Page 21 of The Girlfriend Goal

Thanksgiving morning in Malibu felt wrong. No crisp autumn air, no smell of leaves, just endless blue sky and the sound of waves that should’ve been soothing but weren't. I'd escaped the house before anyone else woke, needing space from the suffocating perfection of it all.

I found Lance on the beach, sitting in the sand still wearing yesterday's clothes. The sunrise painted everything gold, including the exhaustion written across his face.

"Couldn't sleep either?" I asked, settling beside him.

"Shiloh and my dad were loud."

"Oh god."

"Yeah." He picked up a handful of sand, letting it fall through his fingers. "Welcome to Fletcher family holidays."

We sat in silence, shoulders touching, watching the waves. The contact should’ve felt like too much, but instead it grounded me, reminded me why I was here.

"Tell me something good," I said. "A happy holiday memory, before this."

"My mom used to make terrible turkey. Like, genuinely awful. Dry as cardboard. But she'd get so excited about it, wear this ridiculous apron with a turkey on it that said 'Gobble till you Wobble.'"

I smiled. "That's adorable."

"She'd play the Thanksgiving episodes of all her favorite shows while cooking. Friends, Gilmore Girls, even that weird Grey's Anatomy one where they operate on a turkey." His voice went soft. "She made everything feel warm. Even when Dad was already pulling away, she made it feel like home."

"How long has it been?"

"Six years. It was cancer." He cleared his throat. "After she died, Dad sold the house within a month. Said he needed a 'fresh start.' Married wife number two before the year was out."

"Oh, Lance."

"It's fine. I'm fine." But his voice cracked slightly. "Just miss her more on days like this."

I took his hand, interlacing our fingers. "Tell me more about her."

So he did. Stories about a woman who loved terrible puns, who sang off-key in the car, who never missed a single one of his games even when chemo made her sick. By the time he finished, the sun was fully up and I understood him better than any psychology textbook could’ve taught me.

"Your turn," he said. "A happy holiday memory."

"My grandma," I said without hesitation. "Before she passed, she'd make enough food for an army. The whole extended family would cram into her tiny house, kids everywhere, music playing. It was chaos, but the good kind."

"What changed?"

"She died when I was twelve. Then there was Ryan." I swallowed. "After his breakdown, Mom couldn't handle the big gatherings. Too many questions, too much pity. So it's just been the four of us since then. Quieter."

"But still together."

"Yeah." I squeezed his hand. "Still together."

We might’ve sat there forever, but voices from the house shattered the moment. Shiloh's laugh, high and artificial, followed by Richard's booming response.

He stood, pulling me up. "Ready for round two with the step-monster?"

"Is anyone ever ready for that?"

The kitchen was chaos. Shiloh fluttered around in a dress that definitely wasn't designed for cooking, directing caterers with the authority of someone who'd never made a meal in her life.

Matt and Jared sat at the breakfast bar, watching the show with matching expressions of horror and fascination.

"Guys!" Shiloh spotted us. "Perfect timing.

I need you two to make pies. It's so much more meaningful when family contributes, don't you think?

I've laid out everything in the butler's pantry.

The caterers will handle the serious cooking, but pies are so personal.

" She winked. "Plus, baking together is so romantic. "

"We should help," Jared said, jumping up. "I'm excellent at pies."

"I'm, uh, also here," Matt added.

Which is how we ended up in a pantry the size of my bedroom, four people trying to make pies while avoiding feelings and flying flour.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, rolling out dough with perhaps too much force.

"This is hilarious," Jared corrected, artfully crimping his crust. "We're in a butler's pantry. Do you think they have an actual butler?"

"Probably," Lance said. "His name's definitely Reginald."

"Or Wadsworth," Matt suggested, then immediately got hit with flour from Jared. "Hey!"

"That's for insulting butler naming conventions."

They devolved into a flour fight that had me and Lance retreating to the far corner, our own pies forgotten.

"Incoming!" Matt's shout preceded a cloud of flour that covered us both.

"That's it," I declared. "This means war."

The pie-making devolved into chaos. Flour everywhere, Jared shrieking about his hair, Matt using a rolling pin as a shield. By the time Richard found us, we looked like we'd been through a blizzard.

"What the hell!" Richard's face went through several colors before settling on purple. "This is a $200,000 kitchen."

"Good thing flour's cheap," Lance said mildly.

"You think this is funny?"

"Richard, darling!" Shiloh appeared. "Oh my. Well, the cleaners will handle it. Won't they, sweetheart?"

The look Richard gave us promised retribution, but he couldn't argue with Shiloh in front of company.

We scattered to clean up and dress for dinner. I was still finding flour in my hair when the formal dining room torture began.

The table could have seated twenty. The five of us clustered at one end while Richard held court, telling stories about Lance that were clearly meant to humiliate. The time Lance wet the bed at seven. The time he failed a spelling test. Each story carefully chosen to cut.

"And then there was the time he thought he could make the NHL," Richard laughed. "Eleven years old, could barely read, but thought he'd be the next Gretzky."

"He's being scouted by three teams," I said quietly.

The table went silent.

"Excuse me?" Richard's voice was dangerous.

"Lance is being actively scouted by three NHL teams. The Rangers were at the last game." I met his gaze steadily. "Seems like that eleven-year-old might’ve been onto something."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." I set down my fork. "I understand that you've spent this entire meal trying to make your son feel small. That every story you've told has been designed to embarrass him. That you're so threatened by his success you need to remind him of every childhood mistake."

"Rachel," Lance warned.

"No." I was standing now. "He needs to hear this. Your son is brilliant. Not just at hockey, but at connecting with kids, at understanding people, at pushing through challenges that would break most people. He's succeeded despite you, not because of you."

Richard's face had gone past purple to white. "How dare you!"

"The real question is how dare you?" I was fully warmed up now. "How dare you treat your own son like an investment? How dare you try to dim his light because it makes you feel small?"

"Because I've protected him!" Richard exploded, standing. "Do you know what I've kept from those scouts? What I've hidden? His dyslexia. His learning disabilities. One word from me and those offers disappear."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"You what?" Lance's voice was deadly quiet.

"I've protected you. Kept them from finding out you can barely read. You think they want someone who needs special accommodations? Who can't handle the media requirements?"

"You told them?" Lance was so still it scared me. "You told them I was too stupid for the NHL?"

"I protected your image."

Lance moved so fast Richard didn't have time to react. Not to hit him—Lance had more control than that. But to lean in close, voice low and dangerous.

"You ever come near my career again, ever speak to a scout or coach or anyone in the NHL, and I'll tell everyone exactly what kind of father you really are. Every dirty secret, every affair, every shady deal. I've kept quiet out of respect for Mom's memory, but that ends now."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

They stared at each other, years of poison distilled into this moment. Then Lance straightened, took my hand, and walked out.

We ended up on the beach with In-N-Out, Matt and Jared having made a food run while Lance and I sat in the sand. The sunset painted everything gold again, but this time it felt like hope instead of sadness.

"You didn't have to do that," Lance said quietly.

"Yes, I did."

"He'll make your life hell now."

"Let him try." I shifted closer. "I meant what I said. Every word."

"Even the brilliant part?"

"Especially the brilliant part."

He looked at me then. This wasn't about project partners or convenience or buffers against difficult families. This was about us, finally, without pretense.

I kissed him. Put every unsaid word, every denied feeling, every moment of want into it. He responded immediately, pulling me closer, one hand tangling in my hair. It was desperate and sweet and tasted like possibility.

When we broke apart, his eyes were bright.

"Took you long enough," Matt called from up the beach.

"Seriously," Jared added. "The pining was getting embarrassing."

"I hate our friends," I murmured against Lance's lips.

He agreed, and kissed me again. We stayed on the beach until the stars came out, sharing burgers and fries and stories.

Matt and Jared bickered about constellations.

Jared insisted Orion was doing jazz hands, Matt argued it was clearly a warrior pose.

Lance kept his arm around me, and I let myself lean into the warmth of him.