The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

Dance practice might be the perfect time for me to ask Wes the next thing—would you want to try long-distance?

If I can’t get a job in time—and really, the clock is ticking—would you want to try to stay together? I mean, it’s not like I’m going to ask him if I can stay here and freeload while I look for work. That’s not happening.

“Are we really doing this?” Wes asks, groaning on the couch the next night, slouching deeper into it. He returned home late last night from his road trip, but barely has a break since he has a game tomorrow evening. “I could play video games instead. That’s kind of like dancing.”

I laugh as I grab his hand, trying to tug him up. “Video games are not anything like dancing. How is it that you don’t like dancing?”

“I’m bad at it.”

I scoff. “Doubtful. You’re an athlete.”NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

“Yeah, and hockey is not ice dancing.”

“It’s not creating a charcuterie board either, and you still do that in your free time,” I tease.

“Seriously. Dancing is like the opposite of hockey.”

“You’re an athlete. You know how to move your body.”

“In bed and on the ice,” he says, then pulls me onto his lap. “Speaking of the first one…maybe dancing is a euphemism for sex. See? We’ve already crossed it off ten million times.”

He’s picking up my fine art of exaggeration, but he’s wrong here. I reach for the chain around his neck and fiddle with it. “You got sex from the list. The first one. And number eight is dance in the park. Pretty sure my aunt didn’t want me to bang a dude in the park.”

“I dunno. She sounds like she was pretty cool.”

“She was. You tossed me over your shoulder and carried me into the improv theater. Don’t make me do that to you now.”

Begrudgingly, he lets me pull him up from the couch. I pat his firm chest, eager to move onto our practice. “But you know how you said I got you then? Well, I’ve got you now. I studied all the little foot drawings on a how-to-dance page.”

“You did?” he asks, brow furrowed, then he shakes his head. “What am I saying? Of course you did. That’s so on brand.”

I head to his record player, put on a Frank Sinatra tune, then turn around. With a resigned sigh, Wes strides over to me. “I’m only doing this because it’s you,” he says.

“Good enough reason for me,” I say, especially since it gives me the confidence that now might be the right time.

He loops his arms around my neck and as the old standard plays, we practice to dance in the park. “Soon, we’ll cross off three more things,” he says as he brings me closer. His tone is wistful. Maybe this is the time to bring it up.

“We will,” I say, then offer hopefully, “but maybe we can start a new list.” Like when we’re apart? Something that’ll help keep us together.

“Yeah, maybe.”

Except…that’s weirdly non-committal from him. Especially since he turns silent as we sway.

My radar beeps. I might be wrong. Maybe now isn’t the best time to say do you want to try long-distance if I can’t find a job?

My heart beats faster in worry as the silence extends, I should really try not to read into the silence. I try to just enjoy dance practice in the living room with him. But he’s seemed a little off since he returned home. Three losses in a row will do that to you though. Maybe that’s what his mood is about. What if he wants to talk?

“Hey. Is your dad pressuring you?” I ask, a subtle way of saying is hockey stressing you out?

He huffs out a breath. “Yes, always, but he’s also pressuring me about coming to Christmas at Frieda’s house in Sonoma. She’s having some big party with her friends, and it sounds…like hell.”

“Can you get out of it?”

“Easily. All I have to do is tell him I want to work out more, or do more yoga, or meet with the performance coach. Or get in some extra ice time,” he says it flatly. Not like it’s a clever way to avoid the visit, which it is. But more like he wishes he didn’t have to devise an excuse. “Besides, we only have a couple days off anyway.”

Did he sidestep the question about pressure? I think he did. But the answer still came through loud and clear. “Do you usually spend the holidays with your dad?”

“Him or Mom. She’s still traveling with her husband but I’ve gone to see her in Colorado a few times in the past. It’s weird. Being an adult and going home for Christmas,” he says and maybe Wes is just contemplative tonight.

“Mine are coming here for the holidays. To see Christian and Liv and the babies of course,” I say, forgoing my plans for now since the time doesn’t seem right. “But I know what you mean. I feel lost in time when I go home. I lived at my parents’ house during the summers when I was getting my master’s, and then right up until I moved out here. And I just felt like, am I a kid or an adult?” But maybe this is a way to broach the topic subtly? “I really don’t want to go home if I don’t get a job here.”

That seems to snap his focus back to me. He gives me a steady look. “You’ll get one.”

Time is running out though. But I don’t say that. I say nothing because I don’t trust myself not to say how I feel.

“Will you go home?” he asks finally. “If you…don’t get one?”

Why are you asking? Where do you want me to go? What should I do? I say none of that though. “I don’t know. But maybe it’ll be fine if I do. They hardly noticed me growing up. I got used to it. There are benefits to being the invisible child,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.

I half expect him to say I see you, but he turns quiet again as the song ends.

“Are you thinking about how much you hate dancing?” I ask.

He drags a hand roughly through his hair. “No, just thinking about the game tomorrow. Sorry. I’m not the best company tonight.”

“It’s okay.” I let my arms fall from his shoulders and take his hand, leading him back to the couch again. “What’s wrong?”

Another hard sigh. Another hand through his hair. “It’s New York. We’re playing them again, and that last game was rough. The last week has been rough. I want to do my best. I don’t think I have been lately.”

I hate that he’s hurting. I hate that he’s beating himself up. “You will,” I say, squeezing his hand, but when his phone buzzes on the table, he tenses, peering at the screen.

His father’s name flashes across it. He usually ignores his dad when we’re together, but this time he grabs it. Reads. Replies. Then puts it down. “He’s just telling me stuff about the game. He’ll be there.”

Oh. Nerves whip through me. “Should I not go?” Then another question swoops down. “Does he know about me?”

With a guilty look, Wes shakes his head. “No.”

For the first time, I feel like we’re out of step.