Page 133 of The Boyfriend Goal

“Of course,” they both say in unison.

I don’t even care about The Kid in Maeve’s couch. But when Everly says she has a guest room, I’m so there.

Maybe I should even move out tomorrow after my job interview in Petaluma.

45

HE CAN LEARN

Wesley

When I hit the ice that night, Asher’s advice repeats in my head like the chorus to your favorite song, an Arctic Monkeys tune or a Yungblud number. Something anthemic, a love song you can’t get out of your head.

Have fun.

As I play hockey that night, I try to have a good time.

And a funny thing happens.

I do.

After the game, I’m in the weight room like usual. Not because I have to be, but because I want to. It might’ve been my dad’s idea originally, but the fact is I like the way these post-game workouts make me feel—strong, resilient, ready. In my body and my mind.

As I’m doing dead lifts, Christian strides in.

“Hey,” I say.

He gives me a chin nod and starts racking the bar on the bench press. “Been meaning to ask,” he says, then clears his throat, “do you want to come over for Christmas? Josie and everyone will be there.”

I stop midway, barbell in hands. Things I didn’t have on my bingo card—a Christmas invite from the captain. As I finish the lift, I grunt out, “Um. I’m not sure.”

He narrows his eyes, looking me up and down like I’ve given the wrong answer in class. “You broke it off with my sister?”

I blink. Am I that transparent? “No.” But I say it defensively and frankly, in the shape of an obvious lie. “It’s just…I’ve had some bad games, as you know, and she offered to give me space.”

Christian stares at me for a long, shocked beat. “And you took it? You, the guy who came barreling into my house a few weeks ago, just took her offer for space?”

When he puts it like that…

“I did,” I say, wincing, because I’m pretty sure that was the wrong answer again. I did the wrong thing. I fucked up big time.

He shakes his head in disgust. “Dude, I don’t leave my wife when I have a bad game. You had a couple of bad games. Get your shit together.”

It’s said authoritatively. The captain in charge. And the captain is right. But what am I supposed to do to fix this—both the hockey and the romance?

I swallow past my discomfort and ask a hard question. It’s one I’ve only ever asked of my dad before. “What do you do when you have a bad game?”

His expression is thoughtful, open as he says, “I talk to a teammate, or I see the athletic trainer, or I speak with a coach. I ask for help.” He sits on the bench and fixes me with a no-nonsense stare. “You could come to me.”

He’s right. My gut churns with regret. But the world only spins forward, so I step past my discomfort, and I do one of the hardest things I’ve ever done on the team. “Can you help me?”

Christian smiles. “I thought you’d never ask.”

We chat for a good long time, and when I get home, I peer longingly down the hall, checking for a sliver of light from Josie’s room.

But it’s dark, so I go upstairs and dictate his advice on a note on my phone.

Then I visualize tomorrow morning when I can start over.

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