The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Wesley

Nothing is getting in my way tonight. Not the score, not the opponent—not a single thing.

The second I hop over the boards in the third period in the game, I’m lasered in on the puck more than ever. The score’s tied. All night it’s been a tight, tense game against the Las Vegas Sabers on our home ice. It’s March, and every game matters.

This one especially.

I hunt for that puck like a sniper, chasing after it on the ice, jostling past Sabers defenders who want to take me down.

Not tonight, Sabers. Not tonight.

I’m single-minded, a man on a mission. Every time Asher or Alexei flip the puck to me, I narrow in on the goal, searching for a shot. I miss one, then another one’s blocked. The game’s locked up 1-1 when my shift’s over.

I park myself on the bench, down some water, and stare at the action like a horse with blinders on. Then I see it.

The way their goalie’s got a tiny blind spot. If I can slap the puck in just a little more to the left…This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

When Coach tells the second line to get back out there, I jump over the boards so fast, hurtling into the action. Asher’s on the puck right away, and I fly down the ice, adrenaline coursing through me as he races, the stick a blur of motion. But he’s jammed up near the net, and he whips around, flicking the puck to me.

I narrow in on the blind spot, take aim, and fire.

It flies right past the goalie, landing beautifully in the net.

I punch the chilly air. My teammates clap my back. I imagine Josie cheering till she loses her voice at a taco shop with her librarian friend.

There are five more minutes to play and the game’s not in the bag yet. But if we hold on, I’ve secured my goal for tonight.

The clock winds down with the Sabers trying but failing to score on Max, and the horn blares. “Tick Tick Boom” plays in the arena. The game-winning goal is mine, and as soon as I reach the end of the tunnel, I scan it for Everly.

She’s waiting for us, polished and put together in a pantsuit. I march right up to her. “I want to take point tonight. Let me talk to the press.”

She beams, then mimes making a checkmark. “Done.”

Five minutes later, I’m in the media room, pads off, jersey on, surrounded by the press. Local reporters, hockey bloggers, the TV station, podcasters, and the national sports network that carries the game.

I’ve had media training. I know how to give the kind of bland answers that can never bite you in the ass. Just happy to help the team. Everyone played hard tonight. Just doing my part.

I’ve got those chestnuts ready, so when the first reporter asks about the game-winning goal, and how it positions us at this point in the season, I say into the mic, “I’m happy to help the team, but I don’t actually want to talk about the game tonight.”

A sports reporter in the front row tilts her head and lifts her phone higher, recording me. Everly arches a brow from her spot by the door.

I’m seated at a table on a riser, surrounded by a dozen members of the press. And I’m counting on them to do their part. To give me the help that I need.

But first I have to do my part.

“What do you want to talk about then?” the reporter in the front row asks.

I square my shoulders. “The fans,” I begin.

And the faces of the reporters are mostly disappointed. They probably figure this is nothing they haven’t heard before—we have great fans, and yada, yada, and we do.

“We have great fans,” I begin. I practiced what to say at home. I recorded myself speaking into my phone. I worked the ideas over. I listened to the recordings again and again, and memorized what to say. Because I don’t want to fuck up this chance. “We have the best fans. They show up for game after game.” I wave my arm in the direction of the rink, which was packed for all three periods. It’s been packed all season long. “They fill this place, and I know I speak for the entire Sea Dogs organization when I say we’re seriously grateful for the way they support us.” I pause, take a fueling breath, and march on. “And since you all support this city so well when it comes to games, I want to ask you to support the city in other areas too. I started volunteering at a local animal rescue—Little Friends—last fall. It’s life-changing, helping them help animals find homes. And there are so many great opportunities to volunteer in this city. A homeless shelter. Beach cleanup. Giving rides to seniors.” I take a breath. No one is stopping me. No one will. Because athletes are lucky—they have a platform afforded by uncommon talent. And sometimes you need to use it for good. And for your own good. Fortunately, they’re one and the same right now. “Or, my personal favorite—the library. Do you know how underfunded most libraries are? I didn’t know that for a while, but I’ve learned that in the past few months by volunteering at some of their pancake fundraisers.” I pause, letting that sink in. “Yeah, libraries still have to resort to pancake fundraisers to make enough money for their services. Which is great on the one hand, because I love pancakes.”

There’s a collective murmur in the media room.

“But it’s a shame, because the library has a lot of great services—and services that mean a lot to me personally because…” I pause, but only for a second or two, only because I’ve never said this out loud in public, and it’s not because I’m ashamed. It’s because there’s never been a need. But there’s a need now, so I offer up a part of myself so the public can see another side to this athlete. A more personal one. “I’m dyslexic. And libraries are doing amazing things to help everyone learn to read. They have some great initiatives going on, from offering audiobooks, to text-to-speech, to this really cool technology that reads a book to you like the sentences are words on a karaoke screen. But what they’re also doing at this branch in the Upper Haight is something called Your Next Five Reads,” I say and I’m on a roll. This is like flying down the ice on a breakaway. A clean open shot. “If you like George R.R. Martin, or If You Give a Pig a Pancake, or if you’re into classics like To Kill a Mockingbird, or books by S.A. Cosby, Kristin Hannah, or Ana Huang, there are recs for everyone, whether you read with your eyes or ears, or have the computer read to you. And to support the city’s library’s initiatives, I’m going to donate a dozen headphones to every branch of the library in the city of San Francisco. The boxes should arrive tomorrow.” I stop, give a smile, then lean into the mic. “If you’ve got a few extra bucks, maybe give it to one of these libraries. If not, go ask a librarian to suggest your next five reads. And thanks for coming tonight.”

I walk out.

Two days later, I pull up to the little library on a Friday morning. Thalia emailed me late last night and begged me to stop by. I don’t want to presume it’s anything but chatting about the volunteer work I’ve been doing.

But I also want to presume everything.

I head inside and find her on the second floor. The second she sees me, she claps. Eddie does too.

I wave my hands for them to stop, meaning it. “Stop. Seriously.”

But she shakes her head. “We’ve been inundated. Everyone’s been inundated but especially this branch since Josie started Your Next Five Reads here. Everyone is writing in and asking for book recs.”

“Thalia’s inbox is horrifying,” Eddie seconds, and he’s smirking.

“Sorry, not sorry,” I say dryly.

“Oh, you’d better not be sorry. I used the horror of my inbox to secure funding from the city. Have I mentioned donations have gone through the roof since Mister Hockey became Mister Library?”

Sunlight spreads in my chest, warming every inch of me. “Yeah?”

She nods. “And I’ve hired someone to manage it.”

Shit. Fuck. No.

That wasn’t the plan. That wasn’t the point. I mean, that’s great and all, but there’s one person who should do that instead.

Before I can even sputter out, “No, hire Josie. That was my plan,” Thalia says, “Would you like to be the one to tell my new hire that she has a permanent job here?”