Page 52 of The Boyfriend Goal

“And yet we’re doing it. We’re going through hell and coming out on the other side. When is it?” I smile, loving this little bit of intel I’ve gathered about her. “I’m sure you’ve researched the next and best class in town.”

“I have. And it’s Thursday night.”

“And why does it sound dreadful?”

“See the list—overcome a fear. Your roommate has a fear of public speaking. When I teach classes at the library, I have to speak to groups of people, of course. But I can plan those out. I have materials and curriculum and information at my fingertips. But without information I’m free falling. I hate acting. And I am not good on my feet.”

I smile, then drape an arm around her shoulders. “Well, I am good at all those things. So I’ve got you.”

I might want more, but this will have to be enough.

18

A BRAND NEW BRUISE

Wesley

Two solid weeks does not a season make. But it’s a better way to start than the alternative. Still, I put our 5-2 start out of my mind when I hit the ice two nights later. I always put our record, the past, and other games out of my head when it’s game time. Years of working on mental fitness—thanks, Dad; no really, I do appreciate his insistence on mental prep—have honed me. When I’m on the ice, I’m all about the present.

Like now.

As I skate across the ice with the puck, racing behind the net in the third period, I’m determined to break this annoying fucking tie. The arena’s alive with the thunderous beat of the crowd, their cheers and roars fueling every move as I narrow in on the prize.

Trouble is this bruiser of a Seattle defenseman has been up in my grill all night. As I fight like hell to hold on to the little black disc, Number Seventy-Eight looms in front of me, a giant clad in red and black, blocking my path to the goal.

But Asher’s free, so I slip the puck to him seconds before their defender slams into me, then I slam into the boards. Goddamn, that hurts. Pain shoots along the side of my abs, a sharp burn. Gritting my teeth from the impact, I crumple to the ice, tangled up with the other player for a few seconds.

The crowd chants fight, fight, fight, but this moment is nothing. These moments happen in every game when you crash into each other. I get to my knees and push myself back up, and a few seconds later, I’m right back in the zone next to Hugo, who’s blocking. This time Alexei, our center on the second line, passes the puck to me.

I slap it right toward the goalie’s open legs. But Seattle’s not our toughest foe for nothing. Their big goalie blocks it.

Frustrated, I skate to the bench, hopping over the boards for a line change, then grabbing some water. I’m next to Christian, who taps his stick to mine. “We’ll get it next time,” he says.

“We fucking will.”

After his shift, I’m back out there as the seconds tick down on the game clock. Adrenaline courses through my veins as Seattle goes on the attack fast and hard across the blue line, two of their guys flicking the puck back and forth, barreling toward Max at the net.

But when Seattle’s winger flings it toward our goalie’s shoulder, aiming to send it whizzing past him, Max blocks it easily with a glove. Our defender gets the rebound, sending it to Alexei, who spins around, flying the other way.

I don’t want to go into overtime. I really don’t. I stick by Alexei. Their big defender is all over me again, but I’m not in the mood. I’m faster, and I’m open when Alexei sends it my way.

And wouldn’t you know? Asher is ready. I slip it to Asher like a goddamn pickpocket. Then, he’s shooting it and the puck smacks against the crossbar and ricochets into the net…yes, fuck yes!

I smack gloves with my buddy. There’s one minute left and all we have to do is hold on. Sixty seconds later, the arena is playing our victory song—“Tick Tick Boom” by Sage the Gemini—and I swear my shoulders loosen a little, the knot in the pit of my stomach unwinds.

Then, I relax a little more. Max, Asher, Hugo and I head off the ice and into the tunnel.

“Dude, we should call you Poker Face. That’s your new nickname,” Max says to me.

I tap his stick, earning the name by hiding a smile. “Works for me.”

“Poker Face,” Asher repeats, like he’s trying it on for size.

“But you’re the man,” I say to the golden boy, since he’s been having a helluva start to the season.

The dude flashes me a winning smile as Hugo seconds the praise. “I’d say stop showing us all up, but never stop,” the teddy-bear defenseman says.

“That’s the goal,” Asher replies as we reach the corridor, where Everly’s waiting as she usually is post-game. She’s holding a tablet against her team-blue blouse, and she’s ready for negotiations with that professional slicked back hair. Some of her requests will be easy. Others, not so much. She’s smiling, but she’s always smiling post-game. It’s her superpower, I’m sure, come rain or shine.

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