The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Wesley

How am I supposed to choose? I stare at the cookie porn on Josie’s tablet later that evening, unable to pick. “All of them,” I say, salivating at the Christmas cookie images.

“Wes,” she chides me, leaning on the kitchen counter, scrolling through recipes on her tablet. “You can’t pick them all.”

I drop a kiss to her neck. “Just like I want to fuck you in every way possible, I want all of these too.”

She shivers, then shakes it off, all business again. “Pick three then. Will that be enough for you?” She glances at the kitchen clock. “I don’t even know if we can get the ingredients in time.”

“Of course we can,” I say, then steal another kiss.

It’s still Monday night but since Christmas is in two days, we need to get moving on this project. I tear myself away from kissing her to check out the tablet again, and I study the recipes.

“Do you need me to turn on the text-to-speech?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Nah. Recipes are easy enough. The way they’re laid out and all. I love bullet points,” I say, but then my mind whirs in another direction. “But you could always read me something dirty. I’d happily listen to that.”

She gives me the flirtiest look ever, then says in a husky purr: “Add peanut butter, softened butter, granulated sugar, light brown sugar, and salt to the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment or a large bowl if using a hand mixer. Beat on medium speed until creamed well.”

And I can’t pick right now. I yank off her leggings, lift her onto a stool, and help myself to her. After she comes on my face five minutes later, I stand, wipe my hand across my mouth and say, “Peanut Butter Blossoms.” Then I add, “Also, shortbread, because you only live once, and snowball cookies.”

After we clean up, we hightail it to the grocery store.

When we get home, we go for another round. What can I say? Gotta make up for those few days without her. After, when we’re lying in bed, I address the big thing—the thing I’ve been wanting to say for a long time. I turn to Josie. Her skin is still glowing, and her lips are still bee-stung as she slides her glasses back on.

I didn’t ask before. But I’m ready now. “Would you stay?”

A smile teases the corner of her lips. “What do you mean, Wes?” It’s said teasingly—like she doesn’t know what I mean, when she does.

I don’t play games though. I don’t beat around the bush. “Here. In San Francisco. With me,” I say, strong and certain. “Look, I know you’re going to get that job you interviewed for today. I have no doubts.”

“It would be a great job,” she says, sounding so hopeful. I love that she’s not playing it cool. That she’s allowed herself to want.

“Stay then. Whatever happens in January. If you turn down that job, stay. You can look for other jobs from here as easily as any place else. Stay.” I say that beautiful word one more time.

She smiles like a little minx. “Well, I was going to move in with Everly.”

My jaw comes unhinged. “What did you just say, woman?”

“We discussed it on Sunday. Before you got your act together.”

I stab the pillow with my forefinger. “My act is together now. I want you here. And you can’t pretend we’re anything but excellent at living together.”

“We are pretty good at it,” she says playfully, still keeping me on my toes.

I kiss her shoulder, then layer a path of more kisses up to her ear, trying to convince her with my lips. But then, I have a better idea. A fail-safe way to get her to say yes. I stop the path of kisses, and meet her gaze. “We can even turn your room under the staircase into a library.”

Her eyes sparkle. “Can I have a ladder in it?”

“You can have anything you want.”

“Sold!”

In the morning, we do our favorite things.

Fuck.

Then, bake.

The kitchen is a mess of flour and chocolate and cookie dough, and a gorgeous, smart, feisty woman who somehow is willing to put up with me. That’s the real holiday miracle. After she slides the last tray into the oven, then swipes her hands over the cake drawings on her apron, I haul her against me for another kiss.

“Mmm. You taste like sugar,” I say.

“Then you must really like my lips.”

“I love them,” I murmur. “And you.”

When I break the kiss, I scan the kitchen and the mess. There are measuring cups, bowls, and flour for miles. “This will take a while to clean up. Why don’t you lie down with a good book and read and I’ll clean?”

She arches a brow. “Are you even real?”

I smile like a cocky fucker. Yep. I know how to take care of my woman. “I am. And you deserve some time to read.” But there’s another reason at play. And since it’s the season for being honest, I say, “And I need to call my dad.”

She sets a hand on my shoulder. “You can do it.”

She’s right. I can. We talked about the things I need to say to him this morning while we were baking.

It’s time. When she leaves the kitchen, I pop in my AirPods, grab a sponge, and gear up. Like when I’m about to hit the ice, I zone in on three things right now—focus, determination, and grit.

I call my dad, and he answers right away. “Hey, son. Good to hear from you. Merry Christmas Eve,” he says.

“Merry Christmas Eve to you too,” I say, and we make small talk about the holiday for a minute but after that I square my shoulders. “Listen…” I begin.

“Okay,” he says with a touch of nerves in his voice.

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. My whole life. Getting me tutors and tools for dyslexia, and making sure I could handle my homework and get decent enough grades. And getting me to hockey practice, buying me equipment, and getting me the best coaches. I am beyond grateful.”

“Good. You deserve all that. I’m hearing a but.”

I draw a deep breath. “I’m canceling the meal plan, and the performance coach too. Domingo’s a good guy, but I don’t need him.”

Dad’s quiet for a long beat. That’s rare. Then, he says with genuine curiosity, “Why? They’re so good for you.”

I wipe down more of the sugar on the counter to stay busy. “I eat balanced already. I just don’t want to be obsessed with calories. Sometimes I eat cookies. Like, right now. I made Christmas cookies with my girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend? So you are with her?” It comes out a little like I knew it, but fact is, he did know it.

“Yep. And she’s not a distraction. She’s incredible. She’s supportive and kind and funny, and she’s taught me to have fun,” I say, then I smile. Can’t help it. Josie makes me feel that way—lighter, easier, more carefree. “Do you know what that’s like? When you meet someone who makes you smile and laugh? It’s better than shooting the winning goal.”

He scoffs lightly. “Well, I’m glad you’re happy but⁠—”

“You’re a good dad. But you’re too involved as an agent. I’m not firing you, but I am telling you I need you to back off. The way you’re over-involved is honestly a distraction. Just be my dad, and be my agent, but don’t make me your project anymore, okay?”

He sighs. “I only want the best for you, son.”

“And you’ve given me the best.”

He sighs again, this time more heavily, but perhaps it’s directed at himself. “I’ve overstepped,” he says, plainly.

“You have. But it’s nothing we can’t fix. We can…start over.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

He pauses, and I know this isn’t easy for him. Hell, it’s not easy for me. But it is necessary. His voice is tinged with some regret when he says, “I’ve really only ever wanted the best for you. But I hear you. I’ve been pushy. And I’ll try to back down.”

“You can do it,” I say encouragingly, like he’d say to me.

“You’re right. I can do it.” He hesitates, but only to shift gears. “Will you come to Christmas dinner?”

We’re going to her brother’s house earlier in the day, but dinner should work, so I say, “Yes, and I’m bringing my girlfriend. Tell Frieda she’s the woman in the T-shirt, and she’d better be nicer to her than she was the night she met her.”

I say goodbye and finish cleaning, feeling a whole lot lighter.

Christian chews approvingly on a peanut butter blossom. “These are even better than those cinnamon things you guys made the other month,” he says, relaxing on his couch, the wreckage of Christmas morning gifts for two-and-half-month old twins scattered on the floor in front of the ten-foot-tall Douglas fir.

As the baby in his arms mouths on some pacifier shaped like a bear, Christian stuffs another cookie in his mouth. The fact that he eats sweets with no obvious guilt is another thing I admire about him.

I reach for one from the red-and-white-striped cookie tin and pop it in my mouth. Yup, it tastes like zero guilt.

When I finish it, I say, “You know what? You’re right. We can bake.”

“We’re exceptionally good at following recipes,” Josie says, from her spot next to me. Her parents are here too.

Christian nods toward his sister. “Are these Greta’s recipes? I remember this one Christmas when the two of you made seven-layer brownies, and they were the best.”

Josie beams. “Those were really good. Wes, we’ll have to make those next.”

“We will,” I say.

Christian leans back on the couch, shifts the baby to his other arm. The last time Christian brought up baking, he could barely remember his sister liked to putter around in the kitchen. Now, he’s remembering details and sharing them. It’s a welcome shift.

From across the couch, Josie’s mom meets my gaze. “Wesley, tell us more about you. What do you like to do for fun?”

Easiest question ever. I drape an arm around Josie, squeezing her shoulder. “Mostly I like to spend time with your daughter. That’s what makes me happiest.”

Josie’s mom tilts her head, knitting her brow like she’s trying to figure me out, then says, “I can’t think of a better answer.”

In the early afternoon, we make our way toward the door to head to Sonoma and see my dad. But before we go, Josie’s mom pulls her aside. “There’s something I have for you. A gift, if you will.”

“What is it?” Josie asks.

“Come with me.”

I watch as they head down the hall, wondering what this gift could be.