Page 63 of The Boyfriend Goal

“Did you stub your toe on that puck?” I ask, advancing toward her like she’s a thrashing animal.

“Yes. No. I mean, it fell on me,” she bites out, and it’s like she’s trying to hold in all the pain. But no one on the planet can hold in the abject misery of a jammed toe.

“Let me see,” I say.

She peels her hand off the toe. It’s bleeding a little, just along the nail. Still, it’s all my fault.

Grabbing her hips, I lift her onto the counter, then reach for a clean towel and press it to her toe. Carefully, I hold the towel in place as my brave woman fights off some rebel tears. “Just another few seconds, then I’ll get you some ice.”

She nods, and I hold her toe, rubbing her other leg. She’s wearing a flowy skirt today with a white fitted T-shirt. If I’d known librarians looked like her I might have spent more time in the stacks. I check one more time. “No more blood,” I say.

“Good,” she says quietly.

I scoop her up into my arms, and carry her through the kitchen to the living room. She doesn’t protest. She just groans, still in obvious pain as she wraps her arms around my neck, clinging to me. I tighten my hold on her, so she feels safe. Yeah. That’s the only reason. “You need ice and a Band-Aid,” I tell her, shifting into triage mode.

“I need to go to work. I have a meeting.”

“It’s gonna swell if you don’t ice it.”

“I’m going to lose my job if I’m late, and the bus comes in fifteen minutes and I already woke up after my alarm.”

When I reach the couch, I set her down gently, sliding my arms out from under her. “Ten minutes of ice, Josie,” I say in a tone that brooks no argument. I hightail it to the bathroom upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, and grab a Band-Aid, hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin, and a couple washcloths. Back downstairs, I snag an ice-pack from the freezer.

Briefly I set everything down and slide her glasses case, sunscreen, and that lipstick I’m obsessed with back into her bag, then I pick up the puck—a signed one I left here last night before we went to improv so I wouldn’t forget to drop it off at the animal rescue this morning for a fan who volunteers there—and set it on the counter. She must have put her bag on top of the puck this morning, then it fell off when she grabbed her bag. Just a guess, but it seems logical.

Supplies in hand, I return to Josie, putting the first-aid items on the table. “Lie back on the couch. Let me clean it up.”

She complies, then offers me her foot.

I pour some hydrogen peroxide onto a corner of the towel and clean the cut as she bravely rolls her lips together, keeping in her whimpers. With that done, I gently apply some Neosporin. I wrap the Band-Aid around the little toe. A tiny sound escapes her lips.

“Good job,” I say, then rub my hand along her exposed calf as I reach for the ice. “It’s going to be cold,” I warn.

“I had no idea,” she says dryly, and that’s my Josie. Sassy as fuck.

I press the pack to her toe, and she grits out a long, “Ohhh god.”

“This is my fault,” I say.

“It’s the puck’s fault. But also mine since I grabbed my bag off the counter to get my lipstick at the same time that I was trying to open the fridge for a yogurt, since I was running late. The puck fell off the counter and landed right on my foot,” she says as I keep the ice pressed to her little pink toe.

My gaze stays there, studying her feet. I’m not a foot guy, but her toenails are all polished an aqua green. The big toe sports a decal of…Alexis from Schitt’s Creek. I scan the other toe. David. “These are cute,” I say.

“Thanks,” she says through gritted teeth. “At least it wasn’t David the puck killed.”

“Thank god for small miracles,” I say.

She draws a big, shuddery breath, then closes her eyes. It’s clear this hurt, which I get. “Did you know swearing mitigates the pain of a stubbed toe?” she asks.

That’s so her to say that. I clasp the towel firmly, the cold seeping into my hand. “Let me guess. You researched that?”

“Not for me. For a patron.”

“A patron wanted to know that?”

“He was British. He stubbed his toe on the Oxford English Dictionary. Which he’d left on the floor by his carrel. And he cursed up a storm of buggers, bollocks, and bloodies. This was back in grad school. I worked at the school library, and I learned swearing actually is a natural pain-reliever.”

“I guess that explains why hockey players curse all the time.”

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