Page 9 of The Girlfriend Goal

What it usually didn't have was Lance Fletcher.

I stopped short at the end of the aisle, watching him hunched over a textbook like it had personally offended his entire family. His usual easy confidence was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he gripped a highlighter like a weapon, jaw clenched as he dragged it across the page in aggressive strokes.

I should’ve backed away. This was my space, my time, and the last thing I needed was to spend more hours with someone who made my brain feel fuzzy.

But something about the defeated slump of his shoulders made me pause. I recognized that posture. It was the same one my brother Ryan used to have during homework time, back when he'd still tried to care about school.

"That highlighter do something to offend you?"

His head snapped up, and for a second, naked vulnerability flashed across his face.

"Come to gloat about claiming the best study spot?"

"This is actually my usual spot, so technically you're the interloper.

" I moved closer, noting the chaos spread across his table.

Multiple highlighters, all different colors but used without any apparent system.

Pages of notes in handwriting that looked like a spider had gone on a caffeine bender.

The sports psychology textbook open to a chapter we'd covered two weeks ago.

"I can move," he said, already gathering his materials with jerky movements.

"You're reading chapter six. We're on chapter twelve."

His jaw tightened further. "I'm aware. Just reviewing."

I knew I should leave it alone. Whatever academic struggles Lance had weren't my problem. We were project partners, not friends. I didn't owe him anything beyond our scheduled meetings.

But I thought about Marcus at the community center, how patient Lance had been. How he'd known exactly what to say to crack through that kid's defensive walls.

"Want some help?"

His eyes narrowed, pride warring with what looked like desperation.

"I'm fine."

"Clearly." I pulled out the chair across from him, decision made. "Chapter six is about cognitive behavioral interventions. The key concept is the relationship between thoughts, feelings, and behaviors."

"I said I'm fine."

"And I'm offering help anyway. Consider it protecting my GPA. Can't have my project partner failing the midterm."

He stared at me for a long moment, then laughed—a bitter sound that made my chest tight. "Right. Protecting your precious GPA."

"Would you rather I leave?"

"I'd rather..." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that should have looked ridiculous but somehow just made him look vulnerable. "No. Stay, please. I have no idea what this chapter is saying."

I pulled the textbook toward me, scanning his highlighting. He'd marked nearly every sentence, turning the pages into a neon rainbow without any organizational logic.

"First problem—you're highlighting everything. That's the same as highlighting nothing."

"It all seems important."

"Okay, but look at the chapter structure. Main concepts are in bold. Supporting details in regular text. Examples in italics. You only need to highlight the main concepts and maybe one key supporting detail per section."

"That's not how my brain works."

Something in his tone made me look up. He was staring at the textbook like it was written in ancient Greek, fingers drumming against the table in an agitated rhythm.

"How does your brain work?"

"It doesn't. At least not with..." He gestured vaguely at the book. "This."

Understanding dawned slowly. The way he'd been recording lectures on his phone. How he always positioned himself in class to see the board clearly but never took notes. The fact that I'd never actually seen him read anything longer than a text message.

"You're dyslexic."

It wasn't a question, but he flinched like I'd slapped him.

"I'm not stupid."

"I didn't say you were."

"Everyone thinks it though. Dumb jock who can barely read.

" His voice carried years of accumulated shame.

"I've gotten this far by being really good at memorizing things I hear and charming people into explaining concepts.

But this class has too much reading. Too many technical terms that sound alike. I can't keep up."

I thought about Ryan again, how he'd hidden his ADHD for years because he thought it made him weak. How much energy he'd wasted on shame instead of finding strategies that worked.

"Okay," I said, pulling out my laptop. "Let's try something different. I'll read the main concepts out loud, and you tell me what they mean in your own words. Then we'll create a visual map of how they connect."

"You don't have to."

"I'm aware of what I have to do. This isn't charity. You understood those concepts better than half the class when you related them to hockey yesterday. You just need a different way to access the information."

He looked at me like I'd spoken in tongues. "You were paying attention to what I said in class?"

"Don't let it go to your head." I opened a new document. "Ready?"

For the next hour, I read while Lance listened, occasionally stopping him to clarify or expand. Without the barrier of written text, his understanding was actually impressive. He connected theories to real-world applications instantly, drawing parallels I hadn't considered.

"So cognitive restructuring is basically like changing your game tape," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Instead of replaying the mistake over and over, you edit it to show the correction."

"That's actually a perfect analogy." I typed it into our shared notes. "Have you ever been tested for learning differences?"

"My dad doesn't believe in that stuff. Says it's just an excuse for being lazy." He shrugged, but I caught the tension in his shoulders. "I've made it this far without accommodations. No point starting now."

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"Thanks for the pep talk."

"I'm serious. You're making everything ten times harder than it needs to be. The learning center offers free testing. You could get extra time on exams, access to audiobooks, note-taking support."

"And everyone would know."

"Know what? That you learn differently? So what?" My voice came out harsher than intended. "You think using accommodations makes you weak? That's like saying a goalie shouldn't wear pads because real athletes play through pain."

He blinked at me. "Did you just use a hockey metaphor?"

"Don't get used to it." I turned back to the screen. "The point is, you're handicapping yourself for no reason except pride."

"It's not pride. It's..." He struggled for words. "I've spent my whole life being the best at something. Hockey comes naturally to me. School doesn't. If people knew how hard I have to work just to pass, they'd realize I'm not actually smart."

"Fletcher." I waited until he met my eyes.

"You just explained complex psychological theories using hockey analogies that I'm absolutely stealing for my thesis.

You connected Marcus with resources while teaching him coping strategies.

You manage complicated plays while tracking multiple moving opponents. That's intelligence."

"That's different."

"No, it's not. Intelligence isn't just about reading quickly or taking tests well. It's about problem-solving, pattern recognition, adaptation." I closed my laptop, giving him my full attention. "You're not stupid. You're dyslexic. Those are completely different things."

He stared at me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. "Why do you care?"

Good question. Why did I care? This went beyond protecting my GPA or project success. Somewhere between him helping Marcus and admitting his struggles, Lance had become three-dimensional. Human. Someone I wanted to help.

"My brother has ADHD," I said finally. "Undiagnosed until college. He spent years thinking he was lazy and stupid because he couldn't focus the way teachers expected. By the time he figured it out..." I shrugged. "A lot of damage was already done."

"The hockey player?"

"Yeah. Ryan was brilliant at reading plays, could strategize like a chess master. But put him in a classroom and he'd fall apart. The shame ate him alive."

"Is that why you hate hockey? Because of what happened with his scholarship?"

"Part of it." I fidgeted with my pen. "But also because I watched how the sport chewed him up even before that. Nothing mattered except performance. His worth was tied to goals and assists. When that got taken away..."

"He had nothing left."

"Yeah."

We sat in comfortable silence, the library's fluorescent lights humming overhead. It was the most honest conversation we'd ever had, stripped of banter and defensive walls.

"So," Lance said eventually, "think you could help me catch up? I can pay you for tutoring—"

"I'm not taking your money."

"Then what do you want?"

I considered. "Come to all the community center sessions. Not just the required ones. Those kids need consistency, and Marcus specifically needs you."

"Done. What else?"

"Get tested at the learning center. Just the testing. You don't have to use the accommodations if you don't want to. But at least know what you're dealing with."

He drummed his fingers again, that nervous rhythm I was starting to recognize. "Fine. Testing. But if anyone finds out—"

"They won't from me." I reopened my laptop. "Now, chapter seven covers performance anxiety. Want to keep going?"

"It's past midnight. Don't you have morning practice?"

"Don't you?"

"Touché." He grinned, and I noticed how it transformed his face when it was genuine instead of performative.

Twenty minutes later, armed with terrible coffee and stale cookies from the vending machine, we dove back into the material.

I saved our notes to the shared drive. "Same time Thursday?"

"You'd do this again?"

The vulnerability in his voice made me look up. "Yeah, if you want."

"I do." He started packing up, then stopped. "Walk you to your car?"

"I can walk myself."

"I know you can. But it's late, campus is empty, and my mom would murder me if she found out I let you walk alone."

"Your mom would never know."

"My mom knows everything. It's terrifying." He held the door open. "Come on. Let me pretend to be a gentleman for five minutes."

I gathered my things, hyperaware of him waiting. This felt dangerously close to something other than study partners. But the campus was empty, and despite my bravado, I didn't love walking alone at night.

"Fine. But no weird chivalry stuff. I can open my own doors."

"Noted."

We walked in comfortable silence across the quiet campus. The air bit through my jacket, making me shiver.

"Cold?" He started to shrug off his hockey jacket.

"I said no chivalry."

"It's not chivalry. It's basic human decency. Also, if you catch pneumonia, who's going to explain chapter eight to me?"

"Self-serving kindness. I can respect that." But I waved off the jacket anyway. "We're almost there."

My car sat alone in the commuter lot, looking small and vulnerable under the single flickering light. Lance waited while I unlocked it, then surprised me by opening the door anyway.

"I specifically said—"

"You said you can open your own doors. Not that I couldn't open them for you." He grinned at my expression. "Loophole."

"You're impossible."

"Yeah, but now I'm impossible with a C+ average instead of failing."

"One study session doesn't fix everything."

"No, but it's a start." His expression turned serious. "I mean it, Rachel. Thank you. I was ready to drop the class before tonight."

"That would have tanked my project grade."

"Right. Your GPA." But he was smiling like he knew better. "Drive safe."

I slid into the driver's seat, watching him wait until I'd started the engine before heading toward his own truck. I had to be up in less than four hours for practice. This was exactly the kind of poor decision-making I always avoided.

So why was I already looking forward to Thursday?

My phone buzzed as I pulled into my apartment complex.

Lance: "Made it home safe. Thanks again for tonight. You're a better teacher than most professors."

I sat in my car, engine running, debating my response. Professional distance said to leave it unanswered or send something brief and impersonal. But he'd been vulnerable tonight, admitting struggles that clearly terrified him.

I climbed the stairs to my apartment, exhausted but oddly energized. Jared would have questions about where I'd been. I'd deflect, claim I lost track of time studying, leave out the part where I'd spent hours helping Lancaster work through his learning differences.

As I quietly let myself in, avoiding the creaky floorboard that would wake Jared, I couldn't stop thinking about the way Lance's face had transformed when he finally understood a concept.

The relief in his voice when I hadn't judged him.

The careful way he'd made sure I got to my car safely without pushing his protection on me.

This was dangerous territory. Lance was supposed to be a project partner I tolerated, not someone whose struggles made my chest tight. Not someone whose genuine smile made me forget why I'd sworn off hockey players.