Page 6 of The Girlfriend Goal

I left the café feeling oddly unsettled. The meeting had gone better than expected—no bloodshed, minimal insults, actual productive work accomplished. But Rachel was getting under my skin in ways I hadn't anticipated.

It wasn't just that she was beautiful, though she was. It was the way her mind worked—sharp and organized but passionate too.

My phone buzzed with the texts I'd been ignoring. Ashley wanting to know if I was free tonight. Brittany asking about the party on Saturday. Chloe sending pictures that definitely weren't meant for public viewing.

Usually, I'd already be making plans. Setting up the easy hookup, the uncomplicated fun, the kind of interaction where everyone knew the rules and no one got hurt.

Instead, I found myself deleting the messages.

Rachel's words echoed, "Just because you warn someone you're going to be disappointing doesn't make it less disappointing."

Maybe she had a point. Maybe I'd been using honesty as a shield, thinking it absolved me of responsibility for the aftermath.

Yeah, I warned them I wasn't boyfriend material.

But I also chose girls I knew would hope to change my mind, chose the ones who looked at me like I might be different with them.

It was easier than risking anything real. Easier than letting someone see the parts of me that weren't so confident. The kid who still heard his father's voice saying he'd never amount to anything off the ice. The student who broke into a cold sweat when asked to read aloud.

"Lance." Matt's voice broke through my spiral. He was jogging across the quad, practice gear in hand. "You coming to practice or what?"

"Yeah, on my way."

"How'd the meeting go with the soccer queen? Did she eat you alive?"

"It was fine. Productive."

"Productive?" He fell into step beside me. "That's the most boring response possible. Come on, details. Did she insult your intelligence? Question your literacy? Threaten bodily harm?"

"All of the above, actually. But we also planned out the first three weeks of curriculum."

"Holy shit, you actually did work?" He clutched his chest dramatically. "Are you feeling okay? Should I call medical?"

"Fuck off." But I was grinning. "She's not what I expected."

"Oh no." Matt stopped walking. "I know that look."

"What look?"

"The 'I'm intrigued by a girl who doesn't worship me' look. The 'maybe I want something more complicated' look." He grabbed my shoulders. "Lance, buddy, pal, best friend of mine. Do not develop feelings for the one girl on campus who genuinely hates you."

"I don't have feelings. I'm just saying she's interesting. Smart. Passionate about what she does."

"And hot?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. Your face said it." He resumed walking, shaking his head. "This is going to end so badly. Like, Shakespearean tragedy badly. Like, someone's definitely dying in Act Five badly."

"It's just a project, Matt. We'll work together, get our grade, go our separate ways."

"Right. And I'm definitely going to settle down and marry one person instead of continuing my tour of Greenfield's eligible singles population."

We reached the arena, the familiar smell of ice and rubber hitting me as we pushed through the doors. This was my world, where everything made sense. Where I knew exactly what was expected of me and how to deliver.

"Just be careful," Matt said as we headed to the locker room. "Girls like Rachel don't do casual. They do real. And you and I both know you're allergic to real."

He wasn't wrong. But as I changed into my practice gear, I kept thinking about the way Rachel had smiled—just for a second—when I'd made her laugh.

There was another meeting coming up o n Friday morning. Another chance to prove I was more than the stereotype she'd built in her head.

I just had to figure out why that mattered so much to me.