Page 91 of The Boyfriend Goal

I shake my head. “I’ll catch him in between hands.”

But I fold easily—maybe I’m distracted by what I know is coming from him. Criticism. When they’re upping the ante on the hand, I return to his text, and yup, I’m right.

Dad: Nice goal, but you’ve got to play cleaner. Haven’t seen a goaltender penalty on you in years.

No shit, Dad. It was practically Karlsson’s fault, but that’s not an excuse.

Wesley: Yeah, I know, but being back in New York and all…

Only, the second I hit send I know that won’t fly with him, and he calls me on it.

Dad: What does that have to do with it?

My stomach churns. My teammates get it. My dad probably never will. Trouble is, he’s also…right. I don’t usually let that shit get to me. I was sloppy. That’s why Coach told me to move on. Different approach, and I like Coach’s better. I blow out a breath and suck it up.

Wesley: Good point. You’re right. Thanks for the reminder.

Dad: Happy to help! Let’s get together for lunch when you’re back in town. We also still need to find some art for your walls. Tomorrow?

I stifle a groan. I just want to…do nothing tomorrow.

Wesley: I’ll hit you up then.

I do ignore the phone this time as I play a few hands with my teammates, feeling understood with them. With how they saw the interaction with Karlsson. Who cares if my dad and I don’t see eye to eye? At least my teammates do. We play for an hour, and Max and Asher take all my money. Coach strolls by at one point and Asher tips his chin at the guy in charge, saying, “Coach, you want to get in on it? Bryant is an easy target tonight.”

He stops, peers at Asher, and gives him a stern, serious look. “But I’m not. You still sure you want me in?”

Asher gulps, blanching. “No, sir.”

We play a few more hands till the game peters out, and I waggle my earbuds. “Gonna chill,” I say, then I turn to the window.

But chilling doesn’t come easily. As we slide into that time on the flight when everyone goes into their own worlds, I can’t quite get into my playlist of new tunes. I’m antsy, revved up.

My phone is burning a hole in my pocket. My mind is flooding with those images of Josie from last night. My body is crackling as we cross the country, flying closer to home.

I haven’t seen her since last Sunday. It’s been nearly a week. I thought about her more than I’d expected while I was out of town. I’m still thinking of her. I’m not sure that’s going to stop.

I’m not sure I want it to stop.

I click open the messages, sliding my thumb over the screen, weighing my choices. I’ll be in the same space as her very, very soon. What’s that going to be like? But I know what I want it to be like. If one fuck Karlsson text thrills me this much, I’m pretty sure I made my choice. I send her a text with no guilt, no second-guessing.

Wesley: Can’t get those photos out of my mind.

It’s Saturday night. No idea what she’s up to. But she responds in ten minutes.

Josie: Maybe this will help get them out of your mind.

My phone says an image is loading. My pulse roars. Excitement pings through my every cell. Furtively, I scan the plane. It’s dark and quiet, but I angle the phone even more, so no one can see it. I’m not the first guy on my team who’s angled his phone. I won’t be the last.

My mouth waters as I click it open. I push my fist against my mouth and bite my knuckle so I don’t groan in pleasure.

The shot is artful and dripping with desire all at once. It’s like a slice of life and a moment of lust somehow combined. Looks like she’s on the back deck of my house, with a glass of wine sitting on the wooden table at the edge of the shot. There’s a charcuterie board on the table too, with some grapes and fruit on it. But that’s not where my gaze goes. The forefront of the shot is her hand on the side of her chest, looped around a black lacy bra strap. She’s tugging it slightly away from her skin—skin I want to lick and kiss.

Is that…new? The bra?

No idea, but the possibility that she bought a new piece of lingerie turns me into a furnace. I can’t hold back.

Wesley: Is that new?

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