The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

At work on Friday morning, I bite into a brownie, and it’s so sinfully good, I moan shamelessly. Eddie chews his and whimpers loudly. Thalia devours hers and groans for days. “Dolores can never leave us,” she says of the dark chocolate treat, courtesy of the children’s librarian.

Someday maybe they’ll feel that way about me. But I keep that thought to myself, focusing on my colleague’s baking prowess instead. “I swear, I’m going to find a way to get her brownie recipe from her.”

“Good luck, sister. I’ve been trying for years,” Eddie says, shaking his bald head.

“I can see why,” I say as we finish off our brownies before the vultures from circulation can descend on them. When we’re done, I head to the digital center on the second floor. Thalia catches up with me on the staircase. “Question for you, Josie. Do you think you could do a display for us at the fundraiser tomorrow? Of Your Next Five Reads recommendations?”

Did she just say a display? Like a display of books? I’m salivating. “Yes. For different combos of books?” It comes out like I’m on helium.

“Yes, maybe three or four sets total. Different genres for a table by the pancakes? To get the word out about the online recs you’ve been doing.”

“Yes,” I say. Possibly I sound louder than I do when Wesley makes me come.

That’s something he’s done every night this week. If I’d known having regular sex with your roommate was going to be so fun I’d have started it sooner.

“That would be great,” Thalia says, and I’m doubly excited for tomorrow—both to make a display and to spend more time with Wes.

I’m not so excited about my inbox though. I haven’t heard a word from the non-profit that sent me here. I’ve already gotten two rejections for grants. They were long shots, but still, it stings. Then, I found a job opening in Marin County earlier this week and submitted my application in mere seconds, only to be shot down the next day.

Talk about disheartening.

I try to remind myself that there’s time. Maybe I need to tell Thalia that I’d love to stay. What if she could help? What if she knows someone? I haven’t said a word yet because I wanted to prove I could do a good job first. Best not to come in hot in your first several weeks on a job and say hey, boss, can I stay?

But she’s also not a mind reader, so she’ll only know I want to stay if I tell her.

Before I go to the center and she goes to the reference desk, I stop next to a display of romance novels that’ll keep you up all night, swallow some courage, and say, “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Her eyes turn serious, and she stops walking too. “Sure. What is it?”

I hope I don’t sound as nervous as I feel. For someone who likes to escape into books rather than sales pitches, this is so hard. I try to keep my tone calm and upbeat though. “I love the work I do here. I think I’ve done a good job. And if there’s any way I could stay on, I wanted to let you know I’d say yes in a heartbeat.”

“You have done a great job,” she says, but her smile is of the let-you-down variety. “The budget’s tight though. We’re all feeling it citywide. But you know I’ll give you an excellent reference for anywhere.”

My stomach sinks, but nope. That won’t do. Chin up. It’d be a fairy-tale ending if she waved her magic wand and said, “Oh you want a job? I have one! Take it.”

A good reference is a critical step in my Stay Here plan.

“And I will keep my eyes open, too, for any jobs in the city. Would that help?”

Immensely. “I’d be so grateful,” I say.

She crosses her fingers. “Let’s get you a full-time gig here.”

I start the workday glad I told her after all. Maybe I’ll find the guts to tell Wes soon too.

Early the next day, I put the job hunt out of my mind since it’s time for the fundraiser. Budgets are definitely tight if we need pancakes to lure patrons. But then again, that’s how it’s always been in my field.

I’m scurrying around the home, grabbing my bag and phone for the fundraiser, when I spot a package on the porch. It must have arrived late last night. I swing open the door and grab it, squealing a little when I see the return address.

It’s the stickers I ordered last week. I shut the door and rip open the compostable envelope, then rush to the kitchen where Wes is downing a cup of coffee. I hold it up for him, proud of myself for making these. I dip a hand in and take out a purple sticker, showing him the saying. “Look!”

“Librarians definitely like it hard,” he says, reading it with a glint in his eyes.

“I made them for fun. But I also wanted you to have one.” I offer him a sticker. It’s a little thing, that’s all, but I hope he likes it and its irreverence.

After Wes sets down the mug, he takes the sticker, unpeels the back, and smacks it on his gray T-shirt. “Perfect for today.”

That’s bold. “You’re going to wear it to the pancake breakfast?”

“You bet I am,” he says, and that’s Wes for you—fearless.

He whirls around, reaches into a cupboard, and takes out a pretty pink gift bag with a black bow on it. “For the game.”

He already got center ice tickets for me for the game this evening, as well as for Fable and Maeve. I was so excited he thought of my friends too that I thanked him on my knees.

“Wear this tonight,” he says in a simple command, so bossy and confident. Like there’s no chance I’d even think to say no. He thrusts the bag at me.

Pretty sure I know what it is, but I’m still giddy when I yank out a number sixteen jersey. “Wes,” I say softly, touched.

It’s such a romantic gesture—a jersey that says I’m there for him.

But then a dark cloud descends over me. Will everyone know? What will my brother think? Will he put two and two together if he sees me in Wes’s number this evening? Fine, it’s truly none of Christian’s business what I do and who I do it with, and while I worry more about when the next George R.R. Martin book might release than what my brother thinks of my sex life, I still understand the complexity of the situation. Wes works with him. It’s a depend-on-every-man kind of job. And Wes and I agreed to keep this thing between us quiet as we figure it out.

I’m not sure it’s time yet to tell Christian anything. Or if we’re even required to say anything. But at the same time, it’s also polite to give him a heads-up.

When? Not rink-side at a game, that’s for sure.

I’m about to ask if this shirt will give it away to the team what we’re up to but a glance at the clock tells me now’s not the time to tackle that issue. Besides, so what if Christian sees me in Wesley’s jersey? Wes isn’t only my roommate—he’s my friend. It makes sense I’d wear my friend’s number to a game. Perfect sense. Case closed. I clutch it to my chest. “I can’t wait to wear it.”

Wes downs the rest of his coffee and sets the mug in the sink. “Wear it today too.”

There’s that demanding tone again. The one he uses when he tells me to spread my legs, suck his cock, and fuck myself with a toy in front of him.

“To the pancake breakfast?” I ask, more breathily than the question demands. But that’s how I feel with Wes. A little light-headed all the time.

“Yes.” He seems dead set on this. A little fiery too. His eyes are darker than usual. I’m getting dangerously turned on as he says, “Put it on, Josie.”

The command in his voice sends a wicked thrill through me, straight to my core. I whip off my top and change in front of him, sliding his jersey over my cami. It’s big and baggy.

“Fuck, you look hot,” he says in a dirty rumble.

I suspect he’ll be thinking about taking it off me the whole time I wear it since there’s nothing friendly about the way he’s looking at me.

I’m in front of the library, finishing up the romance display—putting the new Hazel Valentine next to a TJ Hardman, since I would definitely recommend those two together—as Wes sets out recyclable plates.

“Should I read this one?” a masculine voice asks.

I turn toward a strapping fireman with a thick beard. He’s just strolled over to the display, and he’s pointing to the Hazel Valentine book.

“If you like banter, spice, clever plots, and happily-ever-afters,” I say with a smile.

The man holds my gaze for a beat, his gray eyes twinkling with…possibility, I think. “All of the above,” he says, then adds, “I’ll have to check it out.” He looks around the breakfast area, full of tables and serving trays, then back to me, a smile forming. “I’m Tom. I’d love to get some more recs from you. Maybe after work some time?”

Did this nice fireman just ask me out? Before I can even process my surprise, a throat clears. Out of nowhere Wes is right by my side, wrapping an arm around me.

“She has a whole display of them right here. Those are her recs.” His arm bands tighter around my waist, curling over my hip. “You don’t have to get them from her after work since she’s busy.”

Someone is staking his claim.

Tom holds up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, man.”

“It’s all good,” Wes says, in a tone laced with don’t let that happen again.

Tom nods at me with an apologetic smile, then walks away.

I turn to Wes, arching a brow at his boyfriend behavior. Color me intrigued. “Are you marking me?”

He’s unrepentant with his “yes.”

I furrow my brow. “He was only asking for book recs.”

“And maybe he legit wanted them. But he also wanted you. And you don’t have any idea how sexy you are. How often men check you out. You have no clue.”

“And it’s your job to ward them off?” I’m not annoyed. I am curious though.

He nods. “Yes. It is. It’s that simple.”

Yeah, boyfriend behavior.

And the low pull in my belly tells me I like it.

After a squeeze of my hip, Wes returns to serving pancakes next to me as several families pass through.

Eddie’s on my other side, and when there’s a lull in the action, he nudges me. “Is something up with you and Number Sixteen? Mister Hockey has been staring at you this whole freaking morning like he wants to have you on his pancakes.”

A tingle coasts down my spine, but a kernel of worry rolls along it too. “We’re…friends,” I say, because that’s true enough.

Eddie sketches air quotes. “Yes, friends. Did you know my hubs and I were friends at one point as well?”

“Then you understand,” I say, avoiding the topic with an oh so innocent smile.

“I understand,” he says, then lets his gaze drift to Wes. “I understand everything.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say softly.

He pats my shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry. I got you, girl.”

And I believe that about Eddie. But I also can’t help but wonder about this possessive side of Wesley. Is it going to be a problem tonight? If Wes is this obvious here, will he be able to hide it when I go to the game? Will his teammates figure us out? Will people talk? And, most of all, will that hurt him?

I better prepare thoroughly for the game. Maybe I can figure out how to interact with him so it’s not obvious I spend every night in his bedroom. I know! I’ll devise a list of do’s and don’ts.

Like, do cheer subtly and don’t maul him in the corridor post-game. Like, do say hi to everyone, and don’t flash my sports bra at Number Sixteen.

Yes, that’s a plan.

But I’m pulled from those thoughts when a family with young kids marches up to the breakfast line, and a young girl with her towhead hair in pigtails holds out a plate and says, “Pancakes, please.”

“Of course. And did you know if you give a pig a pancake…” I begin as I serve her a flapjack from my tray.

“She’ll want some syrup to go with it,” the girl says with a bright smile, finishing the next line in the popular kids’ book If You Give a Pig a Pancake.

She turns to Wesley with big expectant eyes. He looks down at her plate, and I figure he’ll give her another pancake. “You’ll give her some of your favorite maple syrup,” he says, surprising me.

He’s reciting a line in a children’s book? Who is this man?

The towhead does a little jig. “She’ll probably get all sticky!” That’s the next line.

Unable to contain her pig and pancake glee, the young blonde kid recites the next several lines in the kids’ book till her dad says, “All right, Ellie. Let’s leave the nice librarians alone.”

Nice librarians, I mouth to Wes.

“Thank you, Mister Librarian,” Ellie says to Wes, then to me, “And Miss Librarian. I read that book karaoke style.”

That catches my attention. I don’t hear that often but I know exactly what she means. That’s an assistive technology the library offers in the kids’ section. The words light up on the screen, like karaoke highlights, as the book’s read to you. It helps readers follow along, and helps those who learn in different ways.

The night he told me he had dyslexia, Wesley mentioned he’d used tech like this as a kid. Right now, his face lights up—it’s a look I’ve never seen before. A sort of pure delight. “Dude. Me too,” he says to her, then offers a fist for knocking.

Ellie stands on tiptoes and knocks fists with him. “I read them all like that. With my app and my headphones.”

He leans closer, like he’s telling her a secret. “My dad made me read like that.”

“Mine too! Did you read them all that way? The moose and the dog and the mouse?” she says, rattling off the characters in the other books in the series.

My heart is so full I don’t even know what to do with it. The way it’s beating. The way I’m smiling. I steal a glance at Ellie’s dad. He’s looking down at her with pride in his eyes.

Wes nods. “Every last moose and muffin,” he says with a sigh, but it’s not an annoyed one. It’s more a sigh of solidarity—a been there, done that sound.

“Same!” Ellie gazes longingly at her plate of pancakes. “But I’m hungry so I should go eat. If you find any more books, let me know, Mister Librarian.” She’s about to leave when her brow knits and she adds, “But you might be a firefighter.” Then she looks to me. “And you might be a firefighter too. Whatever you are, thank you!”

She skips off to eat, and I turn to Wes, too delighted to even know where to start—the way he talked to her, or the way she talked to him. But I bet he won’t want me to home in on the tools he used as a kid, so I say, “She thinks you’re a librarian.”

“And that you’re a firefighter. Too bad Halloween’s passed. We could have dressed up like that…or maybe next year.”

Those last two words echo in my mind—next year. Is he imagining a future costume party with me? Or is that just what you say? No idea, so I stay focused on the present and that moment. “Also, I think you made her day,” I say.

He shrugs like it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. That was a real connection, and I want him to know that. Sometimes I think he demands perfection of himself, even when it comes to reading. He might not like it, but just letting a kid know that he learned the same way she did is a very big deal. “It’s great when a kid can meet an adult who learns and reads like they do.”

He gives me that generous smile that hits me straight in the chest like it did the night we met. It’s the kind that makes me think he wants to kiss me instead of talk. Which is fine by me, because it’s also an acknowledgment that he did make her day.

“Glad I was here then,” he says as bells jangle nearby, a sign that Thalia’s headed in our direction. “And honestly, maybe my dad made me, but damn, that was a good series. Personally, I’d recommend If You Give a Dog a Donut. It’s underrated, but might be the best of the bunch…Maybe add it to Your Next Five Reads book recs, and in all formats.”

Thalia arrives at the table, giving Wes an approving look. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea. The first ones in that series are always checked out. We should promote the next ones, Josie.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I say, beaming as I picture the display already. I can show the hardbacks but also put up a placard with info on where to download a free text-to-speech app as well as the audiobooks. And as a bonus, maybe all this effort I’m putting into the recs will make Thalia’s reference for me stand out even more.

Thalia smiles at Wes, then sticks out a hand. “I’m Thalia. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” he says, shaking. “I’m Wesley.”

“Oh, I know who you are. And I’d appreciate it if you’d destroy Colorado tonight. I hate their team so much,” she says with a growl that reveals some serious vitriol for his opponent.

“Me too,” Wesley says. “So, count on that.”

She gives a crisp nod—my boss, who’s evidently a hardcore hockey fan—then heads off while Wesley turns from me to serve another family.

I’m a little amazed by this man and his hidden talents. But perhaps more awestruck at my matchstick reaction that came out of nowhere. At my unexpected desire to protect him.

But as I watch him, his ease with people, his charm, I realize my reaction didn’t truly come out of nowhere. It was born from the last month and a half of getting to know him.

Later, after we’ve cleaned up, we head to the car. “We can mark off number six now,” I say.

Wes shakes his head, sad boy face in effect. “No, we can’t.”

“Why? That was volunteer work for you and me.” I’m confused. Why wouldn’t we cross it off?

He sighs deeply, and once we’re alone in the car, he runs a hand down my leg. “Doesn’t count. I said yes because I was feeling jealous and possessive.”

My reaction is slow—a blink, then a long stare. Before Tom even arrived at the book display, Mister Hockey was jealous of the attention I might have received from the firemen? “You showed up today because you were pre-jealous?” I’m secretly fizzy from this revelation as we leave, pulling into traffic.

“And justifiably so,” he says, owning it. “But we still need to work on the list.”

It’s a good reminder that we have a project to focus on. Wes is around for a few more days, then he travels again for a stretch of games. Time will run out if we’re not careful, and we won’t get to finish the list.

“What if we volunteer at a dog rescue for the next month? Seems we should do the volunteer part more than once anyway. So it should be a month-long thing,” he says as he drives along a hilly city street.

A warm, hazy sensation spreads in my chest. A month feels like it means something. It feels like a part of figuring this out. Like it’s somehow something that connects us even more to each other.

Settle down—you’re living together for at least another month. That’s all it means.

“We should,” I say, keeping my voice even so I don’t read something that isn’t there at all in the let’s do it for a month idea. “And a dog rescue feels right. For both of us,” I say, trying to ignore the flutters in my chest. Then I notice the sticker curling at the edges of his shirt. “Did you wear this sticker, too, to stake a claim on me?”

He nods, proud and certain. “I did.”

Funny—there’s something I want to stake a claim on. Something I’ve been imagining since I moved in with him.

Maybe it’s something I can do after the game. And just like that, I have a plan for tonight—what to do during the game, and what to do after.