Page 149 of The Boyfriend Goal

My chest tightens with worry. I cut to the chase. “What’s wrong? You seem…off.”

“I have good news and bad news.” My gut sinks. I brace myself as she continues, “The foundation asked me to stay on. Permanently. Out here in Boston.”

I stop and grab the wall as the floor buckles under me. Of course I knew something like this could happen. Of course it could happen to me, too, and I could be asked to move. But somehow I didn’t think that her dream job could be across the country from me forever.

“What do you want to do?” I ask evenly.

She’s quiet for a beat, pensive. “I really don’t know.”

I lean against the doorway, staring into the room under the staircase. And all at once, I know what’s next for me. “When do they want you to decide?”

“Sometime next week.”

That should be enough time.

54

MIC DROP

Wesley

Nothing is getting in my way tonight. Not the score, not the opponent—not a single thing.

The second I hop over the boards in the third period in the game, I’m lasered in on the puck more than ever. The score’s tied. All night it’s been a tight, tense game against the Las Vegas Sabers on our home ice. It’s March, and every game matters.

This one especially.

I hunt for that puck like a sniper, chasing after it on the ice, jostling past Sabers defenders who want to take me down.

Not tonight, Sabers. Not tonight.

I’m single-minded, a man on a mission. Every time Asher or Alexei flip the puck to me, I narrow in on the goal, searching for a shot. I miss one, then another one’s blocked. The game’s locked up 1-1 when my shift’s over.

I park myself on the bench, down some water, and stare at the action like a horse with blinders on. Then I see it.

The way their goalie’s got a tiny blind spot. If I can slap the puck in just a little more to the left…

When Coach tells the second line to get back out there, I jump over the boards so fast, hurtling into the action. Asher’s on the puck right away, and I fly down the ice, adrenaline coursing through me as he races, the stick a blur of motion. But he’s jammed up near the net, and he whips around, flicking the puck to me.

I narrow in on the blind spot, take aim, and fire.

It flies right past the goalie, landing beautifully in the net.

I punch the chilly air. My teammates clap my back. I imagine Josie cheering till she loses her voice at a taco shop with her librarian friend.

There are five more minutes to play and the game’s not in the bag yet. But if we hold on, I’ve secured my goal for tonight.

The clock winds down with the Sabers trying but failing to score on Max, and the horn blares. “Tick Tick Boom” plays in the arena. The game-winning goal is mine, and as soon as I reach the end of the tunnel, I scan it for Everly.

She’s waiting for us, polished and put together in a pantsuit. I march right up to her. “I want to take point tonight. Let me talk to the press.”

She beams, then mimes making a checkmark. “Done.”

Five minutes later, I’m in the media room, pads off, jersey on, surrounded by the press. Local reporters, hockey bloggers, the TV station, podcasters, and the national sports network that carries the game.

I’ve had media training. I know how to give the kind of bland answers that can never bite you in the ass. Just happy to help the team. Everyone played hard tonight. Just doing my part.

I’ve got those chestnuts ready, so when the first reporter asks about the game-winning goal, and how it positions us at this point in the season, I say into the mic, “I’m happy to help the team, but I don’t actually want to talk about the game tonight.”

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