Page 10 of The Girlfriend Goal

"There's no she," I lied, pouring coffee with the dedication of someone who'd gotten four hours of sleep.

"Right. That's why you've been disappearing at weird hours, smiling at your phone like a teenager, and actually doing homework." He was assembling what appeared to be a breakfast sandwich with architectural precision. "Just admit you're seeing someone."

"I'm not seeing anyone. I'm studying."

"Bullshit." He pointed his spatula at me. "I've known you for years. You've never voluntarily studied in your life. You once paid someone to write 'Lance was here' on a group project so you'd technically have contributed."

"That was freshman year."

"Last Tuesday, actually." He flipped his eggs with unnecessary flair. "So who is she? That blonde from the swim team? The redhead from your marketing class? Oh! The barista who always draws hearts on your cup?"

"None of the above." I grabbed my own breakfast—leftover pizza that had seen better days. "And her name is Marina, not 'the barista.'"

"You remembered her name? Holy shit, you are seeing someone. You never remember names unless—" He froze mid-flip, eyes widening. "Unless you actually like them. Oh my god. Lance Fletcher has feelings."

The front door then burst open with the kind of dramatic flair that should’ve come with theme music.

"Emergency coffee needed STAT!" A voice I didn't recognize preceded its owner—a guy who looked like he'd walked out of a fashion magazine despite claiming to be in crisis. Designer jeans, perfectly styled hair, and carrying what appeared to be a laptop bag made of actual leather.

Matt, master of smooth moves and legendary hand-eye coordination, promptly dropped his spatula and knocked over his coffee in one spectacular display of gay panic.

"Shit! Fuck! Hot coffee! Hot coffee on my—" He grabbed a dish towel, missed the spill entirely, and somehow made it worse.

The newcomer surveyed the chaos with raised eyebrows. "And here I thought hockey players were supposed to have good reflexes."

"We do. You just surprised me!" Matt's voice had gone up an octave.

"By using a door? How very threatening of me." Fashion Magazine Guy stepped delicately around the coffee puddle. "I'm looking for Lance? Rachel said he lived here, and I need to return her advanced stats notebook before she has an actual breakdown."

Of course this was connected to Rachel.

"I'm Lance," I said, noting how Matt had frozen at the mention of Rachel's name. "And you are?"

"Jared. Rachel's roommate, best friend, and designated keeper of her sanity." He gave me a once-over that felt like being scanned by a very judgmental TSA agent. "So you're the hockey player she's been—"

"Tutoring!" I interrupted. "She's been tutoring me for our project. Nothing else."

"Uh-huh." His tone suggested deep skepticism. "Well, she left this in my car after her 'definitely not a date' coffee run yesterday, and apparently the world will end if she doesn't have it for her 10 AM class."

"I can give it to her."

"I'm sure you can." He turned that laser focus on Matt, who was still standing in his coffee puddle like he'd forgotten how legs worked. "And you are?"

"I'm Matt. I live here. In this house. Where I live."

"Fascinating." Jared stepped closer to Matt, who actually took a step back and slipped in the coffee. I caught his arm before he could completely eat it. "You're the one who never cleans the kitchen."

"Rachel talks about me?" Matt straightened, trying to recover some dignity.

"She mentions that her project partner lives with a walking disaster who once tried to cook pasta in a coffee maker."

"That was an experiment."

"An experiment in what? Food poisoning?" But Jared was smiling now, the kind of smile that made Matt's brain cells collectively abandon ship.

"I'm actually a good cook," Matt protested. "I was just making eggs. Before you gave me a heart attack with your dramatic entrance."

"Dramatic? That was barely a six on the drama scale. You should see me during finals week." Jared finally seemed to notice the state of the kitchen. "Dear god, is that mold or modern art on that plate?"

"It's unclear." Matt grabbed the offending dish and shoved it in the sink. "We have a very relaxed approach to housekeeping."

"Relaxed is one word for it. Biohazard would be another." But Jared was grinning. "You have coffee on your shirt, by the way."

Matt looked down at the spreading stain. "Fuck."

"Such eloquence. Do all hockey players have such extensive vocabularies?"

"I know lots of words," Matt said defensively. "Big words. Words like..." He panicked. "Refrigerator."

I covered my laugh with a cough. Watching Matt, who'd never met a flirtation he couldn't master, completely short-circuit was better than cable.

"Impressive," Jared said dryly. He turned back to me. "Anyway, make sure Rachel gets this. She has a very specific organizational system, and disrupting it causes chaos."

"I'm familiar with her systems," I said, taking the notebook. "Thanks for bringing it by."

"Oh, I had ulterior motives." He gave Matt another appreciative scan. "I wanted to scope out the hockey house. See what kind of influences our dear Rachel is exposing herself to."

"We're not that bad," Matt protested.

"There's literally a tower of pizza boxes in the corner."

"That's load-bearing. We can't move it."

"Load-bearing pizza boxes." Jared shook his head. "And Rachel wonders why I worry about her spending time here."

"She's been here?" Matt shot me a betrayed look.

"For project stuff," I said quickly.

"Right. Project stuff. That's definitely why she came home at 2 AM last night looking all flustered and smiley." Jared's grin was pure evil. "Must’ve been some very stimulating project work."

"We were studying!"

"Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"Okay!" I steered Jared toward the door before he could cause more damage. "Thanks for dropping off the notebook. I'll make sure she gets it."

"I'm sure you will." He paused at the door, looking back at Matt. "Do you actually play hockey, or do you just stand around looking pretty?"

"I play right wing, and I'm very good. Ask anyone."

"I might just do that." He gave a little finger wave. "Bye, Coffee Spill. Try to stay vertical."

The door closed behind him, leaving silence in his wake.

"What," Matt said slowly, "the fuck was that?"

"That was Jared."

"That was a demon sent to test me." He looked down at his coffee-stained shirt with despair. "He's Rachel's roommate?"

"Best friend too, apparently."

"Is he single?"

"How would I know?"

"You've been spending all this secret time with Rachel—"

"We've been studying!"

"—and you haven't gathered intel on her hot roommate?" Matt collapsed onto the couch. "What use are you?"

"Sorry I was too busy trying to pass my classes to play matchmaker."

"He called me Coffee Spill ." Matt stared at the ceiling with a smile. "I've never been a nickname before. I'm always the one giving nicknames."

"It's not a good nickname."

"It's a perfect nickname. He's perfect. Did you see his hair? How does anyone's hair look that good without product?"

"There was definitely product."

"Don't ruin this for me." He sat up suddenly. "We're going to breakfast."

"What? Why?"

"Because Jared thinks I'm a disaster who can't cook, and I need to prove him wrong. Also, Rachel clearly told him things about us, which means she talks about you, which means you've been holding out on me."

"Or it means she complains about having to work with me."

"Nobody comes home at 2 AM looking 'flustered and smiley' from complaining." He was already heading to his room. "Give me five minutes to change into something that doesn't have coffee on it."

"Matt—"

"This is happening, Fletcher. We're going to the Pancake House, you're going to tell me everything about your secret study sessions with Rachel, and I'm going to figure out how to accidentally run into Jared again without looking desperate."

"You already look desperate."

"I know." He paused in his doorway. "That's the problem. He made me forget how words work. Me! I'm excellent at words."