Page 12 of The Girlfriend Goal

The campus gym at midnight was supposed to be empty. That was the whole point. No teammates to ask questions, no random students trying to flirt between sets, no distractions from the punishing workout I used to clear my head.

What it wasn't supposed to have was Rachel in yoga pants and a tank top that had given up on containing anything about three sizes ago.

I froze in the doorway, watching her execute perfect pull-ups with a focus that suggested she was working through her own demons. The emergency lighting cast shadows that highlighted muscles I'd had no business noticing.

But my feet had other ideas, carrying me into the weight room like I had every right to be there. Like we were the kind of people who could share space without it meaning something.

She spotted me in the mirror during her descent, her eyes widening before narrowing into that familiar defensive glare.

"Coach gave the women's teams access for late-night training." She dropped from the bar, grabbing her water bottle. "I'll leave."

"Why?"

"Because this is weird. We're not friends. We don't hang out outside of study sessions. We certainly don't work out together."

"We could." I set down my gym bag, committing to this terrible idea. "Unless you're scared you can't keep up."

"I could work you into the ground."

"Prove it."

Her eyes flashed with that competitive fire I'd come to recognize. "You're on. What's the stakes?"

"Winner picks the community center activity next week."

"Deal." She grabbed a pair of dumbbells. "Hope the kids like interpretive dance, because that's what you'll be teaching when I destroy you."

"Big talk from someone who probably skips leg day."

"I played ninety minutes against State last weekend. My legs are fine." She demonstrated with a perfect squat that made my mouth go dry. "Question is whether hockey boys can handle real cardio."

"Hockey is literally all cardio."

"On ice and with breaks every two minutes. Real athletes don't need timeouts."

"Real athletes?" I grabbed my own weights, matching her setup. "Sweetheart, I've been an athlete since I could walk."

"Don't call me sweetheart," she said.

"Would you prefer Fox? Captain? Your Majesty?"

"I'd prefer you shut up and lift."

We started with a basic circuit—squats, lunges, deadlifts. What began as competitive quickly became something else as we fell into rhythm, spotting each other without discussion, adding weight when the other wasn't struggling enough.

"Your form's off," she said during my second set of deadlifts. "You're rounding your back." She moved behind me, hands hovering near my lower back. "May I?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice as her fingers pressed against my spine, guiding it into proper position. Her touch was clinical, professional, but my cock didn't get the memo as it twitched.

"There. Feel the difference?"

"Yeah." My voice came out rougher than intended. "Thanks."

We moved to upper body, and I returned the favor during her shoulder presses, standing close enough to catch her if needed. Close enough to notice she smelled like vanilla under the gym sweat. Close enough to see the determination in her jaw as she pushed through the burn.

"Time for core," she announced after we'd exhausted every major muscle group. "Unless you're tired?"

"I could do this all night."

"Famous last words." She grabbed a mat, setting up for planks. "Three minutes. No breaks."

By minute two, my entire body shook with effort. Beside me, Rachel looked carved from stone, her breathing steady where mine had gone ragged.

"Struggling?" she asked without breaking form. "Your hip is dropping." She shifted, somehow managing to tap my hip while maintaining her own perfect plank. "There. Better."

"Show off."

"You challenged me, remember?"

The timer finally, mercifully, beeped. We collapsed onto our mats, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.

"Call it a draw?" I suggested.

"Not a chance. Battle ropes, two minutes. Winner takes all."

"You're evil."

"And you're stalling."

The battle ropes were tucked in the corner, thick and intimidating. We took our positions, and I caught her checking out my arms as I gripped the ropes.

The next two minutes were pure torture. Waves, slams, spirals—every variation designed to destroy what little energy we had left. But something happened in the suffering. We fell into sync, our movements matching, creating a rhythm.

By the time the timer sounded, we were both destroyed. Sweat dripped, muscles screamed, and neither of us had given an inch.

"Draw," we said simultaneously, then laughed at the synchronicity.

We sprawled on the mats again, too exhausted to maintain proper distance. Our shoulders touched, and neither of us moved away.

"Why are you really here at midnight?" I asked the ceiling.

"Can't sleep. Big game this weekend. You?"

"Can't sleep. NHL scout’s coming to Saturday's game. Probably just checking out Morrison, but still. It's terrifying," I admitted. "What if I'm not good enough? What if the dyslexia means I can't handle the playbooks? What if—"

"Hey." She turned her head, and suddenly we were too close. "You're more than good enough. I've seen you teach. The way you break down complex plays for Marcus, that's intelligence. The way you read the ice, that's genius. Don't let fear talk you out of your dreams."

"What about you? The internship?"

"Waiting to hear back. They said by end of month." She sighed. "It's perfect. Youth sports psychology program in Seattle. Exactly what I want to do."

"You'll get it."

"You don't know that."

"I do. You're brilliant, Rachel. Annoyingly brilliant. They'd be idiots not to take you."

We lay there in comfortable silence, the gym's ventilation system humming overhead. This felt dangerous in a different way than our bickering. It felt real.

"We should probably—" she started.

"Yeah, we should."

Neither of us moved.

"This is weird," she said. "We don't like each other. I mean, you're arrogant and cocky and—"

"And you're uptight and controlling," I added.

I turned my head, and she turned hers. We were inches apart, close enough that I could see gold flecks in her eyes, close enough to count individual drops of sweat on her skin, close enough that leaning in would take minimal effort.

"This is a bad idea," she whispered. "I don't even like hockey players. Especially not cocky ones who think they can—"

I kissed her. Or she kissed me.

Honestly, we met in the middle so fast I couldn't tell who moved first. All I knew was that her lips were on mine, her hand was in my hair, and every rational thought evaporated like sweat under stadium lights.

She tasted like determination and coconut water, kissed like she competed—with absolute focus and no surrender. I rolled toward her, deepening the kiss, feeling her respond with equal intensity.

This was nothing like the careful, calculated hookups I usually orchestrated. This was messy and desperate and perfect. Her nails scraped against my scalp, and I groaned into her mouth, pulling her closer despite the awkward angle on the gym mat.

"Wait," she gasped, breaking away.

I froze immediately, hands still tangled in her hair. "Shit. Sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"We shouldn't have." She sat up, putting necessary distance between us. "We can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because!" She gestured between us. "Because I have plans that don't involve getting distracted by hockey players. Because you go through girls like game tape. Because—"

"Because you're scared," I said. "You're terrified that this might be something real."

"There's no 'this.' We got caught up in post-workout endorphins. It's basic biology."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

She stood, grabbing her water bottle with shaking hands. "I'm leaving. We'll pretend this never happened. Go back to being professional project partners who barely tolerate each other."

She practically ran for the door, leaving me sitting on a gym mat with my heart pounding, cock throbbing, and lips still tingling from the best kiss of my life.

"So we're just going to ignore it?" I called after her.

She paused at the door, not turning around. "There's nothing to ignore. Goodnight, Lance."

The door closed with a definitive click, leaving me alone with the echo of her denial and the taste of her on my lips.

I flopped back on the mat, staring at the ceiling. "That went well," I told the fluorescent lights.

My phone buzzed. Matt: "Where are you? Also, I think I'm in love with Jared. Also, we're out of milk."

I typed back: "Gym. That's great. Buy your own milk."

Matt: "The gym? At 1 AM? Is this about Rachel? Did something happen? Oh my god did you kiss her?"

Sometimes I hated how well he knew me.

Me: "Nothing happened. Going home now."

Matt: "Liar. Something definitely happened. Your texts have guilty energy. Spill immediately or I'm calling Jared to get Rachel's side."

I stared at my phone, debating. But what was I supposed to say?

That I'd kissed Rachel in the campus gym and it had felt like everything clicked into place?

That she'd kissed me back like her life depended on it, then ran away insisting it meant nothing?

That I was sitting on a gym mat at 1 AM, completely wrecked by a woman who claimed she couldn't stand me?

Me: "Talk when I get home."

Matt: "I'll have wine ready."

Me: "I don't drink wine."

Matt: "You do tonight. This is a wine conversation. I can feel it."

He wasn't wrong. This was definitely a wine conversation. Maybe a whole bottle kind of conversation.

I finally hauled myself up, gathering my stuff. The gym felt different now, charged with the memory of what had just happened. What had allegedly never happened, according to Rachel.

But I could still feel her lips on mine, still hear the way she'd gasped my name, still see the moment before our kiss when her eyes had dropped to my mouth and I'd known, with absolute certainty, that she wanted this as much as I did.

"Never happened," I muttered, heading for the door. "Right."

The walk home was cold. I replayed every moment, analyzing it like game footage. The way she'd fit against me. The surprised sound she'd made when I'd deepened the kiss. The panic in her eyes when reality crashed back in.

She was scared. Hell, I was scared too. This thing with Rachel—because there was definitely a thing, despite her denials—wasn't part of the plan. I did hockey and hookups. She did soccer and color-coded life planning. We weren't supposed to work.

But that kiss had felt more real than anything in my carefully controlled life.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't Matt.

Rachel: "Thursday study session is cancelled. I'll email you notes from the reading."

I stared at the text, then typed: "Running away doesn't make it not real."

Rachel: "There's nothing to run from. Goodnight, Fletcher."

I almost threw my phone into the street. Instead, I shoved it in my pocket and picked up my pace. Matt would be waiting with wine and questions. I'd deflect, make jokes, pretend it didn't matter that Rachel Fox had kissed me like the world was ending and then acted like it never happened.

But Thursday would come whether she cancelled or not. We had the community center, classes, our project. She couldn't avoid me forever.

And maybe I could convince her that what happened in that gym was worth not ignoring. Maybe I could convince myself too.