Page 17 of The Girlfriend Goal

"Okay, but what if she's actually a secret agent?" Matt suggested, hanging upside down off his bed. "And she can't date you because it would compromise her cover?"

I threw a protein bar at his head.

Three days since the film room. Three days of Rachel perfecting the art of being everywhere I wasn't.

"You know what your problem is?" Matt flipped right-side up, his face flushed from blood rush. "You're treating this like hockey. You're playing defense when you should be on offense. You're letting her control the puck."

"Did you just use a hockey metaphor for my love life?"

"I'm speaking your language." He leaned forward, suddenly serious.

"Look, when have you ever gotten anywhere by playing it safe?

Remember when you were scared to try out for varsity as a sophomore?

You charged in anyway and made the team.

Same thing when you were failing that stats class.

You asked for help. Passed the class. Sensing a pattern here? "

I stared at the ceiling, hating that Matt occasionally made sense despite his chaos. "So what, I just charge at her?"

"No, you idiot. You show her you're not going anywhere. That you're worth the risk." He paused. "Also maybe stop letting her run away. Like, physically block the exits."

"That seems aggressive."

"Fine, don't block them. But stop making it so easy for her to bolt. Every time she runs, you just let her."

"Because I'm respecting her boundaries."

"There's respecting boundaries and there's enabling avoidance." Matt stood, stretching. "Trust me, I'm an expert at avoidance. Ask me how long I've been pretending I don't want to kiss Jared senseless."

"How long?"

"We're not talking about me." He grabbed his gear bag. "Come on, we have a game to win. Channel all that sexual frustration into body checks."

The arena buzzed with pre-game energy, our rivalry with State drawing a bigger crowd than usual. I went through my usual routine—tape, stretch, visualize—but my focus kept drifting to the stands. Would she come? After three days of avoidance, probably not.

"Fletcher!" Coach Stevens barked. "Whatever's got you staring at the ceiling better be game strategy. Because State's gunning for us. That left winger of theirs, Thompson? He's been running his mouth about our 'overrated defense.'"

My jaw clenched. "Has he now?"

"Channel it, son. Show them why you're getting NHL looks."

The mention of scouts should've fired me up. Instead, it just reminded me of Rachel's fears about ambition and sacrifice. Was that what she thought I'd become? Another Brad who'd make her choose?

"You good?" Morrison checked my shoulder. "Need you sharp tonight. That Thompson kid's fast."

I could handle fast. What I couldn't handle was the jolt that went through me when I spotted a familiar figure in the student section. Rachel sat between Jared and what looked like half her soccer team, wearing university colors instead of hockey-specific gear. But she was here.

"Holy shit, is that Fox?" Morrison followed my gaze. "Didn't think soccer royalty graced our games."

"She's interested in sports psychology," I managed.

"Sure she is." His grin was knowing. "Try not to kill Thompson too hard trying to impress her."

The puck dropped, and I forced everything else away. This was what I knew. This made sense. The ice didn't overthink or run away or make me feel like my chest might explode from wanting something I couldn't have.

Thompson came at me in the first period, all speed and flash. I shut him down with a clean check that sent him spinning. The crowd roared. I didn't look at the student section.

Second period, he tried again. This time I poke-checked the puck away and sent a perfect pass up ice for a goal. The bench erupted.

Third period, tie game, Thompson got chippy. Slashing, hooking, running his mouth about "pretty boy defensemen." I kept my cool until he mentioned something about "soccer girls in the stands" with a leer that made my vision red.

The hit was clean—technically. But it was also the kind of hit that sent a message. Thompson went down hard, staying down long enough that refs checked on him. When he finally got up, the respect in his eyes was new.

We won 4-3. I had three assists and spent five minutes in the penalty box for a roughing call that was absolutely worth it. As we filed off the ice, I couldn't help one glance at the stands.

Rachel was still there, and she was looking right at me.

The locker room celebration felt distant, like I was watching through glass. My teammates recounted plays, made plans for Malone's, the usual post-game ritual. I begged off, claiming exhaustion.

"Bullshit," Matt said, already half-changed. "You're going to accidentally run into a certain someone, aren't you?"

"No idea what you mean."

"Right. Well, when you accidentally run into her, maybe mention how you defended her honor against Thompson. Very romantic. Very caveman. She'll hate that she loves it."

I took my time showering, changing, pretending I wasn't timing it so I'd exit when the crowds cleared. Pure coincidence that I'd walk past where the student section would file out. Totally accidental.

Rachel was leaning against the wall outside the arena, scrolling through her phone. The overhead light caught the gold in her hair, and I had to stop myself from staring like an idiot.

"Fancy meeting you here," I said.

She looked up, and something flickered across her face before she schooled it into neutrality. "Good game."

"You watched?"

"I was analyzing defensive strategies. For comparison with soccer formations. Though that hit on Thompson seemed less strategic and more personal."

I stepped closer, noting how she didn't step back. Progress. "He said something he shouldn't have."

"About what?"

"Doesn't matter. He won't say it again."

Her eyes searched mine. "You can't just hit everyone who says something you don't like."

"I can when they're talking about—" I caught myself. "When they're being disrespectful."

"Very caveman of you."

"Matt said you'd say that."

A smile tugged at her lips before she suppressed it. "We should walk. It's cold."

I fell into step beside her, matching her pace. The campus was quiet, most students already at post-game parties. Our breath clouded in the November air.

"Three assists," she said after a moment. "That pass in the second period was particularly good. You saw the lane before it opened."

"You were paying attention. What did you conclude?"

"That you're better than I expected. Your spatial awareness, ability to read plays before they develop... it translates beyond hockey. You see things others don't. Patterns and possibilities. It's the same skill that makes you good with the kids. You see what they need before they know to ask."

The compliment hit harder than any check I'd taken tonight. "Rachel—"

"My building's this way," she said quickly, turning left.

I turned with her, not ready to let her retreat yet. "You came to the game."

"Maya made me, for team bonding."

"All of your team bonding happens at hockey games now?"

"It was convenient."

"Like how this route to your building is convenient? Even though it's the long way?"

She stopped walking. "What do you want me to say, Lance? That I wanted to watch you play? That I can't stop thinking about—" She cut herself off, jaw clenching. "Forget it."

"No." I moved in front of her, not blocking her path but making retreat require effort. "What can't you stop thinking about?"

She looked up at me, eyes bright with frustration and something else. "You. Okay? I can't stop thinking about you. About your stupid perfect passes and the way you are with Marcus and how you look at me. Like I'm worth looking at."

My heart skipped a beat. "Rachel, you're worth more than—"

"Don't." She stepped back. "Don't make this bigger than it is. We kissed, and there's attraction. But it doesn’t have to mean anything. Because I know how this ends. I've done this before."

"With Brad? I'm nothing like him."

"I know you're not Brad!" The words exploded out of her.

"That's the problem. Brad was easy to walk away from once I saw who he really was.

But you're actually good, and that makes you dangerous.

To everything I've worked for, and everything I've planned.

" She wrapped her arms around herself. "I can't afford to want this. "

"But you do want it."

A long pause. "Yes."

I wanted to reach for her, to prove she could have both her dreams and this. But Matt was right—I'd been making it too easy for her to run.

"I'm not going to chase you," I said quietly. "I'm not going to beg or make grand gestures or try to convince you we could work. Because you know we could. You're just too scared to try."

Her head snapped up. "I'm not scared."

"Prove it. Stop running and stay. Talk, not deflect and retreat."

She stared at me for a long moment. "I have film to review."

I sighed. "Of course you do."

"But..." She bit her lip. "Maybe we could review it together? If you're interested in learning about soccer defensive strategies, for comparison."

It was the smallest opening, but I'd take it. "I'm very interested in defensive strategies."

"It's not a date. We're just watching film, and you have to leave by eleven. I have a morning practice."

We walked the rest of the way in silence, but it was different now. Filled with possibility instead of denial. When we reached her building, she paused at the door.

"That really was a good hit on Thompson, but still too caveman." But she was fighting a smile. "Come on. I'll show you what real defense looks like."

I followed her inside, trying not to feel like I'd won something important. It wasn't a date. We were just watching film. But she'd stopped running, even if just for tonight. It was a start.