The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

“I spent my lunch break reading up some more on improv classes. The kind of prompts they might give, how to approach them,” I say as I walk to the theater with Wesley a few days later, on Thursday night. I’m trying, I swear, I’m trying not to trudge there. But the pit of dread in my stomach is turning into a gaping maw the closer we get to the old theater in the heart of the Mission District where the Bay Area Banter Brigade hosts classes and shows.

“Of course you did,” Wesley says, his lips curving up. We turn the corner, passing a huge graffiti mural of animals riding bikes. It looks like something Maeve would paint, and she has painted similar works of art in other sections of the city. But even that can’t distract me from my dread.

It’s skyrocketing now that we’re a block away from the gates of my personal hell. “I even checked out a couple resources at the library on the history of improv, and I read some articles on the best improv teaching techniques,” I continue, narrowing in on all the data I’m storing in my head. If I can keep my focus on the homework I did, I’ll be fine. Just fine.

Wesley chuckles under his breath.

“What’s that for?”

“You. Doing research on improv,” he says, smirking now as he looks my way with more amusement than his light brown eyes should legally be allowed to hold.

But this is not amusing. Improv is not funny. “How else would I know what to expect in a class?”

He stops outside a convenience store peddling fruits and flowers in a display out front with a sign advertising Mexican baked goods inside. “Let me guess what they’ll say.” He taps his chin, then holds out a hand, like he’s an emcee, saying take it away. “You’re a team of astronauts who have just crash-landed on an uncharted planet inhabited by sentient alien beings who communicate through interpretive dance…and go!”

I shudder. “No! No one said anything about doing interpretive dance. We are not doing interpretive dance.”

Tilting his head, Wesley arches a brow. “We might be.”

I frown, then stab his chest. “Take it back. Take that horrid idea back right now.”

He grabs my hand and curls his bigger one around it. “Josie, you might have to do interpretive dance.” He lets go of my hand, then tips his forehead. “But I’ll be right there with you.”

Nope. I dig in. My feet are concrete. I refuse to move. I cross my arms. “I’m not doing it. I am never doing interpretive dance. Greta will understand.” I raise my face heavenward and say to the starlit sky, “Love you, Greta. But you know that’s a hard pass, right?” I listen for her answer, hoping it’ll come in the sound of a throaty-voiced laugh, then return my focus to Wesley. “She said she gets it. A hard pass is a hard pass.”

“Did she say that, Josie?”

“No,” I grumble, but I don’t look away from him. It’s October in San Francisco so it’s strangely warm out—but that’s typical for this month, I’ve learned. And I don’t mind the weather because Wesley’s in a trim burgundy T-shirt that stretches across his pecs, and shows off those steel arms and the ink that climbs down his fair skin. I catch snippets of his sunburst, all of his music notes, and a view of the line drawing of the dog. The notes make sense—he loves music. I want to know about the sunburst and the dog. Briefly, I picture the bruise under his shirt too. The one I was so tempted to touch the other night in the dark of the kitchen.

But that night feels like it was years ago, especially since I may never escape this moment.

Greta was not wrong when she said overcome a fear.

“I bet there’s a way around it.” Then, it hits me like a baby grand piano crash-landing on a cartoon character. “How did I miss this? My specialty is digital literacy and information, so I should have thought of this sooner. We’ll do an online class. Asynchronous learning. It’ll be perfect. Has there ever been a better solution in the history of the world?”

He sighs, adding an eye roll, too, as he advances toward me. “Just know this—I have no choice now.”

Before I realize what he’s doing, Wesley hoists me up and tosses me over his shoulder. In the middle of the sidewalk. As evening crowds stream by. “Wesley!”

He doesn’t let go, even as I pound my fists against his back while he carries me fireman-style to the little theater.

“If I die of embarrassment you’d better say nice things about me at my funeral,” I grumble.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he says, too amused.

“It’s official. I’m dead. I am dead from improv and you,” I say, and he carries me into the theater, finally putting me down at the back row. I turn around and take it in.

It’s a packed class.

Kill. Me. Now.

“Welcome to improv for adults.”

The teacher strides across the front of the small theater as a welcoming smile spreads across her plum-colored lips. If I walked into her cottage, I’m sure she’d offer me tea, complete with a honey stirrer, then listen to all my heartache in front of her warm, crackling fireplace.

And still, I am annoyingly terrified. My chest is tight as I settle into the hard metal chairs placed in a circle around the room. My skin is clammy. My heart beats in my ears.

I wish I weren’t afraid.

I wish I were fearless.

I wish I were bold.

“You might be here because someone told you you’re funny,” she says, and a couple of the guys in class chuckle. Dude-bros. There are dude-bros here. I want to find a tunnel to another universe.

“Or maybe you’re here because you need to give presentations at work and your boss sent you to class to prep.”

A few men and women in business-y attire nod.NôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

She stops, then looks our way. “Or possibly because you’re on a date with someone, and this is a fun new activity.”

Who would do this on a date? I’m literally sweating. I only want to sweat if I’m in bed and Wesley’s fucking me so hard he’s grunting and I’m begging.

And that is not a helpful thought. Nope. Not helpful at all.

As she talks more about what to expect, I sit up straighter, smooth a hand over my jeans, draw a quiet breath.

Wesley shifts closer, his shoulder brushing mine. His touch is reassuring and tingly all at once. He leans in more, moving toward my ear, his scruffy jaw touching my cheek as he whispers, “We can go.”

It’s said so thoughtfully, with so much tenderness. “Yeah?” I whisper back, a knot of relief untying in my chest.

“It’s okay to say no, even if it’s on the list,” he says, and I sit with that permission for several seconds—seconds that soothe some of my nerves. That settle my worries.

This is a make-believe class for adults. The worst that’ll happen is I’ll be bad at it, and we’ll laugh. I lean into him, my head brushing his now, my hair touching his. “I’m staying.”

Wesley sets a big hand on my thigh, and squeezes.

It’s distracting, and maybe that’s what I need as the teacher paces across the room, saying, “Some of you might be scared. You might feel uncomfortable, you might hate this, but try to remember this is just for fun. And it’s okay to be silly. In fact, I guarantee it’ll feel silly.” She stops, surveys the class in the theater. “And this is not a try-out for the next Taylor Tomlinson comedy troupe,” she says, and I love her for citing a female comic. “You don’t need to be Iliza or Ali.”

I officially love her for all time.

“You’re here to collaborate. Not to audition,” she adds, then sweeps her gaze across the whole class, not singling anyone out as she says, “And it’s okay to be afraid.”

My throat tightens with emotions as I flash back to the time I had to give a speech in my debate class in high school. I’d researched the hell out of the topic, but no amount of research could truly prepare me for the questions portion from the rest of the class. I’d been nervous for the whole week leading up to it. Would I draw a blank? Trip on my words? Would I sound foolish? That morning, I debated with myself – was I too sick to go to school? I was fine, of course. Just nervous.

But then Greta arrived, unexpected, and I answered the door as my father made coffee. She stood there, wild red hair tumbling free, her black flowery scarf tossed casually around her neck since it was always chilly in Maine.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” I said as I stood in the doorway.

“It’s a good surprise, I hope?”

“Definitely.”

She bent closer, her voice only for me as she said, “I know you’re nervous but it’s okay to be afraid. It’s okay, too, if you’re not perfect on stage. And even if you’re not, you’re going to do just fine. And you’re going to tell me all about it when I see you this weekend.” Then she pressed a little charm into my hand. A silver book, like the kind that goes on a necklace. “Here you go. A reminder that it’s okay to be afraid. You’ll get through it.”

She was right. I did get through it. I didn’t fall in love with public speaking. But I survived it. Thanks to those encouraging words from her.

I shake off the fond memory but hold tight to the meaning—it’s okay to be afraid.

Since I suppose I do want to do better at all the things I can’t prepare for. That’s why I’m here. To learn, to grow, to try.

I repeat that mantra till the clammy feeling fades right as the teacher claps her hands, drawing our attention back to her. “Let’s begin. I want all of you to stand up, grab a partner, and get into pairs. Or work with a partner if you came with one. We’ll start with a simple exercise to warm up. It’s called ‘Yes, And…’ This exercise is all about embracing the ideas of your partner and building upon them, no matter how silly or absurd the suggestion may be.”

Curious murmurs ripple through the crowd as she explains the concept a little further. She points to a woman in khaki slacks and a white button-down, then to the man in a polo shirt next to her. “Would you like to start?”

“Sure,” the woman says, with some trepidation in her voice.

It’s okay to be afraid.

I try to send that message to her.

“Great! Don’t worry about sounding perfect. You can be absurd or silly. Goofy or serious. Let’s start. You’re two suburban neighbors competing for the title of ‘Yard of the Month.’”

My brain kicks into high gear as I invent scenarios. Just try to beat my flowers, buddy.

They head to the stage. The man starts off saying his garden with its gurgling fountain is better. She says her flowers grow the tallest. They keep going, layering onto the scenarios to the point where they’re pretending they’re splashing in the fountain with flowers, and I’m wishing for an interpretive dance when it’s my turn.

A little later, the teacher calls us up. It’s okay to be afraid.

With mischief in her smile, she steps closer to the stage, the chime of her ankle bracelet floating through the theater. “You’re two strangers who keep running into each other on the bustling streets of the city. Each time you meet, you start to realize there might be a deeper connection between you.”

Can she read my mind? That was…exactly what I needed.

I look to my scene partner. Wesley gives me a reassuring smile, his eyes sparkling with encouragement. I return the smile, feeling a surge of courage at his side.

“I didn’t see you there,” Wesley begins in a playful tone.

Okay, that’s a softball. Nice and simple. What’s my yes, and? I imagine reading this scene in a book. What would the next line be?

I raise an eyebrow, playing it with some sass. “Well, maybe if you watched where you were going, we wouldn’t keep bumping into each other.”

“Then my days would be less interesting. Wouldn’t yours?” he asks, and it’s a simple question. But it’s also a lifeline—a chance for me to build on what he’s asking.

“Or perhaps you’re just following me around the city for some unknown reason.”

He’s right here with me, offering me another easy response. “Or maybe for a known reason. Like I wanted to see you.”

The next words tumble out of my mouth, saucily too. “You have a funny way of showing it. You could try, I don’t know, saying what you want.”

Wesley lifts an appreciative brow, then says dryly, “Ice cream. The answer is always ice cream.”

A quiet gasp escapes me as he takes us back to our first night together. “Maybe you should get some now. I hear there are ice cream shops all over the city.”

He nods in the direction of an imaginary shop in the distance. “Like that one right by a hotel.”

A rush of heat blasts through me. This man. He turns me on and helps me out at the same time.

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, then impulsively, I take his hand and lead him to the imaginary bustling city street and toward the invisible shop and hotel.

The teacher claps, along with the class, then calls up the next pair. As we sit down, my heart still beating in my throat, I say, a little exhilarated, “We did it.”

“We did,” he says, then we watch the others till it’s our turn again a little later.

Once more, we head to the stage, and this time I feel a lot less afraid.

“You’re two lovers meeting for a clandestine tryst,” the teacher says, and I wait for more but that’s it.

It’s like she knows what we want. My face flames, but I ignore the heat in my cheeks.

“You’re here,” Wesley murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes drinking in every detail of me. My face isn’t the only part of me that’s hot.

This time, I don’t pretend I’m in a story. This time, I’m just me.

“I couldn’t stay away,” I say, my voice husky with emotion.

The air crackles with unspoken words and unfulfilled longing. Wesley brushes his fingers against my cheek. “I’ve missed you,” he confesses softly.

Is this improv or a fantasy?

My skin tingles everywhere. “I’ve missed you too,” I whisper.

I hope this yes, and never ends.

“Then maybe we should make the most of this moment,” Wesley suggests, his voice filled with a mix of desire and hope.

“And how do you propose we do that?”

His gaze darkens with a hint of mischief. “You could come over,” he suggests.

The implication. Dear god, the implication.

My knees weaken. My bones melt. I have no yes, and. I only have one thing to say. “Yes, please!”

The class laughs, and the teacher fans her face. “Well done! I had a feeling you two would be naturals with these prompts.”

Wesley looks away, so I can’t catch his reaction. But as I return to my seat I keep wondering—if it was that obvious to the teacher that we’d be naturals at romantic longing, will it be harder rather than easier to be friends?

The answer starts to come when class ends, and as we walk out, Wesley declares, “We’re taking a pic.”

I feel like a superhero. No, a dragon slayer. I’m marching through the land, having vanquished the foe of my fear. “A victory shot,” I declare.

Outside the theater, he reaches for his phone, clicks on the camera, and drapes an arm around me, drawing me closer.

Then, he curls that big hand a little tighter around me. A rush of tingles spread down my back. From that.

That’s my answer—it’ll be harder.