a bun, sliding a hairpin along the side to hold it in place. I slide on my glasses, then pull on pink fuzzy socks so I don’t make a sound as I move around the house to do my makeup and gather my things. I don’t even head into the kitchen to eat. The sound of the fridge opening might wake him. I’ll grab a bagel or a bar on the way to work, and I’ll send him a voice note once I go.

With my makeup done and my lashes long, I pad back into my bedroom, grab my bag and a pair of black flats, and carry them to the door.

But as I’m reaching for the knob, the sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs grows louder. My pulse surges annoyingly. My heart slams frustratingly. I don’t move. I’m still—a woman on the cusp.

“Where are you going?” he calls out, coming closer.

“I have to work today,” I say to the door. I feel so foolish now, for the note, for all the feelings, and for, well, being so very me.

He comes closer. When he’s inches away, I close my eyes, inhaling his scent. He must have showered when he came home last night. He still smells soapy clean but a little sleepy too. If I turn around, will he be shirtless again? With his ink on display? The music notes, the sunbursts, the dog…

The thought is too tempting.

That’s not why I turn around though. I turn because he came downstairs. I turn because he showed up. I turn because…I want to.

He’s wearing a gray T-shirt and basketball shorts. His hair is a wild mess—like my heart.

But his eyes laser in on me with a ferocious intensity. “Why did you say all that? In your voice memo.”

It’s direct. Zero words minced.

I hold my head up high and speak from the heart. “Because you have done so much for me. And I don’t want to feel like all I do is take.”

He hauls in a long breath then sets his arm behind me on the door. My eyes drift up to his biceps, so close to me, to a vein pulsing along the iron muscles. To the way he’s leaning into me. And to the ink on his body. I’ve never asked him about his tattoos. I wanted to the first night but it felt too personal. Maybe soon, I will.

“You don’t see what I see,” he says. But the scales are tipped so heavily in his favor, and he has to see it. He must feel it.

“You give me rides, and you give me a home, and you carried me to the couch and took care of my foot. And you offered to do the list with me. And you helped me into the improv class when I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I just don’t do…” I can’t even finish and say enough for you.

He shakes his head, eyes hard, and it’s the first time I’ve seen them that way. Jaw ticking. Brow tight. “Who told you you’re not good enough?”

That wasn’t what I expected. “What do you mean?”

“Who said that what you do for someone else isn’t worthwhile?” It’s stern, powerful.

I don’t have an answer to that so I shrug, since I’m still knocked off-kilter by him. He lifts his other hand and gently runs it along my neck.

It feels so good. I melt into it.

“Josie,” he says, his voice firm and passionate. But like an admonishment too.

“I don’t know, Wes,” I say, answering him at last, my voice a raw scrape.

“Just know it’s not fucking true.”

His words are a balm. Emotions rise in my chest yet again. I roll my lips together to seal in all these feelings. But it’s hard to keep a cap on them when my heart is so soft for him. “Wes, I just want to be helpful,” I say.

He doesn’t answer right away. He stares intensely, touches me tenderly. Then he takes his time before he says, “My whole life is hockey. My whole life is this sport. Do you have any idea what it means to me to have fun?”

“You went out with your friends last night,” I point out.

“I know. And they’re fun. But I mean…separate from hockey. Separate from work.” His jaw tightens. He clenches his teeth, then he grits out, “You’re not the only one getting something out of this friendship, okay?”

He sounds almost angry.

That’s so unlike him.

He’s not an angry person. But maybe it’s more like coiled restraint.

“Yeah?” I ask softly.

His eyes hold mine. “You’re definitely not the only one.” He runs his fingertips down my jawline and I shudder, then close my eyes. I don’t want to go to work. I want to stay here with him touching me by the door, preventing me from leaving by the tractor beam of this…dangerous desire.

Last night, I swore I’d give him space.

I swore I’d let him focus on becoming one of the great ones. I want to do that. I truly do. And yet, when he slides that hand along my neck down to my throat, I can barely remember a moment in my life before this one.

“I want to do this list,” he says, husky, determined. “I want it too. I need it too. You have to believe me.”

I swallow past the heat that’s building inside me. The sensations racing through me. The want that has me in a chokehold. “I do,” I say.

He lifts a dubious brow. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” I say, then emphatically, I add, “I believe you.”

He drags his palm along my throat, his thumb pressing lightly against the hollow of it as he says, “Don’t underestimate ibuprofen. Or the thoughtfulness of the fruit. Or watching me play.” He runs the pad in a half-circle along my heated skin. “Or video game tips.” He breathes out hard, then shoots me a lopsided smile. “Fuck, I love those tips. Do you know I play video games to unwind? It relaxes me before games. And after games.”

I had no idea, but this info delights me. “I didn’t know that.”

“I kind of get lost in video games, and now you’ve helped me play them better,” he says, and he’s sharing this so easily while touching me so seductively, while talking to me as a friend.

I feel so reassured and unmoored all at once.

His hand roams back up me so that his fingers brush one side of my jaw, his thumb the other. After a long, lingering beat, he takes a breath then says, in the most vulnerable voice, “There’s…some promo material Everly sent me. A PDF. For an upcoming event we’re doing in Las Vegas. It’s kind of long. I had the computer read it to me, but I want to make sure I didn’t miss anything.”

My heart clutches. I get it. What he’s saying. What I can do for him. “Can I read it for you too? As a backup.” It comes out more eager than I’d expected. But I’m giddy for the chance.

He nods. “I’ll send it to you.”

“Want me to do it now?” I ask breathily, eager to help.

He shakes his head, smiling softly. “You should go to work,” he says. “We can go over it tomorrow. I leave around noon for our road trip. We can do it after we have dessert for breakfast.” He’s still staring at me with his eyes blazing. “Unless you’re backing out of number four?”

It’s hardly a question. It’s more…a challenge.

My chest floods with warmth as I shake my head. “I’m not.” But that’s hardly enough, so I add, “Thank you. I needed that.”

“I had a feeling,” he says, then his tongue darts out, catching the corner of his mouth.

I watch the tip, my body going up in flames.

His smile is downright wicked as he says, “About what you said last night. I appreciate you looking out for me, but just because I follow a regimen doesn’t mean I’m rigid.”

“I’m learning that about you,” I admit quietly, grateful he flew down the stairs and came to me.

“Good.” He’s silent for a moment, his mouth tight, then he adds, “I don’t always let people see me.”

I hear him, and I hear the subtext too—he’s letting me in. “They see you as easygoing and a hard worker.”

“Yes,” he admits.

“But there’s so much more to you than that.”

He just shrugs, but it’s an admission of sorts. Impulsively, I rise up on tiptoes, clasp his face, and run my thumb along his scruff-lined jaw.

I’m giving something to him—touch. Just like he gave to me.

My thumb traces his jawline. I’m slow and lingering. And even though the clock is ticking, I watch him, savoring every detail. The way his eyes close slowly, how his lashes brush against his face, how a slight tremble seems to run down his body.

But before I let go, he grips my wrist, turns his face to it, and opens those heat-filled eyes, holding my gaze. He brushes the gentlest kiss to my wrist.

I gasp.

It’s a whisper of a kiss, and yet it’s everything. He leaves another, taking his time pressing his lips to my forearm, then one more, and his tongue flicks against my flesh. And finally, he gives a deeper, open-mouthed caress of a kiss from my elbow all the way down to my palm.

Chills erupt down my spine. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I am undone.

He drops my hand. “You should go,” he says firmly, his tone making it clear I need to leave for me and also for him. Because if I stay, the kiss won’t end.

With a reluctant nod, I tear myself away, open the door, and race down the steps, feeling like tomorrow isn’t a date.

It’s something else entirely.

Something I can’t even name. But something I want desperately down to my very bones.

It’s not a date. It’s the next step in this unusual friendship. Still, makeup is always a good idea. In the morning I put on a cute sundress with pockets, twist my hair into an artful messy bun, slide on some mascara, and, of course, my signature lipstick. I tuck the tube into my pocket and head to the kitchen to do some prep, like preheating the oven and prepping the pastry strips. Fifteen minutes later, footsteps echo on the stairs.

My heart sprints. I touch up my lipstick—I hate dry lips—then set the tube down on the counter as Wes strolls into the kitchen at eight a.m.

“I’m never up this early,” he says, yawning as he scrubs a hand across his scruffy jaw. He’s wearing gray sweats and a blue T-shirt that hugs his pecs and reveals those steely biceps I want to curl my hands around. But I won’t. We’re here for…dessert. That’s all.

“It’ll be worth it,” I say, tying my apron tighter. It’s covered in tiny illustrations of cake.

“It better be, woman,” he says, then waggles his phone at me. “Okay if I play music?”

“Not a record?” I ask.

“I have a playlist I like. Some new tunes.”

“Do it,” I say, and he sets it on the counter into a phone holder, then sends the music to his speakers. It’s something upbeat and not too screechy. A folksy guy voice, full of longing. I think it’s that Ben Rogers he’s been listening to lately, and I like it. Wesley grabs the apron with lipstick marks all over it and ties it on.

“You wear that well,” I say.

He tugs at the bib, giving me a pointed look. “Another thing you did for me.”

I roll my eyes. “Please.”

He grabs my hand, shakes his head. “Nope. You did do this, and I like it.”

There’s that tone again. Commanding. Certain. Like he was in bed. But like he is in the kitchen, the car, and the street when he wants to drive home a point.

“Well, I figured we should make a—” I cut myself off before I say date of it, course correcting to, “Some fun of it. Eating dessert for breakfast is one of the simplest things on the list.”

“Sometimes the simple things are the best things,” he says, sounding like a saying on a kitchen towel, but a true one nonetheless.

“I’ve been thinking about this item. Why it’s on there. Maybe because it’s easy. But also because it was something my aunt and I used to do together,” I say, opening up and sharing more of my time with her. To remember her. To celebrate the days we spent together.

“Maybe she wanted you to keep doing it.” He stops, then adds, “With a friend.”

“Maybe? Most of the other things are new,” I say as we mix together sugar and spices in a small bowl. “But this one?” I gesture with the wooden spoon to the bowls on the black counter. “This was our thing. We made cakes and pies. Cupcakes and cinnamon rolls. We made chocolate croissants, which is dessert just masquerading as a breakfast food.”

Wesley goes thoughtful. Humming even.

“What’s that for?”

He shrugs. “Crazy idea. But maybe she knew all along—somehow, some way—that you were going to do this list with another person. So maybe number four was never meant to be a solo thing. Maybe none of it was.”

My chest glows at the thought. My whole body feels warm, like I’m looking at the past through rose-colored glasses but it’s a past that earned those glasses, a past that deserves the fond filter. “You might be right,” I say.

“I’m definitely right,” he says, with a cocky smile I want to kiss off.

And even though we came temptingly close yesterday, we’re not going to today. This is friendship. He’s said as much before.

But when Wes slides in closer to me, his shoulder bumping mine, there’s nothing easy about this moment. There’s nothing simple about how much I want him to shove the ingredients off the counter and kiss me ruthlessly.

We mix for another minute until he moves to the other side of the counter to brush melted butter along the pastry strips I prepped earlier. “You remember how much I wanted the ice cream the night we met?”

That night flashes before me in technicolor and fire. “I remember.”

“So when you think I’m all disciplined, just remember I like to…bend the rules,” he says, and those words slide down my spine like a brush of his fingers. The innuendo curls through me too, settling between my thighs, a fresh new ache.

“I’m learning that about you,” I say as I layer the cinnamon sugar mixture on top of the butter.

“And you like it?” he retorts.

Reasonable question. I tug at my apron. That oven is warmer than I’d thought. “You think so?”

“Sure do. I think you like getting me to break,” he muses.

My throat is dry as I try to make the treat—try but fail because I can’t focus. “Why do you say that?”This is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

His gaze drifts down to his apron. “The apron.”

“How exactly is the apron getting you to break?”

He’s quiet for a while. For several seconds, maybe more. Clearly contemplating. He breathes out hard, his forehead pinched. I watch him, searching for the answer as to why he thinks the apron is my way of getting him to break.

Then, he lets out a long-held breath and shrugs, fuck it style. “Because you know I can’t stop thinking about this,” he says, gesturing to the lipstick marks all over him.

“You think it was a subliminal message?”

“I do.”

Was it? I’d thought it was funny when I bought it, considering how he’s always looking at my lips. But maybe that was my mind playing tricks on me. Maybe deep down I knew it wasn’t intended as a joke.

But rather as an invitation.

To kiss me again.

And I hope—I truly hope—he’s RVSPing as he crosses to the counter, picks up the rose-gold tube behind me, and then comes closer. My chest squeezes, and heat floods every cell in my body. He’s holding the tube in front of me, and I can’t stop staring at the lipstick, at his hand, at his eyes. At the blaze in them.

“Wes,” I say, desperate.

He groans. “Yeah?”

“I didn’t go to the gallery to get your name to thank you,” I confess, and his beautiful brown eyes flicker with wild hope as he waits for me to finish. “I went to get your last name. So I could see you again.”

His smile takes its time turning wicked. Turning satisfied. “I had your scarf all ready to take to your friend’s apartment. Along with a note to ask you on another date.”

The double confession is like fireworks lighting up the kitchen. Sparks rush through me from head to toe, chased by a whoosh of desire. The thrill of reciprocation. I back up another inch so I’m against the counter. After he sets down the lipstick, he grabs my hips and lifts me up on the counter. Stands between my thighs. Spreads them open with his hips. “This is a very bad idea,” he says, like he’s fighting with himself.

But I’m not on his side. I’m already on the other side of this battle. “Or a good idea,” I offer in a flirty whisper.

“Tell me to stop,” he mutters as he unties my apron, as the song slows to a moodier beat, as if in tandem with us.

I slide a palm up his chest. “Don’t stop.”

“Tell me no.” It’s almost a plea.

I shake my head, smiling, inviting. “I’m saying yes.”

With a sigh of acceptance, he reaches behind me for the lipstick. Lifts the tube and says, “Then maybe we can just bend the rules.”