The Boyfriend Goal (Love and Hockey Book 1)

Josie

Don’t look now, but everything is going perfectly today.

This never happens so I’m going to savor every single second. My flight into San Francisco arrived early. My black-and-white leopard-print luggage was the first to land on the carousel. And the town car my older brother sent for me—since his wife is fifty-nine million months pregnant with twins—cruised along the 101 and into the city easily without hitting any traffic, even on a Sunday afternoon.

The car pulls up in front of a charming yellow building in Hayes Valley that my college friend Maeve has been secretly renting from a trapeze artist, who’s been subleasing it from a foot archer (I didn’t even know that was a thing), so somehow this game of six-degrees-of-circus-separation brought her to this vibrant neighborhood. And it brought this neighborhood to me, since I’ll be couching it here this week until I move into my own short-term rental on Friday. My new job begins on Tuesday. I’m so excited to start this next phase of my life.

Right now.

The car stops and the driver hops out, hustling to my door and swinging it open for me. “Here you go, Josie. Can I help you with anything?”

I smile brightly at the man but decline. “I’ve got it,” I say, since I can’t let myself get used to drivers or special service. That’s my brother’s world—not mine.

I’m a do-it-yourself kind of gal, and my meager bank account thanks me for it. When the driver unloads the suitcases on the sidewalk, I thank him then take a beat to note what’s on this block. A cute café, a record shop, a noodle diner, and a sea of people swimming through the city.

It’s a little overwhelming, but in a good way. It’s also nothing like the quiet little town in Maine where I’ve lived most of my life. But I’m getting out of my comfort zone. I’m starting my first job post master’s degree, and I’ve even got my list from my fabulous aunt Greta.

The list I’ve held onto for two years. The list I will definitely, absolutely finally tackle. Though maybe not item number one. That’s way out of my comfort zone. But the other things on the list are fine.

Well, mostly fine.

We’ll see.

For now, I say goodbye to the driver, then send my big brother a text. Christian still worries about me, so he’ll want to know I navigated the wilds of the big bad city safely.

Josie: I’m here and all is well.

He doesn’t reply, but I’m not worried since he and his wife are about to have their hands full, which will be doubly hard since hockey starts at the end of this week, and it’s his second season as the team captain.

I drag my bags—bought secondhand at a thrift shop, naturally—up the stoop. After checking the front door code that Maeve texted me, I punch it into the keypad, then head up three steep and cardio-inducing flights of stairs to the fourth floor, searching for B4.

Note to self: no need to join a gym this week.

I find the door—it’s purple, which doesn’t surprise me but does delight me—and I try the code Maeve sent again. It doesn’t work. Which, knowing Maeve, also doesn’t surprise me.

The second I rap on the door though, it swings open inside and there’s a half-blonde/half-brunette tornado. In a mad dash, Maeve’s doing up the final button on a starched white shirt, then stabbing a chopstick through her curls of light brown hair, streaked with blonde.

“Ahhhh! I’m the worst. I’m late for a last-minute catering gig for a Dark Futures exhibit at this gallery I’m dying to get my paintings into—the Frieda Claiborne Gallery. It’s a mile away. Meet me there at ten and we’ll grab food.”

Ten? What, are we still in college? I like to be in jammies at nine-thirty on the dot while enjoying a cheap merlot and debating the best book-to-film adaptations of all time in a Reddit group.

But I smile and say, “Sounds great.”

She’s hugging me in a blur, then racing out the door as I barely catch my breath to call out, “Good luck. You’ll wow this Frieda, I just know it.”

She shudders as she walks backward toward the stairs. “I hear she’s tough.”

“So are you,” I say, as she spins around, but…wait.

I point to the purple door I’m holding open and the keypad on it that I’ll need to use the next time I return to this place. “Maeve, what’s the door code for here? It’s different than the one downstairs.”Content is property of NôvelDrama.Org.

She waggles her phone. “It’s long so I’ll text it to you.” She wheels around, then turns right back, lifting a finger. “If you hear a funny noise on the windowsill, don’t freak out. It’s just the pigeons banging.”

Okaaaay. “Didn’t have pigeon sex on today’s bingo card but thanks for the heads-up.”

“And the showerhead is kinda short, so you might have to, well, duck.”

I make a mental note. “Short shower. No problem.”

She winces, a guilty look in her hazel eyes. “Also, you can’t face forward on the toilet seat since it’s wedged right against the wall.”

I’d hate for her to feel bad when she’s opened her home to me, so I say, “I love acquiring new skills, like peeing sideways.”

“You’re the best,” she says, then blows me a kiss and races down the hall, jumping gracefully over the top step. “Watch out for this one,” she warns and is gone in a cloud of sweet plum perfume and tardiness.

I turn around, take a big welcoming breath, and survey the tiny one-bedroom. Yup. This is definitely the Maeve I met my freshman year of college. Her stuff fucks like horny rabbits and multiplies. Paintbrushes are scattered in the kitchen sink, plants grow wildly from the windowsill, and homemade lamps crafted from old liquor bottles and castaway rhinestones sit on the table.

But it’s home for the next few days till I can move into my own temporary place. I check the clock. It’s four. Which gives me plenty of time to explore the neighborhood before I meet Maeve. That just makes good sense. I like to research everything before I do it. That way I’m always prepared for whatever comes my way.

I need to stop.

Truly, I do. I came to San Francisco for my first job as a librarian, not as a pigeon pornithographer.

But holy balls. Maeve did not lie. Not only is pigeon sex loud, it’s like a freaking pageant. I adjust my phone screen as I record the show. Big Bird over there has been strutting his stuff on the windowsill, cooing and sashaying for Ms. Peck, who keeps scurrying around in circles. Tittering. She is definitely tittering. Then, he hops up on her back.

That’s how pigeons do it? Like they’re forming a cheerleading pyramid? I had no idea, but I can’t look away. The dude is perched there. Now, he’s flapping his wings. And five seconds later, he jumps off.

Talk about a quickie.

“Not impressed, Big Bird,” I say, then peer behind me into the apartment, like I need to check to make sure someone didn’t just watch me record birds doing it.

Nope. It’s just me here. The pornithographer.

Best to get on with my evening. I hit end on my invasion of pigeon privacy and head into the bathroom.

Oh.

I stop abruptly. It’s like the size of a high school locker. But no matter. Maeve is giving me a free place to stay. Who cares if I have to squeeze into the bathroom?

I head to the toilet where, as promised, I have to pee sideways. Fun fact about peeing sideways—your knees bang the sink.

There’s a little scrape now on my left knee.

Fine, my life isn’t quite as perfect as it seemed an hour ago, but a shower will cure that. I strip out of my travel clothes and hop under the hot water, where I pretty much have to do a squat the entire time I’m under the spray. When I get out, my thighs are burning. But bright side and all—this building is a life hack, and I get cardio and strength training here.

The good news is there’s almost enough room in the bathroom to do my makeup.

A half hour later, my hair is dried and I’m wearing my oversized white T-shirt with an off-the shoulder neckline (cut by yours truly), my aunt Greta’s signature scarf to hold back my hair, my black-and-white cat-eye glasses, and a pair of pink fuzzy slippers. My face is lotioned and potioned. In the tiny bathroom, I finish slicking on mascara, then blush, as I google directions to the Frieda Claiborne Gallery while listening to a podcast about the history of San Francisco. The gallery is just down Hayes Street, so it’s not too far away.

I’ll just switch out of this shirt and pull on jeans and a hoodie, then take off. No need to dress up since I’m not actually attending the Dark Futures exhibit. Maeve’s texted the code so I’m good to go. As I head to my suitcase, set neatly by the ratty green couch, there’s a knock on the door.

Hmm. It’s not my place to answer it, but what if Maeve’s expecting something and forgot to tell me? I scurry to the door, setting down my phone to check the peephole. A woman with red hair and freckles flying across her pale skin stands in the hall, frantically bouncing a baby on one hip and balancing a package on the other. And is that a little toddler wandering in bored circles behind her?

“Hey, Maeve. They dropped off your mail for me again,” she says, sounding like sleep has eluded her for a millennia.

Must be her neighbor. I swing open the door.

“Oh. You’re not⁠—”

“I’m Josie. Maeve’s friend,” I say as the baby whimpers. “But let me take that. You look busy,” I say, reaching for the package, then setting it on the table right by the door inside the apartment.

The woman looks down at the baby with a heavy sigh. “She’s hungry. Eats constantly. But I have to go meet her father for a playdate.”

She doesn’t sound thrilled about the playdate. I bet the playdate she really wants is with her pillow. I so get it. My pillow and I are tight.

“Mom, I want an ice cream,” the toddler whines, making airplane arms as he spins in a circle. “Please. Now. Please now.”

“And we’re leaving any second,” she says in that I’m so exhausted but I’m faking it for you voice when her purse slinks down her arm, then careens to the floor in a heap.

Airplane boy seizes his chance and wings out, propelling down the hall toward the wobbly step. Tired Mom is grabbing her purse, so without hesitation, I rush on pink fuzzy feet, lassoing the boy with my arm before he tumbles down a flight of stairs.

Got him!

The mom gasps. “Oh my god. Thank you.”

In seconds she’s next to me, clutching him while thanking me profusely as the baby wails.

Note to self: say no, albeit nicely, when Christian asks me to babysit.

But I don’t share my child-free thoughts with the stranger. Instead, I just smile. “Glad to help.”

On another effusive thank you, the harried mom takes the boy’s hand and heads down the steps. I whirl around, returning to the purple door, which must have fallen closed. I lift a finger to punch in a code…

A code I don’t know.

Since it’s on my phone.

On the other side of the door.

I groan in frustration.

Don’t look now, Josie. But nothing is going your way.

My good luck must have drained down the short shower stall.

Still, there has to be a solution. Every problem has several. I just need to find one. That’s all. I head along the hall, scanning for the mom, peering down the stairs, but she’s already gone. I look back at the apartments on this floor, considering meeting my temporary neighbors. I could knock on doors and ask to borrow a phone.

But I don’t have Maeve’s number memorized anyway. Come to think of it, I don’t even know my brother’s number by rote. Even if I had a borrowed phone, I don’t know who I’d call.

I stare forlornly at B4, wishing the door would magically open. But there’s only one person who can let me back into this place and she’s at an art gallery at 814 Hayes Street.

I glance down at my getting-ready outfit. A baggy T-shirt that hits me at the scraped knees and my pink fuzzy slippers.

Great. Just great.

But I shrug. Desperate times call for do-it-yourself measures. I undo Greta’s scarf from my hair, tie it around my waist, and turn my shirt into a not-at-all-fashionable T-shirt dress.

Then, chin up, I venture forth into the wilds of the city on my slippered feet without a phone.

Or even a bra.