Page 22 of The Girlfriend Goal

Coming back to campus after Thanksgiving felt like emerging from some alternate universe where fathers were villains and Rachel voluntarily held my hand.

The normal rhythm of classes and practice should’ve grounded me.

Instead, everything felt shifted, like someone had adjusted the world three degrees while we were gone.

Rachel and I had developed a new dynamic—not dating, she insisted, but not just friends either.

We studied together without pretense now.

She came to my games wearing school colors.

Not my jersey yet, but it was progress. I attended her matches and charity fundraisers.

We grabbed coffee between classes and dinner when our schedules aligned.

It was everything I wanted and nothing I could define.

"You're overthinking again," Matt observed, hanging upside down off his bed in what had become his thinking position. "I can hear your brain grinding from here."

"How does hanging like that help you think?"

"Blood flow to the brain. Very scientific." He swung himself upright. "But deflection isn't going to work. What's the damage report today?"

"My father called the Rangers' head scout."

Matt's face darkened. "Please tell me you're joking."

"Wish I was." I spun my stick between my hands, needing the familiar motion. "Coach Stevens pulled me aside. Apparently, my father felt the need to share concerns about my 'mental fitness' for professional sports."

"That absolute—"

"Yeah." I'd spent an hour in Coach's office, explaining my dyslexia diagnosis, my coping strategies.

All the things I'd hidden for years, laid bare because my father couldn't stand losing control.

"Coach was cool about it. Said the Rangers guy laughed it off, told him half the league has learning differences. "

"So it's fine?"

"It's out there now. Every scout, every team—they'll all know." The shame burned, even though logically I knew it shouldn't. "All because he couldn't handle Rachel defending me."

"That was epic, by the way. Jared's already writing the screenplay. He's calling it 'The Thanksgiving Massacre.'"

"Of course he is."

"Rachel Fox, defender of honor, destroyer of jerks." Matt grinned. "Seriously though, she was incredible. Never seen someone eviscerate a person so politely."

The memory of her standing up to my father, fierce and protective, made something in my chest go tight. Which brought me to the other thing I couldn't define.

"She was the one who kissed me this time," I said.

"Wait, you're not happy about this?"

"I'm confused. She kissed me, but then insisted nothing's changed. We're still 'just project partners,' who happen to spend all their free time together and hold hands sometimes."

"Oh my god, you're in a situationship."

"A what?"

"A situationship. More than friends, less than dating, maximum confusion for everyone involved." He looked delighted by my suffering. "This is amazing. Lance Fletcher, notorious commitment-phobe, trapped in emotional limbo."

"I'm not trapped. I'm just navigating."

"You're pining. You literally stared at your phone for twenty minutes yesterday waiting for her to text back." Matt's phone buzzed. His face lit up before he caught himself, trying for casual. "Jared wants to know if we're free for dinner. A group thing that’s very casual. Not a double date."

"Right. Because you two are definitely not dating."

"We're not!" But his protest lacked conviction. "We're just exploring compatibility through shared meals and extensive texting."

"So, a situationship."

"Shut up."

The community center that afternoon provided welcome distraction. Marcus had made incredible progress, his anger management improving enough that other kids sought him out for team activities. Watching him help a younger kid with skating technique filled me with pride I hadn't expected.

"He's doing well," Rachel said, appearing beside me with her clipboard.

"Thanks to your reward system. The sticker chart was genius."

"Thanks to your connection with him. He trusts you." She made a note, then hesitated. "Lance, about the scout thing."

"It's fine. My father is being handled. My lawyer sent a cease and desist letter this morning."

Her eyebrows shot up. "You have a lawyer?"

"My mom left me a trust fund. Part of it goes to legal fees for situations exactly like this." I watched Marcus successfully de-escalate a conflict over equipment. "She knew what he was. She made sure I'd be protected."

"Your mom sounds amazing."

"She was." I turned to face her. "You were pretty amazing too, at Thanksgiving. You were protective of me. No one's done that before."

"Well, someone should’ve." Her voice went soft. "You deserve people in your corner."

"As my project partner? I'm just trying to understand the rules here, Rachel. Because I know what I want. I've been clear about that. But you?"

"I'm scared, okay?" The admission burst out of her. "I'm terrified. Because this thing with you is not casual for me. It never was. And that's exactly why I can't risk it. I can't risk becoming someone who chooses a guy over her goals again."

"I'm not asking you to choose." I led her to the storage closet.

"But what happens when you get drafted? When you're traveling eight months out of the year? When I'm trying to build my career and you're building yours?" She clutched her clipboard like armor. "I've done the math, Lance. It doesn't work."

"Math?" I laughed, but it wasn't funny. "You've done math on us?"

"I've run projections. Statistical probability of long-distance relationships surviving professional sports careers."

"Stop." I pulled the clipboard from her hands, set it aside. "Stop reducing us to statistics. We're not a math problem."

"Everything's a math problem if you break it down enough."

"Fine. Then let me show you my calculations." I framed her face with my hands. "Number of times I think about you per day: constantly. Percentage of my future I can imagine without you: zero. Statistical probability that I'm falling for you: already happened."

Her breath caught. "You can't just say things like that."

"Why not? It's true."

"Because—" She stopped, eyes bright. "Because I don't know how to be brave enough for this."

"You defended me to my father. You're the bravest person I know."

"That was different. That was anger. This is hope, and hope is terrifying."

I pulled her into my arms, and she let me, burying her face in my chest. We stood there in the community center storage room, surrounded by soccer balls and jump ropes, holding each other like the world might end if we let go.

"We can figure it out," I murmured into her hair. "I know I want to try. Isn't that enough?"

She pulled back to look at me. "We should get back."

I kissed her. She melted into it, hands fisting in my shirt, and for a moment all her careful control disappeared. When we broke apart, we were both breathing hard.

"Mr. Fletcher? Ms. Fox?" Marcus's voice from outside made us spring apart. "You guys coming? We're starting capture the flag ."

We emerged to find twenty kids waiting impatiently. Marcus took one look at our joined hands and grinned.

"Finally," he announced. "Me and the guys had a bet going. I said before Christmas. Tony thought you'd wait until Valentine's Day."

"You were betting on us?" Rachel asked, mortified.

"Everyone was betting on you," a girl named Aisha piped up. "You guys were super obvious."

"We were not obvious!" I protested.

"You stared at each other all the time," Marcus said. "And smiled when you thought nobody was looking. And—"

"Okay! Capture the flag," Rachel interrupted, face red. "Everyone pick teams."