Page 33 of The Boyfriend Goal

Fuck me. That excited sound. The smell of her perfume—cinnamon and my dirty dreams. Her lush chestnut hair. This is harder than scoring on the New York goalie.

“You left it behind,” I say in a statement of the obvious. But hell if I’m going to let on how goddamn excited I was to find it the other day.

“Thank you so much. I went back to the hotel that afternoon to the lost and found. But they didn’t have it.”

She went back to check on a scarf? But not to ask for my name?

Like the hotel would give her your name. Get over yourself.

She hugs the scarf to her chest. “My aunt gave this to me. I’m really glad to have it back.”

“Glad I could help,” I grumble, a little annoyed.

I’m annoyed because my plans are shot. I’m annoyed because I’m going to be living with temptation. And I’m annoyed because…well, she didn’t come looking for me.

Which is the stupidest reason of all to be irritated. Still, I am.

I focus on heading to the nearest salad and grain bowl spot instead. Nope, scratch that. I don’t want to run into fans or, worse, teammates. I take a detour to a place in Russian Hill instead, since that’s kind of, sort of on the way back to my place but far enough from here. Along the way, we make uncomfortable small talk about food, the hills in the city, how light the traffic is at this hour. It’s painful.

I pull up to Garden Kitchen and park. Once inside, I order something acceptable—sliced chicken, avocado, cherry tomatoes, and no cheese—while she orders a veggie and cheese bowl.

We snag a table but keep ourselves busy getting napkins and water. Once we sit and a server brings the food, the elephant in the room is tromping around. Getting louder and noisier. Best to deal with it, stat, even though there are so many questions I have. “So, your brother calls you Jay?”

“Yes, he couldn’t say Josie when I was born, so he’s always called me that.” She pauses, her expression resigned. Maybe frustrated too. “And I guess he calls you Bryant.”

“Well, yeah. It’s a thing we all do.”

“I know,” she says, like she wasn’t born yesterday. Of course she knows we use last names. Hell, she knows the coach.

But there are more elephants to deal with. “And you’re in the book business?” That came out a little bitter.

“Yes, I’m a librarian,” she says. “And I guess you are the sports asset rather than being in sports assets.”

I feel a little called out—rightfully so. But facts are facts. “Yeah, I guess players are assets,” I say with a shrug, like it was no big deal to tell her that.

“I guess so,” she says, distant.

I mull over her tone as I take another bite from the bowl, then ask, “You’re pissed I didn’t say I played hockey?”

She shakes her head. “No.” She pauses, though, like she’s not done. “I mean, I get it. I sort of wish I knew, but I also understand why you didn’t tell me.”

“Why do you think I didn’t?” I’m not sure she could know my reasons, but I’m damn curious what she thinks they are.

Her blue eyes hold mine as she says, “Because you probably just wanted a night to be…sort of someone else?”

She nailed it. She might not know the exact reason why, as in my dad likes to control everything I do since my career is everything to him, but she figured out enough.

“Same for you?” I ask, though I suspect since she wanted to have a one-night stand with a stranger she probably also wanted an escape from her regular life, just like I did.

“Same,” she says, then spears a forkful of tofu, chewing thoughtfully. When she sets it down, she adds, “And also, I was deliberately vague about my family because people tend to kind of geek out when I mention my brother, so I didn’t want to say that I’d been to San Francisco a few times for his games. I went to one last season.”

“And you met the coach then?”

“Christian introduced me to him briefly. That guy has a good memory,” she says.

“No shit,” I say, but that’s Coach in general. His mind is a steel trap. But then, so is Josie’s. “You do too.”

She shrugs. “I’m good with names.”

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