Page 24 of The Girlfriend Goal

Three fucking days of radio silence from Rachel after what I thought was a perfect night.

She'd left my bed the next morning with promises to text, to meet for coffee, to continue what we'd started. Instead, I got nothing but read receipts and the kind of absence that felt deliberate. After everything we’d been through, we were back to square one.

"You're pathetic," Matt observed from his bed, watching me check my phone for the hundredth time. "Like, genuinely concerning levels of pathetic."

"She's avoiding me, after I said I liked her. What do I do?"

"Stop moping and go talk to her like an adult?" He threw a pillow at my head. "Novel concept, I know."

"I've tried. She's never where she's supposed to be. It's like she has a Lance radar and actively avoids anywhere I might show up."

"So stop being predictable." Jared's voice came from the doorway where he'd apparently materialized like some sort of relationship fairy godmother. "Honestly, do I have to solve everyone's romantic problems?"

"How long have you been standing there?" Matt asked.

"Long enough to be disappointed in both of you." He invited himself in, settling on Matt's bed with casual familiarity. "Lance, sweetie, you're thinking like a hockey player. All direct lines and brute force."

"How should I be thinking?"

"Like someone who knows Rachel Fox." He fixed me with a look. "When has she ever responded well to being cornered?"

"Never."

"Exactly. She's like a cat. The harder you chase, the faster she runs." He patted the space beside him. "Sit. Uncle Jared's going to fix this mess."

"There's no way you're uncle anything," Matt protested.

"Hush, I'm scheming." Jared pulled out his phone. "She has film review in twenty minutes. Alone, because she gave the team the day off post-championship. The film room locks from the inside, but more importantly, she won't be expecting you because you have practice in thirty."

"I do have practice—"

"Do you want the girl or not?"

I considered. Coach was already pissed about me skipping for her game. But then I remembered Rachel in my bed, soft and unguarded, telling me she loved me like it was ripped from her chest.

"Fuck it. What's one more missed practice?"

"That's the spirit." Jared clapped. "Now, when you get there, don't lead with accusations. Don't demand answers. Just be there. Let her come to you."

"That's your advice? Just be there?"

"Trust me. I know my best friend." His expression softened. "She's scared, Lance. Not of you, but of what you represent. What choosing you means."

"I told her she doesn't have to choose."

"But she does, in her mind. Between the Rachel who has everything planned and controlled, and the Rachel who likes you despite all logic." He stood, dragging a protesting Matt with him. "Give her time to reconcile those two versions. And maybe remind her they're not mutually exclusive."

They left, bickering about something. I sat for another minute, gathering courage I shouldn't need. We'd said we liked each other. We'd spent the night proving it. That should make this easier, not harder. But nothing with Rachel was ever easy.

The athletic complex was mostly empty, afternoon classes keeping most people away. I slipped through the halls like I was sneaking into an opposing team's rink, all stealth and held breath. The film room door was closed, but not locked. I could hear the game footage playing inside.

I knocked. The sound stopped immediately.

"Maintenance," I called, pitching my voice lower.

"Come back later," came the response, so clearly Rachel that my chest tightened.

I tried the handle. It turned easily, and I stepped inside before she could protest.

Rachel sat at the front, laptop open, her championship game paused on the screen. She looked perfect and terrible at once—hair in a messy bun, my hoodie drowning her frame, shadows under her eyes suggesting sleep had been as elusive for her as it had for me.

"That's breaking and entering," she said without turning around.

"Door was unlocked. And I knocked."

"Under false pretenses."

"Desperate times." I closed the door behind me, leaning against it. "You've been avoiding me."

"I've been busy."

"Bullshit."

She finally turned, and the look on her face—guilt and longing and fear all mixed together—nearly broke me.

"Lance, what are you doing here?"

"Having the conversation you've been running from for three days. Again."

"I'm not running."

"You changed your entire routine to avoid places I might be. That's literally running."

She turned back to her laptop. "I needed time to think, about how stupid I was. How I let emotions override logic. How I compromised everything I've worked for because you looked at me with those stupid beautiful eyes and said you liked me."

"So you regret it?"

"I regret losing control."

"That's not the same thing."

"Isn't it?" She stood, pacing in the small space. "Do you know what I did after leaving your place? I went home and tried to update my five-year plan. Tried to figure out how to fit 'fell for a hockey player' into my carefully structured future."

"And?"

"And I can't!" The words exploded out of her. "I can't make it work. The math doesn't add up. You'll get drafted, probably this spring. You'll go wherever they send you. And I'll be here, finishing my degree, then who knows where for my career. We could end up on opposite coasts."

"So?" I pushed off the door, moving closer. "People do long distance. People make sacrifices. People choose each other despite inconvenient geography."

"In fairy tales, maybe. In real life, distance kills relationships. Seventy-three percent of—"

"Stop with the statistics." I caught her hands, stilling her movement. "This isn't a case study. It's us."

"There is no us!" She yanked free. "There can't be. One night doesn't change reality."

"Months of falling for each other changes reality. You saying you like me changes reality."

"I was high on adrenaline—"

"Don't." My voice came out harder than intended. "Don't diminish what happened. Don't pretend it didn't matter."

"It did matter, and that's the problem!" She was crying now, angry tears she kept wiping away.

"It mattered too much. You matter too much.

And I can't lose you." The admission seemed to surprise her.

"I can't fall for you only to lose you to the draft, to distance, to some woman in whatever city claims you. "

"You think I'd cheat?"

"I think you'd leave." Her voice went quiet. "Everyone leaves eventually. Ryan to his demons, Brad to his ego, my parents to their work. Even my grandma left. And you'll leave too, for your career. And I won't blame you, but I also can't survive it."

"So you're leaving first?"

"I'm protecting myself."

"You're being a coward."

Her head snapped up. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." I stepped closer, crowding her space.

"You're so scared of maybe losing me someday that you're throwing away what we have now.

That's not protection, that's cowardice.

You think you're the only one with fears?

You don't think I'm terrified of not being enough for you?

Of you realizing you could do better than some dyslexic hockey player who might not make it to the NHL? "

"You'll make it."

"Point is, I'm scared too. But I'm here anyway. Because what we have is worth the risk."

She stared at me, tears still falling. "I don't know how to choose hope over fear. To trust that something good won't turn bad."

"Then let me show you." I framed her face with my hands, thumbs wiping away tears. "Every day, let me prove that we're worth fighting for. That I'm not going anywhere unless you're with me."

"You can't promise that."

"Watch me." I kissed her forehead. "I choose you, every day, in every city, through every challenge. Stop running, Rachel. Stay and fight. Choose us."

She looked at me for a long moment, and I saw the war in her eyes. Fear versus hope. Statistics versus possibility. Control versus trust.

Then she kissed me. Not gentle or sweet, but desperate and claiming. All the emotions she couldn't voice poured into the contact. I responded immediately, backing her against the table, trying to prove with touch what words couldn't convey.

"Look, I'm not asking for declarations or promises or whatever," I said, words tumbling out before I could second-guess them. "But maybe we could just see what happens? Keep it casual?"

"Casual," she repeated, like she was testing the word.

"No pressure. No labels. Just..." I gestured helplessly between us. "Whatever this is."

She studied me for a long moment, and I tried not to fidget under her scrutiny. Finally, she said, "There would need to be rules."

Hope flared in my chest. "Okay."

"No public displays. No interfering with each other's schedules or commitments." She ticked off each point on her fingers. "And either of us can end it at any time, no questions asked."

"Deal," I agreed immediately, even though something twisted at the clinical nature of her terms.

"And," she added, "this is just physical. No feelings."

I nodded, already knowing that ship had sailed for me but willing to take whatever she'd give. "Just physical."

Rachel searched my face like she was looking for signs of deception. Whatever she found must have satisfied her because she nodded once, decisively. "Okay."