Page 90 of The Boyfriend Goal

I grit my teeth, knowing it’s coming—a two-minute penalty for goaltender interference. I hit the box and stew.

Should I have tried to avoid contact? Yes. You can’t take a shot while messing with the goalie’s ability to defend the net.

And yet I did. Because of a former teammate’s trash talk throwing me off.

The New York fans are chanting power play, but the guys on my side hold them off. Thank fuck I didn’t make it worse for my team. When I’m out of the box, I try to shove whatever residual emotions I didn’t think I’d have far, far away.

Like to the South Pole far.

Once I’m back on the bench a few minutes later, Coach McBride comes over and gives me a chin nod. “Put that out of your mind, Bryant. Got that?”

It’s said gruffly but without judgment. Like he understands but needs me to move the hell on. Fair enough.

“Yes, sir,” I say, then narrow all my focus to the game.

When I’m back on the ice and get a shot on goal again, I refuse to mess it up this time. Hard and aggressively, I send the puck flying till it lodges in the twine, taking no prisoners.

Yes!

That ties it up, and in the third period, Chase scores to seal a messy win. It’s exhausting, but that’s hockey for you. The best part is when I leave the arena, heading toward the team bus, and my phone buzzes with a text.

Josie: Fuck Karlsson.

A smile has me in its grip. Immediately, I’m picturing Josie at our next game, parked in a seat on center ice, cheering me on and heckling the other team. That thought revs my engine—her ferocity. I would love to play with her in the house.

Wesley: We need to get you in the stands at the next game.

Ideally in my jersey. But I don’t add that.

Josie: I’ll wear my good luck scarf.

A burst of hot adrenaline rushes through my veins. I don’t even need to ask why she’s calling it her good luck scarf. I’m betting it’s because she wore it the night she met me. By the time we’re crossing the tarmac to the team jet a little later, the thrill of victory hasn’t totally worn off—nor has the buzz from Josie’s texts.

“Did you get a feeling that Karlsson has bad blood with Bryant?” Max drawls as we head down the aisle, claiming our usual seats.

Asher shakes his head sympathetically as I shoulder my way into his row, across from Max.

“Did you date his mom?” he asks. “Steal his girlfriend? Put Whiny Bastard as the name on the back of his jersey one night, and he didn’t notice?”

I smile evilly. “Should have done that one,” I say, then I scratch my jaw as I settle into the seat. I really can’t let the assholes of the world get me down. “But I did beat him at poker every single time. Dude has zero strategy.”

“And you, man—you’re all fucking strategy,” Max says with a proud nod.

“You are and we appreciate it,” Asher adds, just as earnest.

It’s a rare moment among these guys when we aren’t giving each other hell. When we’re abundantly honest, and I’ll take that, along with the bruises from all the hits I took tonight.

“Thanks, man,” I say, to the both of them.

“Speaking of, we should play,” Max says, then takes out a deck from his bag and shuffles. Before Texas Hold’em starts, though, my phone pings with a message.

I’m itchy to check it. What if it’s Josie again? My hand moves to my pocket, but I stop myself. I should just play cards. It’s risky to open a message now. Then again, my texts don’t automatically show pics. Max isn’t done dealing…

Screw it. I’m too amped up on the dizzying possibility of a note from her, so I click on my texts lightning fast, but groan in disappointment.

“It’s my…” I cut myself off before I say Dad to my friends, saying agent instead. He reps Alexei, too, and plenty of other pro hockey players. Best if I try to think of him as my agent.

“Go ahead,” Max says, getting it.

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