Page 35 of The Girlfriend Goal

The Frozen Four championship arena thrummed with electric energy. Twenty thousand fans packed the stands, their roar almost deafening during warm-ups. NHL scouts lined the press box, tablets and notebooks at the ready. ESPN's cameras captured every angle.

And all I could think about was the heart emoji Rachel had sent me.

It had rewired my entire nervous system.

Rachel had never used a heart emoji before.

Not once in months of texting. I'd screenshot it like a lovesick teenager, staring at that tiny pink symbol as if it might reveal the secrets of the universe.

"Dude, you're gonna burn a hole through your phone." Matt slapped my shoulder, already half-dressed in his gear. "She'll still be there after we win."

"I know." I tucked the phone safely in my bag. "But the heart emoji, man."

"Oh my God, you're pathetic." But he was grinning. "Jared sent me like fifteen texts about her debate over which emoji to use. Apparently there was a whole committee consultation with her teammates."

The idea of Rachel agonizing over emoji selection made my chest tight with affection. "Your boyfriend is a gossipy traitor."

"My boyfriend is a treasure trove of insider information." Matt's grin turned wicked. "He also mentioned Rachel's been wearing your practice jersey to sleep."

I fumbled my stick, nearly dropping it. "What?"

"The one you left at her place last week. Jared found it under her pillow."

"That's..."

"Adorable? Pathetic? Exactly the kind of thing you'd do if you had one of her jerseys?"

All of the above, but admitting that would only fuel Matt's teasing.

Coach Stevens entered, his game face already in place. "Gentlemen, this is what we've worked for all season. Denver's good – damn good. They've got speed, they've got skill, and they've got that prima donna Derek who thinks he's God's gift to hockey."

A few guys snorted. Derek was talented but dirty, known for cheap shots when refs weren't looking.

"But you know what they don't have?" Coach continued. "They don't have our heart. Our brotherhood. The way we battle for each other every shift. Fletcher!"

I straightened. "Yeah, Coach?"

"Derek's been running his mouth to media about our 'overrated defense.' Says he's gonna light us up." Coach's grin turned predatory. "What do you say to that?"

"I say talk is cheap, and he's about to find out why they call me The Wall ."

The team erupted in cheers, banging sticks against the floor. The energy was infectious, adrenaline already coursing through my veins.

"That's what I want to hear. Play smart, play hard, and play for each other. Bring home that trophy."

We filed out for the anthem, the arena reaching deafening levels. I found our section immediately – hard to miss with Jared's handmade signs that somehow incorporated glitter, our numbers, and what appeared to be abstract art.

Then I saw Rachel. She stood between Jared and her teammates, wearing my jersey. Not the practice one Matt mentioned, but my actual game jersey with my name across the back. The one I'd left in her apartment after sex.

Our eyes met across the ice, and her shy smile hit me like a body check. She pointed to the jersey, then to me, mouthing something I couldn't make out over the crowd.

"Dude, you're literally glowing," Matt muttered beside me. "Try to keep it together until after we win."

The anthem played, but I barely heard it. Rachel was wearing my jersey at the biggest game of my career. The same woman who'd insisted we were just exploring physical chemistry, who needed space, who was leaving for Seattle in weeks.

The puck dropped, and Denver came out flying. Derek tried to dangle through our defense in the first thirty seconds, but I stood him up at the blue line, separating him from the puck with a clean hit that sent him sprawling.

"Welcome to the championship, buttercup," I chirped as he got up.

His response involved creative profanity and promises about what he'd do next shift. Empty threats from an overrated forward.

The first period stayed scoreless despite chances both ways. Denver's goalie made two spectacular saves, while our keeper Jordan stood on his head to rob Derek on a breakaway. I made sure to tap Jordan's pads after that save, grateful for his talent.

During the intermission, I couldn't help checking my phone again. A new text from Rachel: That hit on Derek was beautiful. He's been whining to the refs about it.

I typed back: Nice jersey. Looks good on you.

Three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared. Then appeared again. Finally: Thought you might like the support.

Right, definitely just supportive friendship, wearing my name across her back at the biggest game of the year.

"Earth to Lance!" Stevens barked. "You with us?"

"Yes, Coach. Sorry."

"Good. Because Derek's gonna come harder next period. He's embarrassed and angry – exactly where we want him. When he gets emotional, he gets sloppy. Be ready."

The second period proved Coach right. Derek tried forcing plays, getting increasingly frustrated when our defense held. With five minutes left in the period, Matt found me with a perfect pass in the slot. I one-timed it top shelf, the goal light illuminating as our bench exploded.

1-0 Greenfield.

Skating past their bench during the celebration, I made eye contact with Derek. His face was murderous, promising retribution.

"Lucky shot," he spat during the next faceoff.

"Luck's got nothing to do with it."

He took a run at me two shifts later – a late hit that drew a penalty and sent me into the boards hard. My ribs protested, but I bounced up immediately, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing pain.

"Two minutes, interference!" The ref announced.

Our power play struck quickly, Matt redirecting my point shot for a 2-0 lead. The assists felt as good as a goal, especially watching Derek slam his stick against the boards from the penalty box.

Denver pushed hard in the third, cutting the lead to 2-1 with eight minutes left. The arena turned anxious, people holding their breath with every rush.

"Lock it down," coach yelled. "Smart plays, no chances."

With two minutes left, Denver pulled their goalie. Six attackers swarmed our zone, the puck pinballing dangerously. Derek wound up for a one-timer from the point – the kind of shot that could tie the game and crush our dreams.

I saw it developing in slow motion. The passing lane, Derek's positioning, the shooting angle. Without thinking, I dove, getting my body in front of the frozen rubber disk.

The puck caught me in the ribs – the same spot Derek had targeted earlier. Pain exploded through my torso, stealing my breath, but I heard the crowd roar. I'd kept the puck out.

"Twenty seconds," Matt yelled, helping me to the bench.

I could barely breathe, definitely couldn't take another shift, but it didn't matter. Our team locked it down, Jordan making one final save as the buzzer sounded.

We'd done it. National champions.

The celebration erupted on ice – gloves, sticks, and helmets flying as we piled on Jordan. Pain forgotten, I joined the mob, screaming myself hoarse. Matt found me in the pile, wrapping me in a bear hug that made my ribs scream.

"We fucking did it!"

"Champions, baby!"

The trophy presentation blurred past. Photos, interviews, champagne showers in the locker room. But I kept looking toward the tunnel, waiting.

She appeared as I exited another interview, still wearing my jersey, eyes bright with pride. Without thinking, I dropped my gear and moved toward her.

"Lance, your ribs—"

"Don't care." I pulled her against me, ignoring the protest from my body. "You wore my jersey."

"I did." Her hands framed my face. "You were incredible. That blocked shot—"

"I love you," I blurted out, the words escaping without permission. "I'm so fucking in love with you, Rachel. I know you need space and you're scared and Seattle's happening, but I can't keep pretending I don't—"

She kissed me, cutting off my rambling. Not a gentle kiss – a claiming, possessive kiss that made my injured ribs worth it.

"I love you too," she whispered against my lips. "I'm terrified and I don't know how to do this, but I love you."

I kissed her again, dimly aware of cameras clicking and teammates cheering. Let them watch. Let the whole world see that Rachel Martinez loved me back.