Page 32 of The Girlfriend Goal

Brad stood outside the athletic complex like he'd been waiting for me, that familiar cocky smile spreading across his face as if the past year hadn't happened.

As if he hadn't systematically destroyed my confidence and nearly derailed my entire future .

My entire body went into fight-or-flight mode.

"Rachel." His voice carried that same entitled tone that used to make me feel small. "You look good."

I clutched my soccer bag tighter, using it as a shield between us. "Brad."

"That's it? Just 'Brad'?" He stepped closer, and I instinctively backed away. "Come on, Rachel. We dated for two years. You can't even say hello properly?"

"Hello properly," I deadpanned, trying to sidestep him. "Now if you'll excuse me—"

His hand shot out, not quite touching me but blocking my path. "I've changed, you know." He leaned against the wall, positioning himself to trap me in conversation. "Therapy, anger management, the whole deal. I'm not the same guy who—"

"Who what?" I interrupted, anger flaring.

"Who screamed at me for attending my own team's championship game because it conflicted with your regular season match?

Who told me I was getting 'too muscular' from training?

Who said my sports management degree was a 'cute backup plan' for when I failed as an athlete? "

His jaw tightened. "I said I've changed."

"Congratulations. I haven't." I pushed past him, my hands shaking. "Stay away from me, Brad."

"We're going to be at every athletic mixer, every campus event," he called after me. "You can't avoid me forever."

I practically ran to my apartment, slamming the door behind me. Jared looked up from his position on the couch, surrounded by fabric swatches for his latest theater production.

"Honey, you look like you've seen a ghost dressed in last season's Walmart clearance rack." He set aside his samples. "What happened?"

"Brad won’t leave me alone." The words came out strangled.

Jared's face went through an impressive range of emotions – shock, disgust, and finally, protective fury. "That manipulative, gaslighting, emotionally abusive excuse for a trust fund baby is harassing you again?"

I collapsed next to him, burying my face in a throw pillow. "He says he's changed."

"Oh, please." Jared's voice dripped disdain. "That's like saying a designer knockoff becomes authentic because you scotch-taped a real label on it. Trash is trash, regardless of the packaging."

My phone buzzed. Lance: Hey, you still on for community center at 3? Marcus has been asking about you.

The text that usually made me smile now filled me with dread. How could I explain that seeing Brad had triggered every defense mechanism I'd built? That I needed to retreat into myself to survive?

I typed back: Can't make it. Something came up.

"Are you seriously canceling on Lance because that expired protein shake showed up?" Jared snatched my phone. "Oh no. We are not doing this self-sabotage spiral again."

"I'm not self-sabotaging," I protested weakly. "I just need space."

"Space from the man who literally held your hair during the Great Halloween Puke Fest? Who defended you against his horrible father? Who looks at you like you personally invented both soccer and the concept of athletic wear?"

"It's complicated."

"It's not, though." Jared fixed me with his most serious expression, which was still pretty dramatic. "Brad broke you down systematically for two years. Lance has spent months building you back up. Don't let that sentient red flag undo all your progress."

But the damage was already done. Over the next week, I became a master of avoidance. I changed my routes to class, timed my practices to avoid the athletic complex during hockey hours, and responded to Lance's increasingly concerned texts with short, impersonal messages.

Sorry, swamped with internship apps.

Can't tonight, team meeting.

Rain check on studying?

Each lie carved away another piece of my soul, but the alternative – being vulnerable when Brad lurked around every corner – seemed impossible.

The worst part was practice. My teammates noticed immediately.

"Okay, what crawled up your cleats and died?" Samantha asked after I'd brutally slide-tackled her during a friendly scrimmage. "That's the third time you've nearly taken someone out today."

"Just focused," I muttered, helping her up.

"Focused on murder, maybe." She brushed grass off her shorts. "Look, I heard Brad transferred here. If he's bothering you—"

"He's not," I said quickly. Too quickly.

Samantha's expression softened. "The offer stands. Some of us remember what he did to you. We've got your back."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The solidarity should’ve helped, but it only highlighted how isolated I'd made myself.

That evening, Jared attempted another intervention. He'd prepared what he called a "romantic comedy emergency kit" – popcorn, wine, and a carefully curated selection of films featuring strong women who didn't let toxic exes ruin their happiness.

"This is ridiculous," I said, but I accepted the wine glass he thrust at me.

"What's ridiculous is you channeling your inner Emily Dickinson when you have a perfectly good hockey specimen waiting to worship at your athletic feet." He started 10 Things I Hate About You . "Now, watch and learn how to properly handle an ex while maintaining your current romantic trajectory."

"Lance and I aren't romantic. We're just exploring physical chemistry."

Jared paused the movie before it even started. "Sweetie, the lies you tell yourself are less believable than my claim that this wine is from France and not the corner bodega."

My phone buzzed again. Lance: Marcus ran away from home. He's at the community center. I know things are weird between us but he needs both of us. Please.

I was out the door before Jared could even pause the movie.

The community center felt eerily quiet at night. I found Marcus huddled in the equipment room, knees drawn to his chest, face streaked with tears. Lance sat beside him, maintaining respectful distance while keeping vigilant watch.

Our eyes met across the small space, and a thousand unspoken words passed between us. His expression held hurt, confusion, and concern – but not anger. Never anger.

"Hey, Marcus," I said softly, settling on the boy's other side. "Rough night?"

Marcus lifted his head slightly. "You came."

"Of course I came. We're a team, remember?"

"Doesn't feel like it lately," he mumbled. "You two can barely look at each other. Did I do something wrong?"

"No!" Lance and I said simultaneously.

"This isn't about you at all," I continued. "Sometimes adults have complicated feelings that make things difficult."

"Is it because you hate each other now?" Marcus's voice cracked. "Like my mom and dad before he left?"

Lance's sharp intake of breath matched my own. "We don't hate each other," he said firmly. "Right, Rachel?"

"Right." I met his eyes again. "We could never hate each other."

"Then why won't you work together anymore? Why do you schedule different times and barely talk?" Tears spilled down Marcus's cheeks. "Everyone always leaves. I thought you two were different."

The weight of his words crashed over me. In trying to protect myself, I'd hurt not only Lance but also this vulnerable kid who'd come to depend on us.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, pulling Marcus into a hug. "I'm so sorry. We're not leaving, and we're going to do better. I promise."

Lance's hand covered mine where it rested on Marcus's shoulder. The simple touch sent electricity through my entire body.

"Want to tell us what happened at home?" Lance asked gently.

Marcus's story spilled out – a fight with his mom about grades, feeling overwhelmed by school and responsibilities, the pressure of being the man of the house at twelve. We listened, offering comfort and practical solutions, naturally falling back into our partnership rhythm.

By the time Marcus's worried mother arrived, we'd developed a plan. More tutoring support, regular check-ins, and a commitment to consistent mentorship. Watching them reunite, both crying and apologizing, reminded me why this work mattered.

In the empty parking lot afterward, Lance and I stood by our cars, neither moving to leave.

"I'm sorry," I said finally. "For shutting you out again. For being a coward."

"You're not a coward." His voice was rough. "Want to tell me what's really going on?"

"Seeing Brad every day, having him text constantly, offer networking connections... it brought back everything. How small he made me feel, how I almost gave up my dreams for someone who only saw me as an accessory to his success."

Lance stepped closer but didn't touch me. "I'm not him."

"Logically, I know that. But my body goes into panic mode, and suddenly I'm that woman again who thought love meant sacrificing everything."

"Rachel." The way he said my name made me look up. "I have never, not once, asked you to sacrifice anything for me. I've sat through your interview prep, celebrated your internship, and supported your dreams even when they lead you across the country. How can I prove I'm different?"

"You already have," I admitted. "That's what terrifies me. Brad took two years to show his true colors. What if—"

"What if I'm exactly who I've shown you I am?

" He interrupted gently. "What if there's no hidden agenda, no manipulation waiting to spring?

What if I just like you? You run at the first sign of trouble, but I'm still here.

After hot tubs and ski trips and you literally fleeing my bed when things get too real. I'm still here."

"I miss you," I confessed, the words barely audible. "I miss us, whatever we were."

"We were everything," he said simply. "And we could be again, if you'd stop running long enough to let it happen."

I kissed him then, pouring days of regret and longing into the contact. He responded immediately, pulling me against him like he'd been starving for it.

"I'm sorry," I whispered against his lips. "I'm so sorry for pushing you away over and over again."

"Stop apologizing and let me take you home," he murmured back.

I shook my head. "Not tonight. I need to figure out how to stop self-sabotaging before I hurt you again."

His frustrated groan almost broke my resolve, but he stepped back. "I'm not giving up on us," he warned. "Fair warning."

"Good," I said, meaning it. "I don't want you to."

Back at my apartment, I found Jared stress-baking, which meant the kitchen looked like a flour bomb had detonated.

"Don't even start," he said, aggressively whisking something. "Matt texted that Lance seemed extra broody at practice, and I've been anxiety-baking ever since."

The doorbell interrupted him. We exchanged confused looks – it was past eleven.

I opened the door to find Matt standing there, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

"Is Jared here?" He shifted his weight. "I know it's late, but—"

"Oh my God, it's like you summoned him with your thirst," Jared hissed from behind me. "What could possibly be so urgent that—"

Matt stepped forward and kissed him. Not a gentle, testing kiss, but a full-on, movie-worthy kiss.

I scrambled out of the splash zone, watching wide-eyed as my best friend went from shocked to responding enthusiastically.

When they finally broke apart, Jared looked dazed.

"I'm tired of pretending," Matt said simply. "Tired of acting like our hookups don't mean anything. Tired of watching you flirt with other guys at parties to make me jealous."

"I don't flirt to make you—" Jared's protest died as Matt raised an eyebrow. "Okay, maybe a little. But only because you're impossible to read. One minute you're in my bed whispering beautiful things, the next you're calling me 'bro' and high-fiving me like I'm one of your hockey teammates."

"Because I didn't think you wanted more." Matt ran a hand through his hair. "You literally told me you don't do relationships."

"I told you that after you said you were 'having fun keeping things casual'!"

"I only said that because you seemed allergic to any mention of feelings."

I cleared my throat. "Should I leave my own apartment, or...?"

They both turned to me, seeming to remember they had an audience.

"Stay," Jared commanded, not taking his eyes off Matt. "Witness protection, in case this is another one of his mind games."

"It's not a game." Matt's voice went soft. "I like you, Jared. As more than a hookup. I want to take you on actual dates and hold your hand in public and deal with your drama when you're deciding between two identical white shirts."

"They're not identical. One is eggshell and one is ivory, you heathen!" Jared's voice pitched high. "And you really want to date me? Publicly? Where people can see?"

"I want to date you so publicly that people get sick of us." Matt grinned. "What do you say?"

Jared glanced at me, vulnerability cracking through his dramatic facade. I nodded encouragingly.

"Fine," he said, trying to sound casual despite his obvious joy. "But I have conditions. Actual restaurants, not just sports bars. You have to watch at least one musical a month. And absolutely no referring to my skincare routine as excessive ."

"Deal." Matt sealed it with another kiss, this one softer. "Now, can I take you to that 24-hour diner you pretend you don't love?"

"I just have standards about—" Jared's protest cut off as Matt grabbed his hand. "Okay, yes, fine. Rachel, don't wait up!"

They left in a whirlwind of bickering that sounded suspiciously like foreplay, leaving me alone with my thoughts and Jared's stress-baking remnants.

My phone buzzed. Lance: I meant what I said. Not giving up. Also, please make sure Marcus knows we're okay? He doesn't need more instability.

I typed back: We're okay. I promise. And I'm not giving up either. Just give me time to be brave?

His response came immediately: All the time you need. I'll be here.

I believed him. More importantly, I was starting to believe I deserved him.