Page 8 of The Girlfriend Goal

"This is where we're supposed to inspire the next generation?" Rachel stood beside me, her nose wrinkled as she took in the scenery. "The supply closet at our soccer facility is bigger than this gym."

"Welcome to community sports," I said, shifting the bag of equipment I'd borrowed from the hockey program. "Where dreams are built on duct tape and good intentions."

The program coordinator, Mrs. Chen, bustled over with the kind of energy that suggested she ran on coffee and determination alone. "You must be our volunteers. The kids are so excited. We don't often get real college athletes here."

"Happy to help," Rachel said, her professional smile clicking into place. I'd seen that smile during our project meetings—polite, distant, protective. The anti-Lance smile, as I'd started thinking of it.

Mrs. Chen led us to what she generously called the "multipurpose room"—a converted storage area with barely enough space for the fifteen kids currently bouncing off the walls like pinballs.

"Everyone." Mrs. Chen clapped her hands. "These are our special guests. This is Rachel Fox from the soccer team, and Lance Fletcher from—"

"Holy crap, you're Lance Fletcher?"

A kid who couldn't have been more than ten launched himself at me like a heat-seeking missile. "You had thirty-seven blocks last season. And that hit on Michigan State's forward was legendary."

"Easy there, buddy." I steadied him before he could tackle me completely. "What's your name?"

"Tyler. I play defense too. Well, in youth league. We suck, but whatever." He turned to his friends. "Guys, it's actually him."

Within seconds, I was surrounded by a swarm of kids firing questions faster than I could process. Did I know any NHL players? How hard did I practice? Could I teach them to fight?

"Nobody's teaching anyone to fight," Rachel interjected, and the kids seemed to notice her for the first time.

"Are you his girlfriend?" a girl with pigtails asked.

"No," we said in unison, too quickly, too forcefully.

The girl shrugged. "You'd be cute together."

"Can we focus on why we're here?" Rachel's cheeks had turned pink. "We're going to be working with you on mental skills for sports."

"That sounds boring," announced a kid in a Lakers jersey.

"It's not boring," I said. "It's like secret weapons for your brain. Stuff that helps you play better without even touching a ball."

"Like superpowers?" Tyler's eyes widened.

"Exactly like superpowers."

I caught Rachel's surprised glance. What, did she think I couldn't connect with kids? I'd been running camps since sophomore year. Granted, those were usually for families who could afford private coaching, not community center programs held together by hope and expired funding.

"Let's start with names," Rachel suggested, pulling out her phone to take notes because of course she would. "Everyone circle up."

The kids arranged themselves in a lopsided circle, energy barely contained. As they introduced themselves, I made mental notes—not just names but details.

Then there was Marcus. He sat outside the circle, hood up, arms crossed, radiating twelve-year-old fury.

Everything about his posture screamed "leave me alone"—the defensive hunch of shoulders, the way he'd positioned himself with clear exits, the constant scanning of the room like he was cataloging threats.

I knew that posture. I'd lived in that posture for most of middle school.

"What about you?" Rachel addressed him directly. "Want to join us?"

"I'm good."

"We need everyone participating," she pressed, using what I'd started thinking of as her captain voice.

"I said I'm good." His tone carried enough edge to make Rachel's expression tighten.

I caught her eye and shook my head slightly. Pushing would only make him dig in deeper. Instead, I turned back to the group and started explaining what we'd be doing—games that secretly taught focus, breathing exercises disguised as competitions, visualization wrapped in storytelling.

Throughout the initial activities, I kept Marcus in my peripheral vision. He pretended not to watch, but I caught him leaning forward during the concentration game, saw his lips move when the other kids practiced positive self-talk. He wanted to join, but he just couldn't let himself.

Twenty minutes in, I made my move.

"Hey," I said, dropping down next to him while Rachel led the others through a breathing exercise. "I'm Lance."

He stayed silent for a long moment. "I know who you are."

"You play any sports, Marcus?"

A shrug.

"Let me guess—hockey?"

That got a reaction. His head snapped up. "How'd you know?"

"The way you're sitting. Hockey players always protect their left side when they're defensive. It's a goalie thing usually, but sometimes defensemen pick it up too." Total bullshit, but it sounded good.

"I'm not a goalie," he said. "I was center. Whatever."

"Was?"

Another shrug, but this one carried weight. "Got kicked off the team. And the team before that. And the one before that."

"That sucks."

He looked at me suspiciously, probably waiting for the lecture. When it didn't come, he relaxed fractionally.

"Coaches said I had anger issues. Like, no shit. You'd be angry too if—" He cut himself off.

"If what?"

"Nothing. Doesn't matter."

I let the silence stretch, comfortable with waiting. In my experience, kids would fill silence if you didn't rush them.

"My dad left," he finally said. "Just gone.

Mom works two jobs now. I gotta watch my little sister most nights, help her with homework and stuff.

I'm tired all the time, and then coaches get mad when I'm late or miss practice, and it's like, what am I supposed to do? Let my seven-year-old sister starve?"

Christ. I thought about my own dad issues—the pressure, the criticism, the impossible standards. But at least he'd been there. At least I'd never had to choose between hockey and keeping my family fed.

"That's rough, man. Really rough."

"Whatever. I don't need pity."

"Good, because I'm fresh out. But I could teach you some stickhandling drills if you want. Might as well do something while everyone else is doing the breathing stuff."

He glanced at the other kids, then at the bag of equipment I'd brought. "You brought sticks?"

"Few old ones from the rink. Nothing fancy."

"I guess. If you want."

We moved to the far corner where I'd stashed the gear.

Marcus handled the stick with the easy familiarity of someone who'd been playing since he could walk.

His hands were good— soft touches, quick adjustments.

But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip tightened whenever he made a mistake.

"You know what helped me with anger on the ice?

" I asked, demonstrating a figure-eight drill.

"Counting. When I felt that rage building—and trust me, I had a hair-trigger temper—I'd count my breathing.

Four in, hold for four, four out. Sounds stupid, but it's hard to punch someone when you're focused on math. "

"You had anger issues?" He looked skeptical.

"Dude, I got suspended three games sophomore year of high school for fighting. My dad..." I paused, choosing words carefully. "My dad had opinions about everything I did wrong. Made me feel like I was never good enough. That anger had to go somewhere."

"What changed?"

"Honestly? I got tired of letting him control me even when he wasn't there. Every time I lost my temper, it was like giving him power over me. So I started counting. Then visualization—imagining myself staying calm. Then positive self-talk, which felt super weird at first."

"That's what she's teaching them?" He nodded toward Rachel and the group.

"Yeah. Same stuff, just wrapped in games so it doesn't feel like therapy."

Marcus practiced the drill in silence for a while, his movements becoming smoother as he relaxed. "My mom can't afford any more teams anyway. Equipment's too expensive."

"What if I told you about a program that provides gear and covers fees?"

His eyes lit up before he could catch himself. "For real?"

"I'll talk to Coach Stevens. We sponsor a few kids each year. But you'd have to commit to working on the anger stuff. Maybe come to these sessions, learn the mental game."

"I guess I could try."

We worked through a few more drills, and I watched weeks of tension start to drain from his shoulders. By the time Rachel called everyone back together, Marcus joined the circle without prompting.

"Nice work," Rachel murmured as I sat beside her. "What did you say to him?"

"Just talked hockey."

She studied me with that penetrating look that always made me feel like she was seeing too much. "You're different with them. More real."

"As opposed to my usual fake self?"

"Your usual performing self," she corrected. "This is better."

It might have been the nicest thing she'd ever said to me.

The rest of the session flew by. We taught visualization through a game where kids imagined their perfect performance, then drew it. Marcus's drawing was all violent scribbles at first, then gradually evolved into actual hockey plays.

"You're all naturals at this," I told them as we wrapped up. "The mental game is just as important as the physical. Maybe more."

"Will you come back tomorrow?" Destiny asked.

"We'll be here twice a week," Rachel promised. "Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"Can you bring more hockey stuff?" Marcus addressed me directly for the first time.

"I'll see what I can do."

As the kids filtered out, Mrs. Chen approached with tears in her eyes. "I've never seen Marcus participate like that. He's been coming here for months, just sitting in the corner. What did you do?"

"Just listened," I said, uncomfortable with the praise.

"Well, whatever you did, please keep doing it. These kids need positive role models more than you know."

Rachel and I packed up in comfortable silence, the usual tension between us replaced by shared accomplishment. We'd actually worked well together, building off each other's strengths without the usual sniping.

"You were good with them," she said as we headed to the parking lot. "Really good. Especially Marcus."

"Thanks. You too. That breathing exercise was clever, making it a competition."

"Kids respond better to challenges than instructions." She paused by her car. "Marcus really connected with you."

"I know what it's like to carry anger that's not really about hockey." The admission slipped out before I could stop it.

She tilted her head. "Your dad?"

"Among other things." I shifted my bag, suddenly feeling exposed. "Anyway, I'll email Coach Stevens about the sponsorship program tonight."

"That's really nice of you."

"It's not nice. It's necessary. Kid's got talent. Be a waste to let it die because of money."

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but settled for, "I'll see you Thursday?"

"Yeah. Thursday."

I watched her drive away, then sat in my truck for a while, thinking about Marcus and anger and the way Rachel had looked at me when she'd said "this is better." Like maybe I wasn't exactly who she'd thought I was.

The drive home was quiet, no music, just me and thoughts I usually tried to avoid. Helping Marcus had felt good in a way that scoring goals hadn't lately. Like maybe I had something to offer beyond a decent slap shot.

My phone buzzed with a text as I pulled into the driveway.

Rachel: "Thanks again for today. Marcus needed someone who understood. You made a difference."

I stared at the message longer than necessary, then typed back: "We both did. Good team."

Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.

Rachel: "Yeah. We are."

Two words that shouldn't have made my chest feel warm. But as I headed inside, Matt's interrogation about where I'd been barely registered. I was too busy replaying the way Rachel had said "this is better" and wondering if she was starting to see me as more than just another entitled hockey player.