Page 4 of The Girlfriend Goal

I arrived at Advanced Sports Psychology fifteen minutes early, my preferred buffer for claiming the perfect seat and organizing my materials.

Third row, left side, optimal view of both the board and the projector screen.

I'd mapped out the ideal locations in all my classrooms freshman year and hadn't deviated since.

My color-coded system was already in place—blue for lecture notes, green for reading annotations, yellow for exam prep, pink for project work. Jared mocked my organizational methods, but he also begged to borrow my notes before every exam, so who was the real winner?

I pulled out my laptop, opening the document where I'd already outlined potential approaches for the semester project.

Working with youth athletes had always been a passion of mine.

Maybe because I remembered being twelve and desperately wanting someone to tell me that the pressure I felt was normal, that it was okay to be terrified of failing.

More students filtered in, the usual mix of athletes and sports management majors, with a few psychology students who'd wandered in thinking it would be an easy elective. They'd learn quickly that Professor Latham didn't believe in easy anything.

Then the energy in the room shifted.

I didn't need to look up to know he'd arrived. Hockey players had this way of taking up space, like they traveled with their own gravitational field. The subtle murmur of recognition, the way conversations paused—Lance Fletcher had that effect on a room.

I kept my eyes on my laptop screen, determined not to give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment. But my peripheral vision betrayed me, tracking his movement to a seat in the back corner. Typical. Close enough to technically attend, far enough to avoid being called on.

"Is that Lance Fletcher?" Samantha whispered. "Since when does he take advanced classes?"

"Since never, probably. He's a senior who just declared his major. Probably needs this to graduate."

"Still." She craned her neck for a better look. "You have to admit he's gorgeous. That jawline could cut glass."

"If you're into that whole 'I've never faced a consequence in my life' aesthetic."

Samantha laughed. "Bitter much? Did he ghost you or something?"

"Please. I have standards." I pulled up my notes from the reading. "Besides, you know my rule. No athletes."

"You're an athlete."

"Male athletes," I clarified. "They're all the same. Ego first, everything else second."

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think? Tom from the swim team is really sweet. He volunteers at the animal shelter."

"Exception that proves the rule." I glanced at the clock. Two minutes until class. "Besides, I don't have time for distractions. Not with nationals coming up and grad school applications and—"

"And your sixteen other responsibilities, I know." Samantha patted my shoulder. "You know it's okay to have fun sometimes, right?"

Professor Latham saved me from responding, bounding into the room with his characteristic enthusiasm.

"Good morning, everyone. I hope you're all ready to dive deep into the fascinating world of sports psychology." He pulled up his presentation. "Before we get into today's material, let me tell you about the semester project that will comprise 40% of your grade."

A collective groan went up from the back of the room—probably the contingent who'd thought this would be an easy A.

"You'll be working in pairs to develop and implement a comprehensive mental training program for youth athletes at the Greenfield Community Center. This isn't just theoretical—you'll actually be working with kids aged 10-14, helping them develop mental skills for sports and life."

My hand shot up. "Will we be able to choose our target population? Different sports have different psychological demands."

"Excellent question, Rachel. You'll be assigned a mixed group—soccer players, basketball players, swimmers, even some young hockey players. The challenge will be creating a program that addresses universal mental skills while acknowledging sport-specific needs."

I was already mapping out potential modules in my head. Goal setting, visualization, anxiety management, confidence building—

"Now, for partnerships." Professor Latham pulled up a list. "I've assigned these randomly to encourage diverse perspectives and prevent friend groups from clustering together."

My stomach dropped. Random assignments were the worst. I'd probably end up with some slacker who'd expect me to do all the work while they coasted on my effort. Story of every group project since middle school.

He started reading names. Each pairing announcement felt like watching a reality show elimination. The good partners were disappearing fast, leaving me with an increasingly dire pool of possibilities.

"Sarah Martinez and Josh Chen."

There went my first choice. Sarah was brilliant and hardworking.

"Rachel Fox and..." He paused, scanning his list. "Lance Fletcher."

"No." The word came out before I could stop it—a sound somewhere between disbelief and physical pain. I turned to stare at the back corner where Fletcher sat, meeting his equally shocked expression.

"Is there a problem, Ms. Fox?" Professor Latham's voice carried a note of concern.

"Actually, yes." I raised my hand properly this time, trying to sound professional rather than panicked. "I have some scheduling conflicts that might make partnering difficult. Could I possibly—"

"I'm afraid partner assignments are final. Learning to work with challenging partnerships is part of the real-world application of sports psychology."

Challenging partnerships. What a delicate way to phrase "stuck with your worst nightmare."

I gathered my materials with as much dignity as I could muster, which wasn't much considering my hands were shaking with suppressed rage. The walk to the back of the room felt like a funeral march.

Lance had the audacity to attempt a smile as I sat down, leaving as much space between us as the connected desks would allow.

"Hi, partner," he said, like this was some cute meet-up instead of an academic hostage situation.

I turned to give him my best death glare, the one I reserved for referees who made terrible calls. "Let's get one thing straight. This is a professional arrangement. We do the work, we get the grade, we never speak again."

"Seems fair."

"I wasn't asking for your opinion." I pulled out my planner, the one Jared called my "external brain.

" Every hour of my life for the next three months was already mapped out, and now I had to figure out where to squeeze in meetings with hockey boy.

"I have practice every morning from 5 to 7, classes until 3, film study from 3:30 to 5, and strength training three nights a week. When are you free?"

He blinked at the rapid-fire schedule dump. "Uh, I have practice most mornings, games Tuesday and Saturday nights, and—"

"Just give me your phone." I held out my hand, impatient with his stammering.

"What?"

"Your phone. I'll put my number in, you can text me your schedule, and I'll figure out when we can meet." I wiggled my fingers. "Unless that's too complicated for someone who can't read door signs."

It was a low blow, but I was too angry to care. He handed over his phone—latest model, of course, probably replaced every time he got a scratch on it.

I typed my number in quickly, saving myself as "Rachel Fox - Sports Psych" because God forbid he mix me up with his rotating cast of hookups.

"There." I shoved it back at him. "Text me your schedule by tonight. And I mean your real schedule, not just the times you plan to show up hungover and do the bare minimum."

"I don't—"

"Thursday, 8 AM, campus library. You were twenty minutes late, spent the entire time texting, and then asked Melissa for her notes.

" The memory was crystal clear—I'd been sitting two rows behind him, watching him flirt his way through borrowing notes he'd never read.

"Sociology 101, freshman year. I have a good memory for slackers. "

His face went through several expressions—surprise, confusion, maybe even a flash of shame—before settling on indignation.

"That was a year ago."

"And yet here you are, in a senior-level class, having just declared your major." I turned back to my laptop, pulling up a new document for project planning. "Let me guess—you've been coasting on hockey and hoping the NHL would work out, but now reality's setting in and you need a backup plan?"

The silence that followed told me I'd hit close to home. Good. Let him squirm.

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough." I created a shared folder for our project, my fingers flying over the keys.

"You're Lance Fletcher. Star defenseman.

Campus celebrity. You hook up with a different girl every weekend, you travel in a pack of equally entitled teammates, and you think consequences are for other people. "

"That's not—"

"Brittany. Sigma house, two weeks ago. Ashley from the swim team, the weekend before that. That redhead from marketing — Chloe? — before the winter break." I kept typing, not bothering to look at his probably shocked face. "Like I said, good memory."

"Have you been stalking me?"

The incredulity in his voice almost made me laugh. As if I had nothing better to do than track his sexual conquests.

"Please. You're not that interesting. But my friends talk, and you've worked through half the female population on campus."

"That's an exaggeration."

"Is it, though?"

Professor Latham was explaining something about neurotransmitters, but I was only half listening. The other half of my attention was on the way Fletcher kept shifting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with my accurate assessment of his dating history.

"For what it's worth," he said quietly, leaning closer, "I'm always honest with them. I don't promise anything I can't deliver."

The smell of his cologne—something expensive and subtly spicy—invaded my space. I scooted my chair another inch away.

"How noble. You're upfront about being emotionally unavailable. Real prince charming material." I switched to a new color for Professor Latham's points about performance anxiety. "Just because you warn someone you're going to be disappointing doesn't make it less disappointing."

"Look, I get it. You hate me. You hate hockey players. You hate everything I represent." His voice dropped even lower, and I hated that it made me hyperaware of his presence. "But we're stuck together for a semester, so maybe we could try to be civil?"

I finally looked at him, really looked at him. Past the artfully messy hair and the stubbled jaw and the eyes that were unfairly blue. He looked tired, and maybe a little hurt by my assessment.

For a second, I felt bad. Then I remembered Ryan, remembered every hockey player who'd swaggered through campus like they owned it, remembered that morning's locker room invasion.

"Fine. Civil. But I have conditions."

"Of course you do."

I ignored the sarcasm. "One: You show up on time to every meeting.

Not hockey player time—real time. Two: You actually contribute to the project.

I'm not carrying dead weight. Three: You keep your extracurricular activities away from our work.

I don't want to show up to a meeting and find you with some random girl in our reserved study room. "

"That was one—you know what, never mind. Fine. Conditions accepted."

"Good." I turned back to my notes. "And Fletcher? The next time you accidentally walk into a women's locker room, maybe try actually looking sorry instead of looking like you're memorizing the scene for later."

"I wasn't—"

"Thursday, 2 PM, library. Third floor, study room 6. Bring your laptop and any research materials you have on youth sports psychology." I paused, already knowing the answer. "You do have research materials, right?"

"Sure."

The lie was so obvious I almost felt secondhand embarrassment. "Just try to bring something more substantial than your hockey stats, okay?"

Class soon wound down with Professor Latham assigning enough reading to kill a small forest. I stood to leave, then paused. The words came out before I could stop them.

"For what it's worth, I might have overreacted a little in the locker room. You did seem genuinely surprised."

I didn't wait for his response, weaving through the crowd of students before he could say something that might make me take it back. The hallway was packed with the between-class rush, and I used the chaos as cover for my escape.

My phone was already in my hand as I walked, firing off a text to establish boundaries from the start:

"This is Rachel. Send your schedule by 8 PM tonight. Real schedule, not the fictional one where you have time for 'gym, tanning, laundry.' And yes, I know you're reading this in class because you haven't left yet. Stop procrastinating and move. Some of us have things to do."

I paused at the doorway, looking back to see him still sitting there, staring at his phone with an expression I couldn't quite read. He looked up, meeting my eyes across the room.

My phone buzzed with a text from Jared: "Coffee emergency. Someone just told me you're partnered with Lance Fletcher for a project. Need details now."

I smiled despite my sour mood. At least I'd have someone to commiserate with about this disaster. Jared would understand the cosmic injustice of being paired with everything I stood against.

Another text, this time from Samantha: "The way Lance looked at you when you left!"

I deleted it without responding. I didn't care how Lance looked at me. I cared about my GPA, my team, and my future. He was just an obstacle to navigate, a temporary inconvenience in my carefully planned life.

Thursday at 2 PM. I'd go in prepared, professional, and completely immune to whatever charm he thought he possessed. We'd plan our project with brutal efficiency, divide the work equally, and interact as little as possible.

I ignored the small voice in my head that wondered why I was already thinking about Thursday, why I could still smell his cologne, why that half-apology had slipped out when I'd meant to leave with the last word.

It didn't matter. Lance Fletcher was a distraction I couldn't afford, and I'd spent years getting very good at eliminating distractions.