Page 117 of The Boyfriend Goal

No more Newman, no Muffin Man, and no Poker Face. I’ll take just Bryant. “No body bag, thanks.”

I say goodbye then hop in my car. Before I turn it on, I send Josie a text.

Wesley: I’m on my way.

Then I add a heart, because I know it’ll make her happy.

Josie: Don’t worry about me. I’m totally not glued to my phone waiting for an update while I’m worried to five million pieces about you.

But I’m not worried. When I first met Josie, my entire life was prescribed by what I do for a living. I’m not just a guy who plays hockey.

I’m a guy who has dessert for breakfast sometimes. Who knows how to sit with discomfort. Who cares about his friends and also his teammates.

And I’m a great teammate. Part of being a great teammate is communicating. Even when it’s hard. Sometimes it’s telling a guy you play with that he needs to cool off. Sometimes it’s telling the goalie he’ll have a better game next time. And sometimes it’s telling the captain how you feel about his sister.

I send her one more text.

Wesley: And you don’t have to worry about me. I’ve got this.

I drive to Christian’s home on California Street, park, and grab the wrapped books.

I bound up the steps, take a deep fueling breath, and ring the bell. I wait but not impatiently. I’m simply ready. After twenty or so seconds, Christian comes to the door, swings it open, and says, “Hey.”

It’s friendly but also comes with a question baked in. That’s understandable. No doubt he’s curious as to why I wanted to meet with him.

I nod toward the inside of his house. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, of course.”

I head into the foyer, glancing down at his socked feet. I toe off my shoes. When in Rome and all…

I follow him into the living room that boasts a stunning view of the Golden Gate Bridge. He gestures to the couch.

I hand him the stack of wrapped books, then sit. “I realize I never got you a gift when you had your twins. These were my favorite books growing up. My parents read them to me over and over. It’s a pretty good series.”

“Thanks, man,” he says with genuine appreciation as he tugs off the ribbon and rips open the wrapping paper, picking up the first one, a warm smile taking over. “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.”

He taps the cover approvingly, and that eases any remaining bit of tension in me.

I don’t hem and haw. I don’t search for the right moment. The right moment is now. I go for it like I do when I’m on the rink. “I have a question for you.”

“Hit me.”

I meet his blue-eyed gaze straight on, no bullshit. “You think I’m a good guy, right?”

His brow knits. Down the hall, an infant cries softly, and he holds up a finger. “Give me one second.”

A couple minutes later, he’s back, holding a baby, patting the kid’s back, soothing him with a there, there.

It’s sweet, this side of the captain I’ve never seen. The doting dad.

“He’s probably hungry, but he might also fall back asleep on me.”

“Is that Cooper or Caleb?”

“Cooper,” Christian says with a holy shit grin, like he can’t believe I remembered his kids’ names. But his smile erases and he sits again, giving me a serious look. “You’re a good guy.”

Grateful, I move on to my next question. It’s all part of the plan. “You think I’m a good teammate?” To make it easy, I add, “The kind of guy who has your back on the ice. The kind who would step in for you if you didn’t want to talk to the press. Who would help you out in a pinch.”

---