Page 51 of The Boyfriend Goal

Several minutes ago I was thrilled to be on it, masculine pride and all driving me on. Now, there’s a new feeling taking root inside me.

There’s a possibility that the Top Ten Things I Never Regretted would be good for both of us. Sounds, too, like that’s what she needs—a partner in taking chances.

Excited by this possibility, I sit up straighter and jump headfirst into the waters. “Can I do it with you?”

She flinches, taken aback. “You want to do it?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“I’m already part of it,” I say, and I feel connected to it. But I feel like it’s what I’ve been missing too. “But it’s also…” I stop, take a deep, fueling breath, and then say something hard. “You know what you said the other week about me being hockey, hockey, hockey?”

She winces. “Yes?”

“You’re not wrong. I am. It’s hard not to be. It’s why things didn’t work out with my ex, Anna. She said I didn’t like anything besides hockey.”

Josie shakes her head adamantly. “That’s not what I meant when I said that. I was impressed with your discipline. That’s all.”

“I know,” I say gently. “I know you didn’t mean it the same way. She wanted me to be someone I’m not—someone who discusses theoretical issues at dinner parties. Who reads long-ass articles that go on for days. Who debates philosophical issues.”

Josie shudders.

“Exactly. I don’t want to talk about some man named Immanuel Kant,” I say. “But it still made me think—I don’t always have fun outside of my job. And I’d like to. I’d like to do something that has nothing to do with hockey. Someday my life won’t be hockey, hockey, hockey.”

“That won’t happen for a while. You’re twenty-seven.”

“And yet, you never know.” I tilt my head to the side. “So, what do you say?”

For the first time since she walked into the living room tonight, her smile spreads. “You really want to do this?” she asks, not uncertain but like she wants to be one hundred percent sure I’m on board.

“I do.” Then I shrug, a little cocky, pointing to the item about making a new friend. “And anyway, I’m number one and number three, so you’d regret not doing the rest of the list with me.”

She taps her chin playfully, seeming to consider my offer, then looks back down to the paper, her eyes landing on the third thing. “So we’re friends now? The jock and the nerd?”

“We are. How’s that for our roomie rule?”

She sticks out a hand and I take it, shaking on this new friendship rule. Too bad I still want to tug her onto my lap, pull her close so she’s straddling my thighs, then hold her face, run a hand down her throat, and trace the outline of those pretty lips.

But there’s too much at stake. This living situation. The team. And now, her.

This woman who’s on the cusp of something. Who’s changing. Learning how to be a bolder version of herself. Maybe I’d like to be another version of me too. The version that isn’t defined by the one thing I’ve been good at, the only thing I’ve ever been told I could do well.

She takes the paper and unfolds it, then grabs a pen, and hands it to me. “Well, new friend, why don’t you cross off number three?”

I uncap it, then make a long strike through that item—Make a friend who’s nothing like you. You learn the most from them.

I set down the pen, then say, “Time for the next one.” I read number two out loud. “Overcome a fear (take a class you can’t prepare for, baby! Psst—improv class time!)”

She groans. “Why does anyone take improv class?”

“To think on their feet better.”

“It sounds dreadful.”

“Why?”

“I need to be able to prepare for things. Research them. Prep. There is no prep in improv. Ergo—it is my personal hell.”

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