Page 125 of The Boyfriend Goal

Except…that’s weirdly non-committal from him. Especially since he turns silent as we sway.

My radar beeps. I might be wrong. Maybe now isn’t the best time to say do you want to try long-distance if I can’t find a job?

My heart beats faster in worry as the silence extends, I should really try not to read into the silence. I try to just enjoy dance practice in the living room with him. But he’s seemed a little off since he returned home. Three losses in a row will do that to you though. Maybe that’s what his mood is about. What if he wants to talk?

“Hey. Is your dad pressuring you?” I ask, a subtle way of saying is hockey stressing you out?

He huffs out a breath. “Yes, always, but he’s also pressuring me about coming to Christmas at Frieda’s house in Sonoma. She’s having some big party with her friends, and it sounds…like hell.”

“Can you get out of it?”

“Easily. All I have to do is tell him I want to work out more, or do more yoga, or meet with the performance coach. Or get in some extra ice time,” he says it flatly. Not like it’s a clever way to avoid the visit, which it is. But more like he wishes he didn’t have to devise an excuse. “Besides, we only have a couple days off anyway.”

Did he sidestep the question about pressure? I think he did. But the answer still came through loud and clear. “Do you usually spend the holidays with your dad?”

“Him or Mom. She’s still traveling with her husband but I’ve gone to see her in Colorado a few times in the past. It’s weird. Being an adult and going home for Christmas,” he says and maybe Wes is just contemplative tonight.

“Mine are coming here for the holidays. To see Christian and Liv and the babies of course,” I say, forgoing my plans for now since the time doesn’t seem right. “But I know what you mean. I feel lost in time when I go home. I lived at my parents’ house during the summers when I was getting my master’s, and then right up until I moved out here. And I just felt like, am I a kid or an adult?” But maybe this is a way to broach the topic subtly? “I really don’t want to go home if I don’t get a job here.”

That seems to snap his focus back to me. He gives me a steady look. “You’ll get one.”

Time is running out though. But I don’t say that. I say nothing because I don’t trust myself not to say how I feel.

“Will you go home?” he asks finally. “If you…don’t get one?”

Why are you asking? Where do you want me to go? What should I do? I say none of that though. “I don’t know. But maybe it’ll be fine if I do. They hardly noticed me growing up. I got used to it. There are benefits to being the invisible child,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

I half expect him to say I see you, but he turns quiet again as the song ends.

“Are you thinking about how much you hate dancing?” I ask.

He drags a hand roughly through his hair. “No, just thinking about the game tomorrow. Sorry. I’m not the best company tonight.”

“It’s okay.” I let my arms fall from his shoulders and take his hand, leading him back to the couch again. “What’s wrong?”

Another hard sigh. Another hand through his hair. “It’s New York. We’re playing them again, and that last game was rough. The last week has been rough. I want to do my best. I don’t think I have been lately.”

I hate that he’s hurting. I hate that he’s beating himself up. “You will,” I say, squeezing his hand, but when his phone buzzes on the table, he tenses, peering at the screen.

His father’s name flashes across it. He usually ignores his dad when we’re together, but this time he grabs it. Reads. Replies. Then puts it down. “He’s just telling me stuff about the game. He’ll be there.”

Oh. Nerves whip through me. “Should I not go?” Then another question swoops down. “Does he know about me?”

With a guilty look, Wes shakes his head. “No.”

For the first time, I feel like we’re out of step.

40

A TERRIBLE BOYFRIEND

Wesley

The crowd roars deep in the second period the next night, barking like dogs, the rallying cry for the Sea Dogs. But I block it out and focus on the thumping of my own pulse. Hell, it’s all I want to hear. If I listen any harder, I’ll hear that fucking voice of doubt again.

You don’t belong on the first line.

I grit my teeth as I skate hard toward New York’s goal, alongside Christian. But when Karlsson swarms him, trying to strip the puck, Christian flips it my way. I lunge for it, the stick connecting solidly. Since I’ve got an opening I slam it to the net. But instead of flying into the twine, the puck misses by inches.

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