Page 13 of The Girlfriend Goal

"Zombie soccer player is inspired," Jared declared, attacking my face with what appeared to be an entire tube of fake blood. "Sporty but deceased. Athletic but apocalyptic. I'm a genius."

Our suite had transformed into Halloween headquarters, with costumes in various stages of completion draped over every surface. Jared's vision for our group theme—"Undead Athletes"—had somehow resulted in him going wildly over budget at three different costume shops.

"Stop moving," he commanded. "Dead people don't fidget."

"Dead people also don't go to parties."

"That's the spirit. Embrace the nihilism." He added more blood to my jersey. "Speaking of embracing things, when are you going to admit you kissed Lance?"

I jerked away, causing him to smear blood across my cheek. "What? I didn't. How do you—"

"Please. You've been smiling at your phone for three days, you cancelled your Thursday study session, and you literally hid behind a plant when you saw him on campus yesterday."

"That plant was very large. I was admiring it."

"You were hiding. Badly." He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Spill, or I'm giving you a zombie unibrow."

"There's nothing to spill."

"Rachel, I've seen you through every crisis, every triumph, and every questionable bangs phase. Do not lie to me about kissing hockey players in gyms."

"How do you even—"

"Matt told me. Relax, Lance didn't give him details. But apparently he came home looking, and I quote, 'like someone had rearranged his entire molecular structure.'" Jared grinned. "Matt's very poetic when he's not distracted by my looks."

"There's nothing between Lance and me."

"Except tongue, apparently."

"Jared!"

"What? I'm happy for you. It's about time you let someone past those walls." He returned to bloodying my face. "Was it good? Please tell me it was good. I have a bet with Matt."

"You're betting on my love life?"

"It's not a love life if you never let anyone love you," he said gently. "And yes, I bet it was spectacular. Matt thinks Lance was probably too nervous to perform well."

"I'm not discussing this."

"So it was spectacular." He clapped his hands, sending blood spattering. "I knew it. The tension between you two could power a small city. When's the wedding? Can I be your bridesman? I look amazing in jewel tones."

"There's no wedding. There's no relationship. There was just a momentary lapse in judgment."

"Momentary lapses don't require hiding behind foliage."

I sighed, surrendering to the inevitable. "Fine. We kissed once, in the gym. It meant nothing."

"Oh honey." Jared's expression softened. "You're a terrible liar."

"It can't mean anything. He's everything I've sworn to avoid. Hockey player, player-player, completely wrong for my five-year plan."

"Ah yes, the sacred five-year plan." He pulled out my planner, flipping to the laminated life goals page.

"Let's see. Graduate summa cum laude—check.

Get prestigious internship—pending. Start career in sports psychology—on track.

Where exactly does it say 'Die alone because hockey players are scary'? "

"It doesn't say that."

"Might as well." He tossed the planner aside.

"You know what your problem is? You're so focused on not becoming your brother that you're missing the chance to be yourself.

" He sat beside me, serious now. "Ryan's story was tragic.

But it's not your story. Lance isn't the coach who pulled the scholarship. And he’s definitely not your psycho ex, Brad.

Lance is just a guy who makes you smile at your phone when you think no one's looking. "

"I don't—"

"You literally just did it."

I looked down at my phone, where Lance's name had appeared with a text. "Traitor," I told the device.

"What's he saying?"

"None of your business."

"Rachel!"

"Fine." I opened the message. "'Good luck at your game tomorrow. I'll be in section B with the loudest signs. Fair warning: Matt made them and they're embarrassing.'"

"He's coming to your game?"

"For the project. To observe athletic performance in different contexts."

"Right. The project." Jared took my phone, scrolling up. "The project that requires texts about coffee orders and inside jokes about refrigerators?"

I grabbed it back. "Stop snooping."

"Stop lying to yourself." He returned to my zombie makeup with renewed vigor. "You like him. He clearly likes you. The only thing standing in your way is your own stubbornness."

"And the fact that he's hooked up with half the campus."

"Past tense. Has he been with anyone since you started your 'project'?"

I thought about it. The usual gossip about Lance's weekend conquests had been notably absent lately.

"That doesn't mean anything."

"It means everything." Jared stepped back to admire his work. "There. You're perfectly undead. Now let's talk about what you're wearing under the jersey."

"Clothes?"

"Boring. This is Halloween. The one night you're allowed to be someone else." He dove into his costume collection. "What about this ? It's athletic wear."

"That's a sports bra and tiny shorts. It's underwear with aspirations."

"Fine. But we're at least doing something with your hair." He brandished a curling iron like a weapon. "Zombie waves. Trust me."

An hour later, I surveyed myself in the mirror. Jared had worked his magic—I looked like an athletically built zombie who'd somehow maintained perfect beach waves post-death. The costume walked the line between scary and weirdly attractive.

"Perfect," Jared declared. "Lance won't know what hit him."

"We're not going to see Lance. The hockey team has their own party."

"Oh, sweet naive Rachel." He patted my head. "Have you learned nothing from three years of college? Everyone ends up at Sigma on Halloween. It's like gravity, but with cheap beer and bad decisions."

My stomach flipped at the thought of seeing Lance at a party. We'd been doing so well maintaining distance since The Kiss That Didn't Happen . Days of carefully avoided eye contact and strategic route planning around campus.

"I don't want to see him," I said.

"Liar."

"I don't want to want to see him."

"Still a lie, but better." He checked his own costume—undead basketball player, complete with jersey that showed off his carefully maintained abs. "Come on. Let's go make poor choices and blame them on alcohol."

The Sigma house was already packed when we arrived, bass thumping hard enough to feel in your chest. The front lawn looked like a costume shop had exploded, with drunk college students in various states of undress and creativity.

"I need a drink," I announced.

"I need ten drinks," Jared countered. "But let's start with one and see how it goes."

We pushed through the crowd, dodging grinding couples and what appeared to be a pirate sword fight happening in the living room. The kitchen was marginally less chaotic, though someone had turned the island into a beer pong table.

"Ladies." A clearly drunk Brad appeared out of nowhere, catching me off guard. "Looking good, Rachel. Really good."

"Brad? Didn’t you transfer to a different university?"

"I’m just here visiting old friends. Although, I’ve been considering transferring back to Greenfield."

"Go away, Brad."

"Hey, don't be like that." He moved closer, beer breath overwhelming. "I miss you. We were good together. Come on, one dance. For old times."

"She said no." Jared stepped between us. "Multiple times, and in small words. Would you like me to draw you a picture?"

"Back off, theater freak. This is between me and my girl."

"Call me a freak again and see what happens." Jared's voice had gone dangerously low. "Actually, please do. I've been practicing my right hook."

"Jared, it's fine—" I started.

"No, it's not fine." A new voice joined the conversation. Matt appeared at Jared's shoulder, looking uncharacteristically serious. "Brad, right? Think it's time for you to find another party."

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Someone suggesting you leave before this gets ugly." Matt's usual golden retriever energy had transformed into something more protective. "The lady said no. Story ends there."

Brad looked between them, clearly calculating his odds. "Whatever. She's not worth it anyway."

He stumbled off, probably to harass some other poor girl who'd made the mistake of dating him.

"You okay?" Matt asked me, then turned to Jared. "You good?"

"I'm fantastic," Jared said, and I recognized his smitten voice. "Very heroic of you."

"Just basic decency." But Matt was smiling now. "I like the costume. Very dead."

"That's the goal. What are you supposed to be?"

"Sexy referee. Lance said it was too on the nose, but I think it works." He did a little spin. "See? I even have a whistle."

"Please never blow that whistle," I begged.

"Don't kink shame," Jared said. "I might like whistles."

"Noted," Matt grinned. "Want to play beer pong? I promise to be on your team so Brad doesn't come back."

They wandered off toward the game, leaving me to navigate the party alone.

I grabbed a beer, then another, trying to settle the anxiety crawling under my skin.

Every tall figure made me tense, wondering if it was Lance, which was ridiculous.

I didn't want to see him. We were maintaining professional distance. The kiss had been a mistake.

I definitely didn't scan every room I entered. I absolutely didn't check the back deck twice. I certainly didn't feel disappointed when he wasn't there.

"Looking for someone?" A voice behind me made me jump.

I turned to find Lance in possibly the most ridiculous costume I'd ever seen—full professor regalia, complete with tweed jacket, fake glasses, and a name tag reading "Dr. Sexy, PhD in you."

"That's terrible," I said.

"Matt made the name tag." He adjusted his glasses, which somehow made him more attractive. "You look..."

"Dead?"

"I was going to say beautiful, but sure, dead works too." He moved closer, and I caught his scent—no alcohol, just that pine shampoo. "Didn't expect to see you here. Want to get some air? It's loud in here."

I should’ve said no, should’ve maintained the distance I'd carefully constructed. Instead, I said, "Yeah, okay."

He led me to the back deck, which was miraculously empty except for a couple making out in the corner. We leaned against the railing, carefully not touching.

"So," he said. "We're really going to pretend it didn't happen?"

"It was a mistake. Just post-workout adrenaline. Temporary insanity."

"Right. Temporary insanity that made you kiss me like the world was ending," he said. "Like you'd been thinking about it as long as I have."

"You’ve been thinking about kissing me?"

He turned to face me fully. "You think I show up to study sessions for the riveting conversation about cognitive behavioral therapy?

I show up because watching you explain concepts you're passionate about is the hottest thing I've ever seen.

Because you make me want to be better at everything, not just hockey.

Because that kiss was the first real thing I've felt in years of carefully controlled bullshit. "

"Lance—"

"I know you're scared. I know I don't fit your plan. I know my reputation is shit." He stepped closer. "But I also know you felt what I felt in that gym. You can't fake that kind of chemistry."

"Chemistry fades, but plans last."

"Plans change all the time."

"Mine don't."

"Then make room in them," he said simply. "For someone who thinks your ambition is sexy, not cute. For someone who sees how brilliant you are and wants to watch you conquer the world. For someone who's liked you since you yelled at me in that locker room."

"You don’t like me."

"Don’t I?"

Inside, the party raged on, but out here it was just us and the truth I'd been avoiding.

"I should go," I said weakly.

"Probably."

But neither of us moved.

"This is a bad idea," I whispered.

"The worst," he agreed, stepping closer.

And then we were kissing again, because apparently my traitorous body had staged a coup against my brain. He pressed me against the railing, hands gentle but insistent, kissing me like he was trying to prove a point.

I was vaguely aware that I was proving his point by kissing him back, by threading my fingers through his hair and pulling him closer. But rational thought had evacuated the premises, leaving only want, need, and the taste of Lance on my lips.

"Rachel," he murmured against my mouth. "Come home with me."

Reality crashed back in. "No, I can't. You'll add me to your list as just another conquest. Another girl who thought she was different."

"You are different."

"They all think that."

"Well, they weren't you." He pulled back, eyes serious behind the fake glasses. "I haven't been with anyone since we started studying together. Haven't wanted to."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Doesn't it?"

Before I could respond, my stomach made an executive decision about the beer and Jared's pre-party shots. I lurched away from Lance, barely making it to the edge of the deck before everything came up.

"Oh god," I groaned. "Kill me."

"Hey, it's okay." His hands were gentle, holding my hair back. "Everyone's been there."

"This is so embarrassing."

"Nah. Last year Morrison puked on the dean's shoes. That was embarrassing. This is just Halloween." He rubbed my back in soothing circles. "Better? Come on, let's get you water."

He led me inside, keeping a protective arm around me.

He found water and made sure I drank it.

Then he checked in with Jared, who was too busy destroying everyone at beer pong to leave.

Through it all, Lance was patient, kind, completely different from Brad's disgust whenever I'd shown any imperfection.

"I should go home," I said eventually.

"I'll walk you." He was already texting Matt. "Please, let me make sure you get home safe."

I was too tired and embarrassed to argue. The walk was quiet, Lance keeping pace with my unsteady steps. At my building, he insisted on walking me to my door.

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "For what it's worth, you're a very cute zombie."

"Shut up."

"Feel better, Fox. Drink water. Text me in the morning so I know you survived."

He left with a small wave, and I watched him go, heart doing complicated things in my chest.

Inside, I collapsed on my bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. My phone buzzed.

Lance: "Get some sleep. You have a game tomorrow. I’ll be in Section B with embarrassing signs."

I smiled at my phone like an idiot. Like a girl who was falling for a hockey player despite every warning sign. Like someone whose carefully constructed plans were crumbling around her.

"Shit," I told the ceiling. I was in so much trouble.