Page 23 of The Girlfriend Goal

December was a special kind of brutal, but I barely felt the cold as our bus pulled up to the conference championship venue.

Three years of building this program, of fighting for recognition and resources, had led to this moment.

Everything I'd worked for, dreamed of, sacrificed for—it all came down to ninety minutes on a frozen field.

"Fox, you're vibrating," Maya said from beside me. "Like, literally. The whole seat's shaking."

"I'm just visualizing."

My phone buzzed with a text from Lance: Break a leg! But not literally. Save the violence for the ball. You've got this, champion.

A smile tugged at my lips despite the nerves. He'd wanted to come, but hockey practice conflicted. The fact that he'd even offered meant more than I could articulate.

"Aww, she's smiling at her phone," Casey cooed from across the aisle. "Bet I know who's texting."

"Focus on the game," I ordered, but without heat.

The locker room energy was electric. Twenty-three women who'd been told women's soccer didn't matter, didn't draw crowds, didn't deserve equal funding. Twenty-three women ready to prove everyone wrong.

"Listen up!" I stood on the bench, waiting for quiet. "Three years ago, admin tried to cut our program. Said we weren't profitable, weren't visible, and weren't worth the investment."

Nods all around. We all remembered.

"Today, we show them what we're worth. Not for them—for us. For every girl who was told sports were for boys. For every time we had to practice in the rain because the men's team needed the good field. For every—"

"Fox!"

I turned to find our team manager at the door. "Someone's here to see you. Says it's urgent."

"We're about to take the field—"

"I know, but he's insistent. Hockey player?"

My heart jumped. Lance? But he had practice. Unless something was wrong.

I followed her out, cleats clicking on concrete, to find Lance in the hallway still in his practice gear, hair damp with sweat.

"What are you doing here?"

"I told Coach I had a family emergency," he said, breathless like he'd run here from practice. "I couldn't miss this. Coach is pissed, but I kept thinking about you taking that field without me there and I just had to be here. To watch you do what you were born to do."

"You skipped practice for me?"

"I'd skip anything for you." He pulled something from his pocket. "Also, I brought this for luck."

It was a strip of athletic tape with words written in his careful handwriting: Conquer the world. I'll be cheering.

"It's dumb," he said quickly. "You don't have to—"

I kissed him. Poured all my nerves and gratitude and feelings I couldn't name into the contact. When I pulled back, he looked dazed.

"It's perfect," I said. "You're perfect. And you're going to make me cry before a game, which is very unprofessional."

"Can't have that. Your team might actually murder me."

"They might." I wrapped the tape around my wrist like a bracelet. "Where are you sitting?"

"Wherever I can see you best. Maya snuck me a ticket." He grinned. "Apparently she approves of me. Said anyone who makes you smile at your phone like an idiot passes her test."

The field was perfect. Cold, crisp air that made every breath sharp. The stands were fuller than I'd ever seen for our games. And there, still in his hockey practice gear like the beautiful idiot he was, Lance Fletcher in the third row.

The whistle blew, and everything else faded.

Ninety minutes of the best soccer I'd ever played. Every pass crisp, every run calculated, every decision flowing from three years of preparation. We moved like a unit, like we shared a brain, like we'd been born to play together.

State College was good. Ranked third in the conference, they'd beaten us earlier in the season. But that was before we'd found our rhythm. Before we'd learned to trust each other completely. Before we'd decided we deserved to win.

The goal came in the 73rd minute. A corner kick from Maya that I saw developing before she even struck it. I lost my defender with a quick cut, found the space I knew would open, and met the ball with my head. Time slowed as I watched it arc toward the corner, their keeper stretching and reaching.

The net rippled and the crowd exploded.

My teammates mobbed me, screaming and crying and laughing all at once. But through the chaos, I found Lance in the stands, on his feet pumping his fist like he'd scored the goal himself.

The final seventeen minutes were the longest of my life. State College threw everything at us, desperate for an equalizer. Our defense held. Our keeper made two impossible saves. I ran until my legs screamed, tracked back to defend, pushed forward to maintain pressure.

When the final whistle blew, I dropped to my knees. We'd done it.

The celebration was chaos. Champagne spraying everywhere. Photos with the trophy. Hugs from teammates, coaches, staff who'd believed in us when no one else would.

I found Lance by the tunnel, having somehow charmed his way past security.

"Congratulations, champion," he said, pulling me into a hug despite my sweat-soaked state. "You were incredible. That header? Pure poetry."

"You know soccer terms?"

"I've been studying. YouTube's very educational." He grinned. "Plus, Maya's been texting me play-by-play analysis all season. She's very thorough."

"Traitors, all of you."

"Team picture!" Our photographer called. "Fox, get over here."

"Go," Lance said, stepping back. "This is your moment."

I ran back to my team, trophy held high, grinning until my face hurt. The locker room afterwards was emotional chaos. Tears, laughter, Coach giving a speech about dedication and dreams and proving doubters wrong. I should’ve been fully present, soaking in every second.

Instead, I kept touching the tape around my wrist and thinking about Lance waiting outside.

"Go," Maya said, catching my distraction. "We'll celebrate tomorrow. Go be with your hockey player, before he freezes to death in those practice clothes."

I showered at light speed, threw on team sweats, and found Lance exactly where I'd left him, waiting patiently.

"Hi," I said, suddenly shy.

"Hi yourself, champion." He opened his arms and I walked into them, fitting against him perfectly. "Ready to get out of here?"

The drive to his house felt endless. Lance kept one hand on my thigh, thumb tracing absent patterns that made thinking difficult.

His room had hockey gear in one corner, textbooks scattered on the desk, a few trophies on a shelf.

"So," he said, suddenly awkward. "Want to watch film of the game? I recorded it on my phone. We could analyze your defensive positioning."

I laughed. "You did not record my game on your phone."

"I absolutely did. Ask Matt. I made him hold my backup phone for the second half when mine ran out of battery."

He kissed me then, and all thoughts of game analysis fled. This was what I'd been running from, this intensity that threatened to consume everything. But I was done running.

"I like you," he murmured against my lips, like he was testing the words. "I like how competitive you are. How you color-code everything. How you pretend you hate my jokes but always laugh anyway."

"I don't always laugh."

"You do. I like that too." His hands framed my face. "I like how you defended me to my father. How you are with Marcus. How you make me want to be better at everything."

He kissed me again, deeper this time, and I forgot what I was protesting. My hands found their way under his shirt, tracing the muscles I'd admired from a distance. He groaned against my mouth, and the sound sent heat through my entire body.

"Rachel," he breathed.

"Stop talking," I ordered, pulling him toward the bed. "You talk too much."

"You like it when I talk."

"Stop being noble and kiss me like you mean it."

What followed was everything first times should be—awkward and perfect and laughing when his elbow knocked over a water bottle and deadly serious when he looked at me like I was his whole world. It was gentle and intense and worth every second of the wait.

After, we lay tangled together, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare breast.

"So," he said. "Conference championship and mind-blowing sex. I should skip practice more often."

"Don't you dare. We both have careers to think about."

"Look at you, already managing my schedule." He kissed my hair. "I like you. Get used to it. I plan on saying it a lot."

"That's very distracting for someone with a five-year plan."

"Guess you'll have to revise it."

We stayed in bed for an hour, talking and kissing and memorizing each other. Outside, winter pressed against the windows. But inside, wrapped in each other and the certainty of being exactly where we belonged, we were warm.

"Hey," Lance said eventually. "We should probably eat.

You just played ninety minutes of championship soccer.

I'll order pizza. We can eat in bed and you can tell me everything about the game.

And yes, every detail. I want to hear how it felt to score that goal.

What you were thinking during the final minutes. How it feels to be a champion."

"You really want to know all that?"

"I want to know everything about you," he said simply. "Everything you're willing to share."