The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

I have reached peak librarian awesomeness. I am officially better than an algorithm, and Amazon has nothing on me as I update our Your Next Five Reads list with fresh recommendations.

It’s an extra thing I wanted to do, and so far, the digital initiative has been a success. It’s a new service I’ve set up during the last few weeks—something we’ve been promoting on the branch’s website since then. Patrons submit their favorite books and top authors, telling us what they liked, and then add what they might be in the mood to read next.

We—usually me—write back within a few hours with five recommendations of books, either paperback, digital, or audio, and explain why we think they’ll like them.

It’s a mood reader’s dream, and I review the final one I worked on today, checking each rec. Yep, these look good. Feeling like a smarty-pants in the best of ways, I hit the send button when a flurry of papers flies my way.

I jerk my gaze away from the computer screen.

Of course.

A giant Siamese has landed on the counter, sending pages soaring as he gives zero fucks. I grab the papers, sorting them as Raccoon stretches his humongous body across the keyboard, belly up and carefree.

“You bad boy. You knocked everything off the counter,” I say, chiding him, but he doesn’t respond to criticism, being a cat and all.

Thalia’s at the other end of the desk here on the second floor. “It’s no use,” she says, popping up from her chair to wander my way. “He’s above it all.”

“Clearly,” I say, looking down at the creature relaxing shamelessly on the keyboard. “He’s trying to lure me now with his big sexy routine.”

“Ah, I see you’ve learned his trick.”

“Yes! He does this long, languid stretch where he offers his sleek belly, ostensibly for petting. But if you touch him there on the very belly he’s offering, he will strike.”

“He’s a touch-me-and-die cat,” she says nonchalantly, scratching Raccoon’s chin, the one acceptable zone on this cat for petting. “So sweet.”

“And yet I’ll miss him,” I say, then wince, wishing I could take those vulnerable words back. I shouldn’t be putting sad vibes out in the air. I wasn’t hired for this temporary job to talk to my boss about how much I’ll miss this place when I finish the contract in seven weeks, but who’s counting?

Thalia gives me a sympathetic look. “This place is addictive,” she says.

But that’s all. She doesn’t add hey, how about I pry open our budget and hire you for a permanent gig? You’re the city’s most awesome new digital specialist librarian.

“It is,” I say brightly.

“Drinks this week with the crew? We’re doing Thursday night this time,” she says, shifting to another topic all together. “And we’re going to add trivia this week.”

“Book trivia?” There is nothing worse than librarians trying to best each other with book knowledge. It’s like a battle royale of the nerds, and no piece of information is left un-hurled at your rival.

“Please,” she scoffs. “We do pop culture. Sports. Music. That sort of thing, so it’s more challenging. We need it to be hard.”

“I’m in. Librarians like it hard after all,” I add, then realize the full weight of the innuendo in the statement.

Thalia sees it too, tilting her head in approval, then tapping her wine-colored nails against the counter. “That ought to be on a sticker, girl,” she says, then heads off in a swish of flowy magenta skirt and jingly bracelets.

Come to think of it, that’s not a bad idea. Maybe I could become a sticker queen and stay in San Francisco on the riches I’ll amass as I peddle a line of cheeky librarian sayings.

Meet me in the stacks.

Let’s do it on the reference desk.

Dewey Decimal to me all night long.

I have a free minute so I google the price of cute stickers, then the best fonts for stickers, then where to sell stickers. But soon enough, I sigh, vanquished already by practical matters. There’s just not a big enough market for naughty librarian stickers.

I take off my glasses for a second to pinch the bridge of my nose, since studies show ideas flow faster when you pinch your nose. Oh! I’ve got it! What if I can win another grant from The Violet Delia Foundation for Library Digital Empowerment? Thalia would probably say nice things about me to the non-profit. Maybe they’d crack open the coffers and fund this position for longer? I could look for other grants too, but most grants in my field fund professional development for librarians, not their salaries. This is a rare one. But if I can prove I’m a unicorn…

I’m also a workhorse though. I’ve been scanning the job listings regularly in San Francisco—old habits die hard, and when I was finishing grad school I was glued to the job listings. While I haven’t found any openings yet, I can widen the search beyond the city maybe. Like San Jose, or Oakland, or Marin County. I can apply to anything within a fifty-mile radius, even though I don’t have a car. But I’ll deal with that issue later. I’m aces at applications. Not only did I apply to sixteen colleges (accepted at thirteen), I submitted my résumé for more than one hundred fifty jobs before I landed this one.

I have an endless well of application energy, and I will put it to good use tonight in the job hunt. Because I want to stay here. Close to this lovely city. And my brother…and Maeve and Fable and Everly.

As I leave that evening, heading onto the streets of the Upper Haight to catch my bus, I text Wes to tell him what happened today. Well, not my “blanket the Bay Area with my CV” idea. That would definitely seem clingy. Like, hey, you life-hacked a lipstick tube into a sex toy to get me off on the counter. Clearly you want me to stay in town, don’t you? Nope. I’ll keep those plans to myself. Instead, I tap out another note.

Josie: It’s a wonder I still have a job. Today at work I said the following out loud to my boss: “Librarians like it hard.”

As I’m getting off the bus twenty minutes later, his reply lands.

Wesley: Can confirm.

I laugh and blush all at once.

The idea takes a hold of me though—the stick-around-town one. That evening, after I whip up some carrot bacon, I spend an hour crunching on my veggie food while I write a bang-up cover letter to The Violet Delia Foundation for Library Digital Empowerment, letting them know what I’ve accomplished so far and what else I hope to achieve. I send it off, then hunt for library grants, just in case there are any I might have missed. I search for more grants on the way to work the next day too. But I only unearth a few I’d really qualify for—or really that this library, or any others in the city, would qualify for to keep me on. But I check the job boards for open positions as well. I’m ready to pounce on any.

Spoiler alert: there aren’t any for—gulp—entry-level librarians.

Sigh. Sometimes starting out just sucks.

But there’s plenty of time. I’ve got seven weeks left in this job. I’ll keep at it. In the meantime, I order some stickers for fun.

On Thursday at work, the digitization center is quiet after I teach one of the digital literacy classes, but my brain isn’t. Maybe meet me in the stacks isn’t such a bad idea. Not for a sticker though. For something else. I take some notes, and work on some ideas all day, then I’m out for blood at trivia night.

News flash: our team wins, and Thalia lifts her beer in a victory toast. “You’re hereby required to play on my team for the rest of the year.”

I smile even though I don’t feel it as much inside. It’s nice to be wanted, but wanting won’t get me to stay.

The next day after work, I take off for a girls’ night out with Maeve and Fable. I invited Everly, but of course she’s traveling with the team and they don’t return till Saturday night so she can’t join us.

When I meet up with my friends by Patricia’s Green in Hayes Valley, a cute little park and playground, I’m giddy to share my news. Is it news though? Nothing has actually happened, but still after hugs and hellos, I spill the beans: “I’m looking into a grant extension and searching for a job to see if I can stay.”

With her wild, blonde-streaked hair framing her pale face, Maeve gazes heavenward to the starlit November sky, pressing her palms together. “My prayers are answered. She’ll be here, goddess. She’ll be here.”

“First, I love that you pray to the goddess,” I say.

“Who else would she pray to?” Fable asks dryly.

“Exactly. And second,” I say, frowning, as reality kicks me in the ass again, “it’s a long shot. But I’m trying.”

Fable squeezes my arm. “That’s how you start. Maybe there will be something perfect for you.”

Librarian jobs aren’t easy to come by, and they don’t pay gobs. I know librarians a few years older than I am who work a couple part-time library jobs in the hopes of landing a full-time one with benefits. But you never know.

“We’ll see what happens,” I say, and since I don’t love hogging the attention, I make a shooing gesture to Hayes Street. “Let’s start.”

We’re doing a photo scavenger hunt together. Rather than competing against each other, though, we’re working in tandem. If we check off all the items in two hours, we’ll get cake. This is the kind of team-building activity that calls my name.

I click on the list on my notes app since I planned it. I’m kind of the friend group social director. I start the clock.

“First one. Mirror selfie in a fancy bathroom,” I say, then swivel around, tapping my chin as I scan the surroundings, catching the facade of a sleek, modern building a few blocks away. “How about The Resort hotel? That place is five stars.”

Maeve nudges me. “Which you know since you were there.”

I smile smugly, a fond filthy memory sashaying past me of the night Wes and I spent in that hotel. The way he manhandled me in bed, giving me exactly what I’d learned that night I craved—a man to toss me around and eat me out.

“And it was quite a night,” I say with a throaty rumble. “I’ve given this hotel five out of five for…being a wingwoman.”

“My boss owns that hotel,” Fable puts in, so nonchalant as we walk through the evening crowd on Hayes Street toward The Resort.

“Ma’am, excuse me,” Maeve says, whipping her gaze to Fable. “My boss owns that? I’m gonna need details.”

“He owns it. Not me. But this shouldn’t be a surprise since I do work for”—Fable stops and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“a billionaire.”

Color me intrigued. “Tell me more about this billionaire boss. Is he hot? Ripped? Does he want to bend you over the desk?”

Fable swats my arm. “I’m dating someone. Steven, you know,” she says a little primly, mentioning the bartender she started seeing a few months ago. “So the answer is no.”

“No, your boss is not hot because you’re dating someone else?” I ask with a doubtful arch of an eyebrow. “That doesn’t add up.”

Maeve pffts. “Oh, he’s hot all right. I’ve seen pics of Wilder Blaine,” she says, mentioning Fable’s boss, who owns the city’s Renegades football team and some hotels, as well as some green energy businesses. “Pretty sure he’s San Francisco’s most eligible billionaire. And sexiest. The man is rough-around-the-edges hot in a tailored suit.”

“Well, tell me more, Maeve,” I tease.

“I’m just saying. Fable needs to open her eyes.”

As we reach the chichi hotel, Fable relents a bit with, “Yes, empirically, Wilder Blaine is good-looking, but I can’t think of him that way since he’s my boss. Also, hello! I’m seeing someone.”

“You’re not denying your boss is hot,” I add, because it’s fun to rile her up.

“Speak of the devil,” Maeve whispers out of the corner of her mouth as we walk into the lobby, its mirrored walls reflecting the opulent chandeliers above. “Her hot-ass billionaire boss is walking our way at twelve o’clock.”

As if we’ve summoned him, a tall, dark-haired man with a chiseled jaw, ink on his knuckles, and an intensity in his eyes strides across the hotel lobby. When he spots Fable, something flickers in his gaze. It’s more than recognition. It’s awareness. Interest maybe?

He stops at my redhead friend. “Evening, Fable. How’s everything? Are you staying here tonight? I can comp you a room.”

I swear he looks at her more like he wants to take her to a room than gift her one.

“We’re doing a photo scavenger hunt,” Fable says, then quickly introduces us to the man. When she’s done, he nods our way. “If you need anything, let me know.”

Then he heads off, a faint hint of expensive cologne trailing behind the mogul of a man.

“Someone has a crush on you,” Maeve mutters under her breath.

“Shut up. He does not,” Fable admonishes.

I clear my throat. “Hate to break it to you, but that man has ‘secret crush’ written all over him.”

“Does not,” she says.

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Fine. I will back down but I reserve the right to say I told you so someday.”

Maeve nods in solidarity. “Double I told you so.”

Fable rolls her eyes, but spins around. “Focus on the prize. We have a two-hour cake countdown.”

We get to work. Fast.

We march past the elegantly arranged bouquets of dahlias in the hallway off the lobby, their petals shimmering in the soft glow of the lighting, then head into the fancy ladies’ room. In front of the mirror, we give our best pouty faces as we snap a mirror selfie. After that, we’re onto the next stop. “Take a picture by a statue,” I read off from the notes.

Maeve screws up the corner of her lips, eyes narrowed. It doesn’t take long though. “Ooh! The giant coffee cup sculpture at Yerba Buena Gardens,” she says, then rattles off details. “It’s part of a temporary art installation. A public art initiative. Ask me how I know.” She wiggles her fingers, urging us to ask.

“How do you know?” Fable says, taking the bait.

“Because I’m obsessed with public art. I want someone to commission me to paint another giant installation. Could be coffee cup murals. Anywhere in the city,” she says wistfully. “Or anything, for that matter.” But then she seems to shake it off. “We’ll have to get there quickly though. So we can get in the cup. The cops aren’t usually there till late.”

I stop, digging my heels in. “What? Cops show up?”

“Yes, but mostly after ten.”

I shake my head. “Nope. Pick another statue.”

“So there’s no do illegal things on your top ten list?” Fable asks wryly.

“Not at all,” I say, and maybe I’m a Goody Two-shoes but it’ll keep us all out of jail, and I fear Maeve could find jail easily on her own.

“Fine. We’ll pose on it, not in it,” Maeve says with an aggrieved huff.

We catch a bus to Yerba Buena Gardens, a multi-block square that includes a playground, lawn, bowling alley, skating rink, and theaters. As the bus rolls down Union Street, Maeve cocks her head my way. “Hey. I just thought of something—is this on your list somewhere?”

“Taking a bus with my girlies?”

“No, doing a photo scavenger hunt. Or taking pics like this?”

I blink, awareness hitting me sharp and fast. Actually…it is. Number five—Take photos of your fun times.

Why hadn’t I thought this girls’ night out activity qualified for the list? A photo scavenger is precisely number five. But it never occurred to me. How did I miss something so obvious? It’s a little embarrassing, frankly.

Because you want to do the list with Wesley.

And I’ve been doing this item with him without realizing it either. I flash back to the pictures Wes and I have taken so far—the photo outside the Bay Area Banter Brigade’s theater, then the pictures on Sunday as we baked and ate. “A record of the list,” I’d said in the kitchen, somehow completely oblivious to the fact that we’d already been doing number five.

We’ve done it so well we could even check it off. We’ve been snapping pics as we go.

But that’s not why I’m embarrassed I missed this girls’ night out as a possible number five. My stomach churns because the list feels like it belongs solely to Wes and me. The list is something I do with him. It’s dating him without the label of dating. Saying that out loud, though, is like cracking open my chest.

Maeve nudges me, asking, “So, is it?”

Shoot. I haven’t even answered her.

“Would something like this qualify?” Fable asks too.

That’s a reasonable question—“have fun with friends” feels like a list item. But I also want to have fun with my roomie, so I do something I don’t love. I shake my head. “Bond with friends isn’t,” I say, pasting on a grin as I spin a tall tale.

Fable narrows her brow, maybe thinking I’ve missed the point when she adds, “I think she meant this whole thing—pics and all.”

“Not really,” I say, doubling down on the lie, flicking a strand of my hair off my shoulder, like that proves I’m not making things up.

Fable arches a brow. “You lie.”

I flinch. “I don’t.”

“You do. I bet this is on there,” she says.

My heart slams hard against my rib cage. I feel…caught. “It’s not,” I say as she grabs at my shoulder bag, like she can find the list in it. The list’s at home though.

As the bus curves past Market Street, Maeve leans forward in the blue plastic chair to stare slack-jawed at me, wagging a finger my way. “This is on the list. Somehow. And you don’t want this to count.”

She says it playfully, but like she’s delighting in busting me.

Shame climbs my throat, combined with foolishness. I misled my friends. I roll my lips, then blow out a breath. “Fine, fine. You’re right. Taking photos of fun times is on it. This counts, okay? I missed it, and I felt stupid.”

But Maeve doesn’t back down. “That’s not what’s going on.” She stares at me longer, studying me, like she can find the answer in my expression. She must find it, since she says, “Oh my god! I know what’s going on. You’re doing this with Wesley, aren’t you?”

I drop my face into my hands, groaning. But when the bus rumbles to a stop at Yerba Buena Gardens with a mechanical growl, I let go and look her in the eyes. “Yes,” I admit, and there’s a momentary reprieve as we trot down the steps. Once we head into the gardens, I revisit the topic with a genuine apology. I don’t want to be the friend who fibs. “I’m sorry, guys.”

Maeve grabs my arm, tugging me to a nearby bench. “Josie. You don’t have to apologize.”

Fable gives me a soft smile, exonerating me too. “Yeah, it’s not apology level. We get it. But why didn’t you tell us what’s going on?”

That’s the bigger issue. I’ve been keeping something from them. Something important. That I’m spending more and more time with my roomie. That I’m developing feelings for him—feelings I shouldn’t act on. Correction: shouldn’t act on again. “Yes, but it’s stupid. He’s my roomie, and I’m leaving, and he works with my brother, and it’s all just annoying,” I say with a frustrated huff.

Maeve sets her head on my shoulder, sighing sympathetically. “I’d have been surprised if you weren’t falling in like with him. You liked him that first night. Now you’ve gotten to know a man who’s been nothing but generous since the first time you met him,” she says, her voice stripped of its usual sass and teasing. She’s straightforward, and I love it. “Maybe it was all supposed to happen.”

I take a moment to consider her view of fate. Since I landed in town, Wes and I have been in each other’s orbits. We can’t stop circling each other. “Maybe there’s an inevitability to us,” I admit.

“Sometimes two people are just meant to be in the same…place,” Maeve says, her artist soul shining through.

I noodle on that for a beat, drawing in a breath of cool November air. I’ve read enough stories to bet on that little thing called fate to bring people together who need each other. “That might be true in some ways,” I acknowledge. “Wes and I seem to understand each other in the way that we both want and need. But on the other hand, we’re not going to be in the same place for very long. And the fact that we literally live in the same place right now is a problem.” I look from Maeve to Fable and back, shrugging helplessly. “What if something happens and then…I don’t want it, or he doesn’t want it? We’re stuck together, and that would be weird.” Uncomfortable too. My back aches in a reminder of The Kid, waiting to torture me on Maeve’s couch if I need a new place to stay. “I really like living there.”

We’re all quiet for a beat. Humming. Sighing. Thinking.Content is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

“You really don’t think a romance or relationship can go anywhere?” Fable asks, clearly needing to make sure we’ve turned over every stone.

“It’s hard to imagine it will. There’s a lot in the way. It’s so hard finding a job and a place, and even if those aligned…” I don’t finish the thought because I don’t have more to say. Wes and I are complicated. Besides, I want to focus on my friends. “But thanks for listening. I needed it.”

Maeve shoots Fable a look. Fable shoots one right back at her, like an unspoken language. With a nod, Maeve squeezes my thigh, then says, “You should take pics with him. For the list. This is a fun girls’ night out. That’s all.”

My heart swells with love for them, for this gesture, for their understanding. “I love you two. So much,” I say, then I wrap an arm around Fable, another around Maeve, and hug them close. “This should be on every list. Tell your friends you love them.”

Maeve’s eyes glisten, and she swipes at her cheek. Fable rolls her lips together, holding in obvious emotions. But not for long. “Love you,” Maeve says softly, and Fable echoes her with, “Love you too.”

I check the clock on our hunt. One hour down. One to go.

Fifty-nine minutes later, we finish with a photo of a group hug with a random dog, a human pyramid of the three of us, and a photobomb in the ferry terminal before we head to a cake shop for our reward.

I’ll miss them, too, if I can’t find a way to stay. I’ll miss them so much.