Page 2 of The Girlfriend Goal

I pulled on my practice gear in the darkness, muscle memory guiding me through the routine I'd perfected over the years.

The walk to the field was my favorite part of the day. Campus was ghostly quiet, just me and the maintenance crews who nodded in recognition as I passed. They knew me by now, the crazy woman who was always the first one at the soccer complex. What they didn't know was why.

I'd been eight when my brother Ryan got his first recruitment letter. Twelve when he committed to Greenfield University on a full hockey scholarship. Fifteen when I watched him pack up his entire life, ready to chase his NHL dreams. Sixteen when I got the phone call that changed everything.

"They pulled my scholarship, Rachel." His voice had been hollow, broken in a way I'd never heard before. "Said they found a better recruit. Four years of promises, and they just pulled it."

The memory still made my chest tight. Ryan had spiraled hard after that—dropped out of community college, bounced between dead-end jobs, struggled with depression that our parents didn't understand and couldn't afford to treat properly.

All because some hockey coach had decided my brother was expendable.

The soccer complex came into view, its modest lights a stark contrast to the LED spectacular that lit up the hockey arena like a Vegas casino. I pushed through the gate, breathing in the familiar smell of dew on grass, and made my way to the equipment shed.

"Morning, Fox." Coach Chen was already there, setting up cones for drills. She was the only person who arrived earlier than me, a fact that had earned my immediate respect freshman year.

"Morning, Coach."

"Good weekend?"

I thought about the mountain of homework I'd plowed through, the extra film study I'd squeezed in, the scholarship applications I'd submitted for grad school. "Productive."

She smiled knowingly. "When's the last time you did something just for fun?"

"I watched Netflix while foam rolling. That counts."

"That absolutely doesn’t count." She handed me a bag of practice balls. "You know burnout is real, right? Even captains need to decompress sometimes."

"I'll decompress after nationals," I said, the same response I'd been giving for three years.

By the time the rest of the team started trickling in at 5 AM, I'd already run through my personal warm-up routine and helped Coach finish the field setup. The women greeted me with varying levels of consciousness—some bright-eyed and ready, others looking like extras from The Walking Dead .

"Ladies!" I called out once everyone had assembled. "I know it's early, I know it's cold, and I know you'd rather be in bed. But you know who's not in bed right now? Stanford. UCLA. North Carolina. They're out there getting better while we're standing here feeling sorry for ourselves."

"Jesus, Fox, let us at least stretch before the motivational speeches," groaned Kelsey, our goalkeeper.

Practice was brutal, the way Monday practices always were.

Coach had us running tactical drills until our legs felt like jelly, then switched to possession games that required the kind of mental sharpness that was nearly impossible at 5:30 AM.

But this was how we competed with programs that had twice our budget and three times our resources. We outworked them. We out-wanted them.

By 7 AM, I was drenched in sweat despite the morning chill, my muscles screaming but my mind sharp. This was when I felt most like myself—pushing past physical limits, leading by example, proving that we deserved to be taken seriously.

"Shower and get to class, ladies," Coach called out. "Remember, student comes before athlete in student-athlete."

The locker room was chaos, twenty-three women trying to shower and change in a space designed for maybe fifteen. I claimed my usual corner locker, stripping out of my practice gear with the efficiency born of years of quick changes between classes.

That's when it happened. I was reaching for my towel when the door burst open and he walked in.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with that particular brand of confidence that seemed to be issued along with hockey skates at orientation.

Lance was staring at his phone, completely oblivious to the fact that he'd just invaded my space.

It wasn't until I was halfway across campus that the adrenaline started to fade. My hands were shaking slightly as I fumbled with my apartment key.

"Honey, I'm home," I called out as I entered, knowing Jared would already be up. He had this internal alarm clock that went off at exactly 7:15 every morning, just in time to make himself handsome for his 8:30 AM fashion merchandising class.

"In the kitchen," his voice rang out. "And you better come explain why you look like you just committed murder."

I found him at our tiny breakfast bar, wearing a silk robe that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

"Rough practice?" He studied my face with the intensity of an artist examining their canvas. "No, this is different. This is your 'someone just disrespected women's athletics' face. Spill."

I collapsed onto the stool next to him. "Some hockey player just walked into our locker room."

Jared froze. "Excuse me?"

"Lance Fletcher. Walked right in while I was changing, staring at his phone like he owned the place."

"Lance Fletcher?" Jared's eyes lit up with interest. "Oh, he's the one with the cheekbones. And the biceps that could bounce quarters. Did he at least apologize?"

"Jared!"

"What? I have eyes. Just because I'm currently entertaining Mark from the business school doesn't mean I can't appreciate the hockey team's contributions to campus scenery.

Though walking into the women's locker room is definitely creepy.

Want me to spread some rumors? I have connections in the campus gossip network. "

"He claimed it was an accident."

"Sure. And I 'accidentally' matched with Mark's roommate on Tinder last week." He turned to face me fully. "Though I have to say, Fletcher doesn't seem like the pervy type. More like the 'I'm too pretty to need to be pervy' type."

"All hockey players are the same," I insisted, though something about the genuine horror on Lance's face flashed through my mind.

"Speaking of types?" Jared reached for his phone. "Brad texted you again."

My stomach clenched. "How do you know?"

"Because you have your read receipts on like a psychopath, and I saw him typing for like twenty minutes yesterday." He scrolled through his phone. "Want me to hack his social media and post those photos from his lacrosse formal where he dressed up as a sexy nurse?"

"You don't know how to hack anything."

"I could learn. For you, I would master the dark arts of cyber warfare." He struck a dramatic pose. "No one messes with my best friend and gets away with it."

I laughed. "He's not worth potential felony charges."

"Fine, but if he shows up here again, I'm not responsible for my actions.

Remember what happened last time? When he had the audacity to say your goals were 'cute' but you should focus on supporting his career?

" Jared's voice pitched higher in indignation.

"I nearly threw my limited-edition action figure at his head. "

"That would’ve been a waste of a good action figure."

"Exactly why I restrained myself. But I did key his car a little bit."

"Jared!"

"What? It was just a tiny scratch in the shape of a penis. On his hood." He examined his nails innocently. "These things happen."

My phone buzzed with a text. Brad, of course. "Miss you, babe. Can we talk?"

"Absolutely not," Jared said, reading over my shoulder. "Delete, block, restraining order. In that order."

"I'm not getting a restraining order."

"Then at least let me respond. Please? I have so many creative insults saved up."

"No. He’s transferred and his words can’t hurt me anymore.

" I deleted the message without responding.

"I have bigger things to worry about than Brad.

Like my sports management thesis. And getting our team to nationals.

And convincing my parents that getting a degree isn't a waste of time when I could be working to help with bills. "

Jared's expression softened. "How are your parents doing?"

"Same. Dad's back is getting worse, but he won't stop taking extra shifts. Mom's still cleaning houses even though her arthritis is killing her. Ryan's... Ryan."

"Still at the warehouse?"

"For now. He says he's looking for something better, but..." I shrugged, the weight of family responsibility settling on my shoulders like it always did. "I sent them part of my scholarship money last week. Told them it was from tutoring."

"Oh, honey." Jared reached over and squeezed my hand. "You know it's not your job to save everyone, right?"

"I know. But if I can get a good job after graduation, maybe I can actually help. Get Dad to see a real doctor. Help Ryan go back to school. Something."

"And what about what you want?"

I thought about it for a moment. What did I want? Besides my family to be okay, besides my team to get the recognition we deserved, besides proving that women's sports mattered just as much as men's?

"I want to not let another relationship distract me from my goals," I said finally. "No more Brads. No more guys who think my ambitions are adorable hobbies."

"Amen to that." Jared raised his coffee mug in a toast. "Though maybe aim for someone who sees you as an equal partner next time? Just a thought."

"No next time. I'm taking myself off the market. Officially."

"Sure." He smirked. "We'll see how long that lasts when you meet someone who actually appreciates that sexy brain of yours."

"The only thing I'm interested in is my GPA and getting our team to nationals."

"And avoiding hockey players in locker rooms?"

The memory of Lance’s shocked face flashed through my mind again. The way his eyes had widened, how he'd immediately spun around, the genuine distress in his voice when he apologized.

I shook my head. One moment of apparent decency didn't erase everything I knew about hockey players. About what they'd done to Ryan. About how they strutted around campus like they owned it.

"Especially avoiding hockey players," I said firmly.

But as I got ready for class, I couldn't quite shake the image of Lance standing there, looking genuinely mortified. Or how he'd admitted that most of his teammates were dicks.

I grabbed my backpack, checking my color-coded planner one more time. Advanced Sports Psychology at 10 AM. My favorite class, the one place where I could merge my love of athletics with my academic goals.

Nothing was going to distract me from that. Especially not Lance Fletcher and his stupidly perfect face. Absolutely nothing.