Page 89 of The Boyfriend Goal

Eat dessert for breakfast.

Take pictures of your fun times. (It’s okay to stop and snap a pic! That doesn’t mean you’re not living in the moment. It means you’re giving yourself a beautiful memory for later.)

We’re halfway done, and it feels like time is running out.

28

TAKE IT OFF

Wesley

I’m addicted to these pictures. I’m practically climbing out of my skin on Saturday morning when I wake up in the team hotel, flicking through them again, staring at them, enjoying them.

I think about them at breakfast with my teammates.

I think about them as we check out of the hotel.

I think about them on the way to the New York arena for a Saturday afternoon game.

But that’s the problem. I can’t have a woman on my mind when I’m playing, especially against my former team. I want to do well against everyone, but I especially want New York to miss me hard.

I liked it here in the city. Liked the fans. Liked the camaraderie. Tried not to take it personally when they traded me last season. I had the stats. Had the skills. Had the ability to play well here. Am I pissed they let me go? Hard to be when I’m playing even better in San Francisco.

Their loss—my gain.

Still, I want to show them it’s their loss. That’ll take my mind off those goddamn pictures too. When we reach their arena, I laser in on hockey, only hockey.

New York wins the face-off and charges down the ice ferociously, their center hell-bent on scoring early. He slams the puck toward Max, and like it’s invisible, the black disc flies right past our goalie. Well, shit.

The lamp lights in the first fifteen seconds. That won’t do. That won’t do at all.

Maybe I’m having a delayed reaction to the trade, but fuck them for not needing me. Screw them for casting me off. I’m not letting my new team lose to my old team.

When the line changes, I hop over the boards, single-minded in my pursuit of one thing and one thing only—a win. Whatever it takes.

Maybe I’m a little hungrier since it hasn’t been the greatest series of away games. It’s a rare week when we play four games. We’ve played two since our win in Vegas and lost both. I’d really like to salvage this trip and return to San Francisco evened up on this road trip.

As we’re jostling in the corners, I get knocked into the boards. They get the puck, and New York rushes ahead toward center ice. I’m flying there seconds later. But Alexei snags the puck from their forward, then passes it back to me as I spin around. I’ve got it, and I skate toward their net as fast as I can. But the toughest defenseman on the New York team—a big, mean guy named Karlsson—strips me of the puck when I’m this close to the net.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

He flashes a dickhead smile. “Looks like you missed us. Can’t say the same.”

I know this drill. I was on the same side of it when I played with him. Guy is mouthy. And yet, I’m letting it get to me since I’m clenching my jaw as I hop off the ice.

My annoyance skyrockets, though, in the second period when Karlsson’s blocking my every move, knocking me into the boards, chirping at me with real winners like “Guess you went soft on the West Coast” and “We traded you just before you started sucking.”

He’s always been such an asshole, but I vastly preferred it when he was an asshole to others.

Irritation pours through my veins, but I do my best to ignore it. A few minutes later, after Asher flips the puck to me, I try to get a shot on goal, and I’m this close, I swear I’m this close. But Karlsson barrels toward me and I rush the play, colliding with their goalie instead of slipping a puck past him.

Fuck me.

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