Page 33 of The Girlfriend Goal

The first practice after reconciling with Rachel felt different. Lighter. Even though we weren't officially together – her request for time echoing in my head – just knowing she wasn't running anymore made me play better.

"Someone got laid," Matt observed during water break. "You're playing like you just discovered hockey was fun."

"We didn't—" I stopped, realizing I was grinning like an idiot. "Shut up."

"No judgment here." He took a long drink. "I'm in no position to mock anyone's romantic choices after my performance last night."

"Performance? Dude, you kissed Jared like you were trying to consume his soul."

"I was making a statement." Matt's ears turned red. "He needed a grand gesture. Jared doesn't do subtle."

"Clearly neither do you anymore." I bumped his shoulder. "Happy for you, man. Even if it means double dates in our future where Jared judges our restaurant choices."

"Already happening. He texted me three restaurant options for tonight with full Yelp reviews attached." Matt showed me his phone. "But look at this photo he sent from his morning class."

The selfie showed Jared in soft lighting, smiling genuinely instead of posing. It was intimate in a way that had nothing to do with skin showing.

"You've got it bad," I observed.

"Says the guy who's been checking his phone every five minutes for Rachel updates."

He wasn't wrong. Her promise of "not giving up" played on repeat in my head, but I was trying to give her the space she'd asked for. Trying being the operative word.

Marcus's progress helped distract me. Our next community center session – with both Rachel and me there – showed immediate improvement in his attitude. He'd even brought his report card to show off a B in math.

"This is incredible, Marcus." Rachel high-fived him. "Your hard work is paying off."

"Coach Lance helped me with that trick for remembering formulas," Marcus said proudly. "The one where you make them into hockey plays."

Rachel glanced at me, eyebrow raised. I shrugged. "Everything makes more sense through sports analogies."

"Clearly." Her smile made my chest tight. "Maybe you can teach me that trick sometime."

As the session progressed, we fell into our natural rhythm. Rachel led soccer drills while I incorporated mental training techniques. The kids responded to our united front, their own anxieties seeming to decrease as we demonstrated healthy partnership.

"Y'all are better when you're together," Destiny, one of our regular attendees, announced during snack break. "Like peanut butter and jelly. Separately fine, but together?"

Rachel choked on her water. "We're just work partners."

The other kids giggled, clearly enjoying their coaches' discomfort.

"Okay!" Rachel clapped her hands. "Back to drills! Let's work on corner kicks!"

Her deflection only made the kids laugh harder, but they mercifully let it drop.

After the session, as we cleaned equipment, Rachel bumped my hip. "Thanks for the formula trick. That was really thoughtful."

"Kid deserves every advantage." I paused. "Like I had, once I finally got help."

"Have you thought more about going public with your dyslexia? Beyond the team?"

I'd been considering it since my father's betrayal, but the idea still terrified me. "Maybe. The NHL teams already know – Dad made sure of that with his 'protective' meddling."

"I think it could help a lot of kids," she said softly. "Seeing someone successful who learns differently."

Before I could respond, my phone exploded with notifications. Eight missed calls from Matt, dozens of texts.

"What the hell?" I scrolled through the messages, my stomach dropping. "Oh, fuck."

"What's wrong?"

I handed her my phone, unable to form words. The headline screamed across the screen: "Richard Fletcher Exclusive: My Son's Hidden Struggle – A Father's Pain"

The article was worse than I imagined. Direct quotes I'd never said, stories twisted to make my father seem like a hero who'd protected his learning-disabled son from cruel media attention.

He'd even included childhood photos, making it seem like we had a relationship beyond his occasional manipulative appearances.

"That bastard," Rachel breathed. "He's using your dyslexia for sympathy points?"

"His agency must be struggling." My voice sounded detached, even to me. "This is reputation rehabilitation 101. Position yourself as the caring father of a special needs kid."

"Oh, Lance." She touched my arm.

I jerked away, rage building. "I need to hit something."

"Okay." She gathered her things quickly. "Let's go."

I expected her to leave me at the training facility, but she followed me in, settling on a bench while I destroyed a punching bag. No gloves, no wraps, just pure anger channeled through my fists.

The pain felt good. Cleaner than the emotional agony of seeing my struggles packaged for my father's benefit.

"Lance." Rachel's voice cut through my fury. "Stop. You're bleeding."

I looked down at my knuckles, surprised by the blood. The anger drained, leaving exhaustion.

She was already moving, returning with the first aid kit. "Sit."

I complied, watching her clean my wounds with gentle efficiency. "I'm sorry."

"For what? Being human?" She didn't look up from her work. "Your father is a master manipulator who just weaponized your personal struggles for profit. You're allowed to be angry."

"The scouts will see this. Every team will."

"They already knew about your dyslexia. This changes nothing except proving your father is trash." She applied antibiotic ointment with unnecessary focus. "You could take control of the narrative."

"How?"

"Press conference. Your words, your truth." She finally met my eyes. "Show them who you really are, not your father's fiction."

"I don't know if I can do that."

"You can." Her conviction steadied me. "I'll help you prepare, if you want."

The next two days blurred together. Rachel helped me craft a statement that acknowledged my challenges while maintaining dignity. She ran practice questions, coached my delivery, and generally acted like the partner I desperately wanted her to be in all aspects of life.

Matt and Jared provided moral support, though their new relationship energy occasionally overwhelmed the room.

"Focus on your core message," Jared instructed, sitting in Matt's lap despite three empty chairs being available. "You're not a victim, you're a victor who happens to learn differently."

"That's actually good," I admitted.

"I have my moments." He preened. "Usually they're overshadowed by my devastatingly good looks, but occasionally my brain contributes too."

"Your brain contributes constantly, babe," Matt corrected, pressing a kiss to his lips. "Your GPA is higher than mine."

"Well, that's not saying much, considering you thought Jane Austen was a type of tea last week."

"I was joking!"

"Were you, though?"

Rachel cleared her throat. "Can we focus on Lance's crisis for five minutes before you two start your foreplay disguised as bickering?"

They both flushed but mercifully stopped touching.

The press conference arrived too quickly. I stood outside the media room, hands shaking slightly despite the prepared remarks in my pocket.

"Hey." Rachel appeared beside me. "You've got this."

"What if I freeze? What if I can't read the statement?"

"Then you speak from the heart." She straightened my tie with casual intimacy. "You know your truth. The paper is just backup."

"Will you stay where I can see you?"

"I'll be right in front." She stepped back, hands dropping. "Go show them who Lance Fletcher really is."

The room was packed. Local media, campus reporters, and several national sports outlets filled every seat. I spotted my teammates in the back, providing silent support.

"Thank you for coming." My voice sounded steadier than I felt. "I want to address recent articles about my learning differences and set the record straight."

I found Rachel in the crowd, her encouraging nod giving me strength.

"I have dyslexia. This isn't new information – I was diagnosed in third grade. What is new is seeing my personal challenges exploited by someone who claims to care about my well-being."

The words flowed easier than expected. I talked about the reality of learning differently, the shame I'd carried, the coping mechanisms I'd developed. I named specific teachers and coaches who'd helped, pointedly excluding my father from any narrative of support.

"I'm not sharing this for sympathy," I continued. "I'm sharing it because somewhere, there's a kid struggling to read, thinking they're stupid or lazy. You're not. Your brain just works differently, and that's okay."

Questions followed, but I felt prepared. Rachel's coaching had covered every angle, and having her steady presence in my eyeline kept me grounded.

"Lance, how has your dyslexia affected your hockey career?"

"It's made me more creative on the ice. I can't always process written plays quickly, so I've developed strong spatial intelligence and pattern recognition. Some of my best defensive reads come from thinking outside conventional strategies."

"What would you say to your father if he were here?"

I paused, finding Rachel again. Her small nod encouraged honesty.

"I'd say that using your child's struggles for personal gain is unconscionable. That real fathers protect their children's vulnerabilities, not exploit them. And that he's exactly the kind of person I strive every day not to become."

The conference wrapped with applause, something I hadn't expected. As reporters filed out, several shared their own stories of learning differences or thanked me for speaking up.

Rachel waited in the hallway, tears in her eyes. "You were incredible."

"I couldn't have done it without you." I wanted to pull her into my arms but respected the boundaries she'd set. "Thank you."

"Always," she said softly, then seemed to catch herself. "I mean, anytime. For things like this."

We stood there, charged silence stretching between us, until Matt appeared with Jared in tow.

"Dude, you killed it!" Matt pulled me into a hug. "Your dad's probably having a meltdown watching his narrative get torched."

"Good," I said viciously.

"The media response is already phenomenal," Jared added, scrolling through his phone. "You're trending on three platforms, and the takes are unanimously positive."

"Let's celebrate," Matt suggested. "Dinner at that place Jared's been wanting to try?"

"The one with the molecular gastronomy menu?" Jared's eyes lit up. "Yes! Rachel, you're coming too, right?"

She glanced at me, something unreadable in her expression. "I should probably—"

"Please?" I didn't care if I sounded desperate. "I could use my whole support system tonight."

Her resistance crumbled. "Okay. But I'm not eating anything that involves foam or 'deconstructed' in the description."

Dinner was surprisingly fun, despite the fancy restaurant making Matt visibly uncomfortable. Jared's running commentary on each course had us all laughing, especially when he tried to convince Matt that the beet carpaccio was actually delicious.

"It tastes like dirt," Matt insisted. "Fancy, expensive dirt."

"Your palate is unrefined," Jared sniffed. "I'm dating a culinary peasant."

"You’re crazy about this culinary peasant," Matt countered, stealing a kiss.

"Unfortunately true." Jared melted into him. "My standards have clearly deteriorated."

"Get a room," I threw a breadstick at them.

"We have one," Jared replied archly. "Several, actually, since someone finally decided to stop pretending he wasn't completely gone for me."

"I wasn't pretending—"

"You literally introduced me as your 'bro' to your sister last week."

"Because you'd just spent twenty minutes explaining that labels were heteronormative constructs designed to limit queer expression."

"I was testing you!"

Rachel laughed, the sound making my chest tight. This felt right – the four of us together, celebrating victories and bickering about nothing.

"I should head home," she said as dessert arrived. "Early practice tomorrow."

"I'll walk yo u to your car," I offered immediately.

Outside, the evening had turned cool. Rachel wrapped her arms around herself, and I resisted offering my jacket.

"Tonight meant a lot," I said as we reached her car. "You made me believe I could do it. That my story mattered beyond my father's manipulation."

"It does matter." She looked up at me, eyes soft. "You're going to help so many people by being open about this."

"I meant what I said in there. I couldn't have done it without you. I know, you need time. I'm respecting that." I shoved my hands in my pockets to keep from touching her. "Just let me thank you properly, for everything."

She bit her lip, clearly warring with herself. Then she rose on her toes and kissed me, the contact burning through me.

"You're welcome," she whispered, then got in her car before I could respond.

I watched her drive away. My phone buzzed with texts from teammates, media requests, and one from an NHL scout saying my press conference only increased their interest.

But all I could think about was the ghost of Rachel's lips on my skin and the promise that she wasn't giving up on us.