Page 3 of The Girlfriend Goal

"It's not post-workout if you haven't worked out," I groaned, burying my face in the pillow.

"I worked out. I did three whole push-ups this morning."

"When?"

"In my dream. It was very strenuous." The blender roared to life again. "You want some? It's got kale and protein powder."

"I'll pass." I dragged myself out of bed, knowing sleep was impossible with Chef Matt in the kitchen. Our off-campus house was decent for a bunch of college guys—meaning it only smelled like a gym bag half the time and we'd remembered to take the trash out last week.

I found Matt in the kitchen wearing nothing but hockey shorts and an apron that said "Kiss the Cook" with strategic placement of the text. He was pouring a violently green liquid into two glasses despite my protests.

"So," he said, sliding a glass toward me. "You gonna tell me what had you all weird yesterday, or do I have to guess?"

"Nothing had me weird." I took a tentative sip and immediately regretted it. "Jesus, this tastes like grass flavored chalk."

He hopped up to sit on the counter, a move that made his dating app notification go off. "Oh, hello. Mason from the swim team is up early."

"Didn't you just match with Mark from the business school?"

"And? I'm a free agent, Fletcher. Playing the field. Keeping my options open." He waggled his eyebrows. "Unlike someone who runs from anything resembling emotional connection like it's a forechecker in the neutral zone."

"That's a terrible analogy."

"You're deflecting. Come on, what happened yesterday? You were off your game at practice, completely zoned out during the team meeting, and then you spent the rest of the day looking like someone told you Santa isn’t real."

I considered lying, but Matt had been my best friend since we'd been paired as roommates freshman year. He'd seen me through my worst days—the ones where reading a simple text message felt like decoding hieroglyphics, where I'd rather take a hit from a 250-pound enforcer than read aloud in class.

"I walked into the women's locker room by mistake."

Matt's smoothie came out his mouth. "You what?"

"I was watching game footage, not paying attention, muscle memory took me to the wrong door." I grabbed paper towels to clean up his mess. "And before you ask, yes, someone was in there. Rachel Fox, the soccer captain."

"Oh shit." His eyes went wide. "Was she...?"

"Changing? Yeah. And she let me have it. Full verbal assault. Called me entitled, privileged, accused me of doing it on purpose."

"I mean..." Matt tilted his head. "Can you blame her? That's probably terrifying for a woman. Strange dude walks in while you're vulnerable."

"I know. I felt like complete shit about it. Still do." I slumped against the counter. "But it was the way she looked at me, man. Like I was everything wrong with the world wrapped up in hockey gear."

"Maybe because you kind of are?" He held up a hand before I could protest. "Hear me out.

You're a rich boy who plays the most privileged sport at this school.

You're conventionally attractive—and yes, I can say that as your best friend—you've never had to work a day in your life outside of hockey, and you literally just invaded her safe space. "

"When you put it like that..."

"I'm not done. You also have a reputation on this campus. How many women have you hooked up with this semester?"

I did some quick mental math. "I don't know, five? Six?"

"Eight. I keep track because I'm a good friend who makes sure you remember their names." He pointed his smoothie at me accusingly. "You're a walking stereotype, buddy. Hot hockey player who loves and leaves 'em."

"I'm always honest about not wanting anything serious."

"Sure, but that doesn't mean you're not contributing to a certain image. And then you literally stumble into this woman's space while she's changing? Of course she's going to assume the worst."

I hated that he was right. "She said something about how hockey players get everything on campus. The new weight room, the chartered flights, all of it."

"Because we do." Matt shrugged. "When's the last time you went to a women's soccer game?"

"I don't know."

"Never. The answer is never. I know because I've never been either, and we do everything together." He polished off his smoothie with a grimace. "Face it, we're kind of assholes."

"Speak for yourself."

"Oh, I am. I'm a certified disaster bisexual who uses humor to avoid real connections and treats dating apps like a video game." He grinned. "But at least I'm self-aware about it. You still think you're one of the good guys just because you're not actively a dick."

My phone buzzed with a reminder. "Shit, I've got Sports Psych in an hour."

"The class you enrolled in last minute because you finally had to declare a major?" Matt hopped off the counter. "Still can't believe you're voluntarily taking a psychology class. Doesn't that require, like, reading?"

My stomach clenched at the reminder. "I'll figure it out."

"You know you could just tell—"

"No." The word came out harsher than I intended. "I'm not telling anyone."

Matt's expression softened. "It's not something to be ashamed of, Lance. Lots of people have dyslexia. It doesn't make you stupid."

"Tell that to every teacher who's ever asked me to read aloud." I headed for my room. "Or every girl who's wondered why I'd rather watch a movie than read the book. Or my dad, who still thinks I'm just lazy."

"Your dad's an asshole."

"Yeah, well, he's an asshole who pays my tuition." I grabbed clothes from the pile on my chair—the clean pile, not the dirty pile, an organizational system Matt called "depression chic."

"You know there are resources, right? The learning center has—"

"I said no, Matt." I softened my tone. "I've made it this far without anyone knowing. I'm not starting now."

"Alright. But when you fail this psych class because you can't read the textbook, don't come crying to me." He paused. "Actually, do come crying to me. I'll make you another smoothie. This time with extra kale."

I showered quickly, trying not to think about the reading list I'd glimpsed on the syllabus.

Three textbooks, weekly journal articles, a research paper.

Why the fuck had I chosen psychology? Oh right, because it was the only major left that didn't require a foreign language, and there was no way I was trying to learn Spanish when English already felt like a foreign language half the time.

Matt was in the living room when I came out, simultaneously texting three different people and watching hockey highlights on TV. "Oh, speaking of my romantic disasters, you'll never guess what happened at Theta Apple Pie's party on Saturday."

"Please tell me you didn't actually hook up with twins."

"I didn't hook up with them." He looked offended. "I just may have been texting both of them without realizing they were related. And they may have compared notes at the party, in front of everyone."

"Jesus, Matt."

"In my defense, they had different last names." He shook his head mournfully. "The dating pool on this campus is more like a dating puddle. A very small puddle where everyone knows everyone."

"Maybe take a break from dating?"

"And deprive the people of Greenfield of all this?" He gestured to himself. "That would be selfish."

I grabbed my backpack, shoving my laptop inside along with a notebook I probably wouldn't be able to take decent notes in. "I'm out. Try not to burn the house down."

"That was one time, and the toaster was definitely defective."

The walk to campus took fifteen minutes, just enough time for my anxiety about the psychology class to really settle in.

I'd gotten through most of my gen eds by strategically choosing classes with minimal reading, professors who posted detailed slides online, and subjects where I could lean on my ability to memorize things I heard rather than read.

But I was a senior now. I'd run out of easy classes and ways to avoid declaring a major. Psychology had seemed like the best of bad options—at least it was somewhat related to sports, and I figured I could bullshit my way through with personal experience.

The psychology building loomed ahead, all modern glass and steel, trying to look impressive next to the historic brick buildings that made up most of campus. I checked the room number on my phone three times, the numbers doing their usual dance before settling into place. Room 341.

I took the stairs two at a time, my usual strategy of arriving early to claim a back corner seat. Professors were less likely to call on you if you were tucked away in the back, partially hidden by the kid who always brought their giant emotional support water bottle.