Page 22 of The Boyfriend Goal

Like a dog who just heard the dinner bell, Asher sits up on his bench, pausing his preacher curls. He’s suddenly more interested in a story than a workout. “You ditched us for Hannah, again, Newman?”

I roll my eyes. “Fuck off.”

“Is that what you told Pamela last night?” Max goads as he grabs a couple barbells, pronouncing it like palmella.

“Yes. That’s exactly what happened last night. I told my hand to fuck off.”

"And your hand said oh, oh, oh,” Max says, pumping his hips, because we’re all immature like that. But it’s also impressive he can do it while holding weights.

Still, I scratch the side of my face with my middle finger, then lie on the bench, briefly flashing back to the convo with Josie last night when I said, I work out a little.

For a second, a sliver of guilt wiggles through me. Was it rude not to tell her what I do for a living? I mean, she didn’t really tell me what she did. Just said she was in the book business. Probably works for a publisher or at a bookstore. But still, I talked around my job way more than she did.

Was that misleading?

Of course it was misleading.

But was it wrong to hide it the way I did? Well, I can rectify that if she says yes when I figure out how I’ll return the scarf.

As I settle in and wrap my hands around the bar, I nod to Asher. “Spot me, Callahan,” I say, using his last name, rather than his nickname—Pretty Boy. Not that it isn’t fucking amusing to call him that. I’d just like them to stop calling me Newman for being the new guy. The less I say Pretty Boy, maybe the more he’ll call me by my last name—Bryant.

Asher comes behind the bench, standing watch. “I got you,” he says. He’s a winger, and he’s ferocious on the ice. The opposite of how he looks off it. He has the kind of smile that gets him all sorts of sponsorship deals.

As Max shifts into flies, his blue eyes scan the room, clearly looking for someone. “Hey, where’s Winters?”

That’s a good question. “I didn’t see him on the ice.”

“Me neither,” Asher remarks.

“He never misses practice,” Max adds, then his brow knits, like maybe he’s figured out the mystery of our missing captain. But he says nothing. I don’t either as I lift the bar again.

“Too bad you didn’t make it last night, Newman,” Asher remarks as I lift. “Max was off his game big time. Huey and I cleaned up.”

That’s Hugo, one of our top defenders. I saw him earlier when I arrived, but he hit the athletic trainer’s room after practice.

Max scowls. “It’s all part of my strategy. To take you for everything next time.”

I scoff. “Keep telling yourself that, Lambert,” I say as I lift the bar one more time, my muscles straining.

“So how was your night, Bryant?” Asher asks. Thank fuck we don’t use nicknames all the time.

“Don’t tell me a miracle happened and you actually found a woman in this city willing to sleep with your ugly ass,” Max says dryly as he sets down his weights.

Breathing out hard, I put down the bar, then sit up and meet my jackass friend’s eyes. I smirk like a cocky fucker as I think of last night. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

Asher gives me an approving look. “Nice, man.”

Max just shrugs. “Even a broken clock gets lucky once in a while.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Dude. The saying is even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

“That too,” he says as the slap of sneakers in the hallway grows louder. A teddy bear of a hockey player fills the doorframe.

“Give it up for Daddy Winters,” Hugo calls out, then strides into the weight room, wielding his phone like it’s Simba. He brings it to us and we crowd around it. There’s a picture splashed across it. It’s our team captain, Christian Winters, looking overjoyed as he holds two of the tiniest people I’ve ever seen.

“Holy shit,” I say, smiling at the sight of one very happy new dad. That’s why he’s not here.

“He has two little boys. Looks like we’ve got some Sea Pups,” Hugo says, and he’s the softie of the bunch. Probably because he’s already a dad. He and his wife have a little daughter.

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