Page 126 of The Boyfriend Goal

Frustration boils inside me. It’s not the first time it’s happened tonight. I skate behind the net, and as I’m racing the other way, Karlsson catches up, getting too close. “First line pressure getting to you? It’s hard when you suck, isn’t it, Bryant?”

I want to kill him.

Instead, I skate furiously, the cold air stinging my cheeks as I try—I swear I try—to block out the doubts and frustrations echoing in my mind. I try not to look at center ice either. Don’t want to get distracted. By Josie. By my dad. By my own damn expectations haunting me every second. I’m grateful for the line change, and I try to calm my emotions when I’m on the bench. But during the next line shift, I miss another shot at the net, the puck sailing wide, and I curse under my breath.

Karlsson’s right there again, bumping into me, taunting. “I’d say better luck next time, but maybe better luck in the minors.”

He smirks, and it takes everything I have not to drop my gloves and pummel the asshole.

His insults aren’t even personal. It’s just who he is. It’s literally his job to talk trash, and it’s mine to take it. When I hop over the boards at the end of the shift, I pull off my gloves and hurl them on the floor in front of me on the bench. And that’s not like me either. I don’t fling shit. Coach arches a brow, more serious than I’ve ever seen him.

Ah, hell.

He leans in and whispers something to the assistant coach.

My heart freezes.

This is bad.

This is really bad. And it’s all my fault.

By the time the game ends, my team pulls off a win, no thanks to me. I contributed zilch to it. When I trudge through the tunnel, I don’t even look to the stands to find Josie. Can’t fucking face her. Can’t stand failing like this in front of her.

When I reach the end of the tunnel, Coach is there in his suit and his game face. The snapshot of him would be titled ominous. “A word, Bryant.”

A word is never good.

He pulls me aside into his office, then glances at the clock on the wall, like he has to be somewhere. “You’re doing great, Bryant. But let’s stick to the second line. You seemed more comfortable there.”

My chest caves in. My stomach sinks to the bottom of the earth. I knew it was coming, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. “Yes, sir.”

“We can talk more about it another time,” he says. “I need to do an interview.”

But what else is there to say? It’s clear. When I leave his office, my dad is waiting for me in the corridor. I am not in the mood for him right now. Not at all.

“Let’s grab a bite after you work out,” he says.

Like I’d forget the post-game workout. Like I don’t know what he wants to talk about either.

“Yep,” I mutter.

I head to the locker room, grab my phone, and text Josie to tell her I can’t introduce her to my dad tonight, and that I’ll see her at home. I feel like such an ass. I stare at the message. I’m a terrible boyfriend. But I can’t. I just can’t. Just like I knew what Coach was up to, I know what’s coming next from my dad. I brace myself for it as I strip off my uniform, shower, and change.

Dad asks if I want to go to Sticks and Stones, but that’s a bar frequented by my teammates. Don’t need to get reamed in front of everyone, especially on a busy Friday night in December when the place will be packed. I say no, and we opt for a Thai restaurant on Fillmore that’s open late. I order the chicken with vegetables and a papaya salad. No less than ten seconds after the server leaves, Dad gives me his best I’m concerned face.

“You’re distracted,” he says, and his tone is kind, but I want to shove his words right back into his mouth. “You have been since that game against LA.”

I know all too well which one he means. That was the day I talked to Christian and told him I was seeing his sister. But that night when I played, I was up in my head about Josie staying in town or not. She was all I thought about when I was on the ice, and that is not like me. I’ve learned mental discipline. I’ve cultivated it over the years. Hell, Dad’s paid for me to train my body and my mind. I don’t get distracted.

Ever.

But the more I think about the future with her, the worse I play. “I’ve just had a couple bad games this week,” I grumble, then take a drink of my ice water.

Dad nods a few times, thoughtfully. “Which happens when your mind is elsewhere. Like when that girl Anna broke it off with you last year.”

“That’s not what happened,” I snap.

He gives me a placating look. “Wesley. It kind of did. There was that game against Boston, then one against Montreal...”

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