Page 70 of The Boyfriend Goal

A sob climbs up my throat, rising higher. I don’t even know why I’m on the verge of tears again. But maybe it’s the simplicity of his response.

Or the clarity.

Possibly, it’s the way he makes me feel okay about all my messy thoughts and chaotic emotions. The way he distills them into something clear. I want to say thank you in person. But it’s game day, and I don’t want to disturb his routine. He’ll have morning skate, then he’ll nap, then he’ll go back to the rink for warmups, and then it’s game time.

Good thing I know how to be quiet.

I’m a veritable cat as I get ready for my own workday. I zip up a black pencil skirt with a cherry print on it, toss on a red twinset sweater, then twist my hair into a bun, sliding a hairpin along the side to hold it in place. I slide on my glasses, then pull on pink fuzzy socks so I don’t make a sound as I move around the house to do my makeup and gather my things. I don’t even head into the kitchen to eat. The sound of the fridge opening might wake him. I’ll grab a bagel or a bar on the way to work, and I’ll send him a voice note once I go.

With my makeup done and my lashes long, I pad back into my bedroom, grab my bag and a pair of black flats, and carry them to the door.

But as I’m reaching for the knob, the sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs grows louder. My pulse surges annoyingly. My heart slams frustratingly. I don’t move. I’m still—a woman on the cusp.

“Where are you going?” he calls out, coming closer.

“I have to work today,” I say to the door. I feel so foolish now, for the note, for all the feelings, and for, well, being so very me.

He comes closer. When he’s inches away, I close my eyes, inhaling his scent. He must have showered when he came home last night. He still smells soapy clean but a little sleepy too. If I turn around, will he be shirtless again? With his ink on display? The music notes, the sunbursts, the dog…

The thought is too tempting.

That’s not why I turn around though. I turn because he came downstairs. I turn because he showed up. I turn because…I want to.

He’s wearing a gray T-shirt and basketball shorts. His hair is a wild mess—like my heart.

But his eyes laser in on me with a ferocious intensity. “Why did you say all that? In your voice memo.”

It’s direct. Zero words minced.

I hold my head up high and speak from the heart. “Because you have done so much for me. And I don’t want to feel like all I do is take.”

He hauls in a long breath then sets his arm behind me on the door. My eyes drift up to his biceps, so close to me, to a vein pulsing along the iron muscles. To the way he’s leaning into me. And to the ink on his body. I’ve never asked him about his tattoos. I wanted to the first night but it felt too personal. Maybe soon, I will.

“You don’t see what I see,” he says. But the scales are tipped so heavily in his favor, and he has to see it. He must feel it.

“You give me rides, and you give me a home, and you carried me to the couch and took care of my foot. And you offered to do the list with me. And you helped me into the improv class when I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I just don’t do…” I can’t even finish and say enough for you.

He shakes his head, eyes hard, and it’s the first time I’ve seen them that way. Jaw ticking. Brow tight. “Who told you you’re not good enough?”

That wasn’t what I expected. “What do you mean?”

“Who said that what you do for someone else isn’t worthwhile?” It’s stern, powerful.

I don’t have an answer to that so I shrug, since I’m still knocked off-kilter by him. He lifts his other hand and gently runs it along my neck.

It feels so good. I melt into it.

“Josie,” he says, his voice firm and passionate. But like an admonishment too.

“I don’t know, Wes,” I say, answering him at last, my voice a raw scrape.

“Just know it’s not fucking true.”

His words are a balm. Emotions rise in my chest yet again. I roll my lips together to seal in all these feelings. But it’s hard to keep a cap on them when my heart is so soft for him. “Wes, I just want to be helpful,” I say.

He doesn’t answer right away. He stares intensely, touches me tenderly. Then he takes his time before he says, “My whole life is hockey. My whole life is this sport. Do you have any idea what it means to me to have fun?”

“You went out with your friends last night,” I point out.

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