Page 1 of The Girlfriend Goal
Chapter 1: Lance
The arena's ice machine hummed its familiar morning symphony as I stumbled through the doors at 6:47 AM, every muscle in my body staging a full-scale rebellion against Coach Stevens' conditioning drills. Three hours of "character building" exercises had left me feeling less like Greenfield University's star defenseman and more like roadkill that had been scraped off the highway and somehow taught to walk.
"Fletcher, stop dragging your ass and get changed," Coach's voice boomed across the parking lot. "Team meeting in fifteen."
I waved him off with what I hoped looked like enthusiasm rather than the half-dead zombie shuffle it actually was. My phone buzzed with game footage from our assistant coach—because apparently torturing us physically wasn't enough. I pulled up the video as I navigated the familiar hallways of the athletic complex, squinting at my defensive positioning from yesterday's scrimmage.
The play developed on my screen: Morrison charging down the left wing, me stepping up to challenge, the puck squirting free to—shit, was that really how wide I'd left the passing lane? I rewound, studying the angle of my approach. No wonder Coach had made us run until Petersen actually puked. My gap control was sloppier than Matt's attempts at making breakfast.
Lost in the analysis, I pushed through what muscle memory told me was the men's locker room door. The familiar smell of industrial disinfectant mixed with decades of athletic sweat should have hit me first. Instead, I caught a whiff ofsomething distinctly floral, which was weird because the guys' locker room usually smelled like a gym sock.
I looked up from my phone just in time to see my life flash before my eyes.
A half-dressed woman stood frozen in front of an open locker, clutching a Greenfield University soccer jersey to her chest. Her eyes widened in shock before narrowing into laser beams of pure fury.
"What the hell," she started.
"Oh shit! I'm so sorry!" I spun around so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash, my phone clattering to the floor. "I thought this was—"
"The men's locker room?" Her voice could’ve cut glass. "Can you not read? Or do you just think you're entitled to walk into any room you want because you're what, some hockey player who thinks the entire campus is your personal playground?"
I kept my back turned, staring at the door I'd just entered. Sure enough, there was a sign and it definitely didn't say "Men's Locker Room." The letters swam a bit, the way they always did when I was tired, but even I could make out the "W" at the beginning.
"I'm really sorry," I said to the door. "I was watching game footage and not paying attention."
"Oh, game footage? Well, that explains everything. God forbid an athlete actually look where he's going when there might begame footageto watch." The sarcasm in her voice could have stripped paint. "I suppose you think this is funny? Big hockey star 'accidentally' stumbles into the women's locker room? What, is this some kind of dare from your teammates?Fifty bucks to whoever can sneak a peek at the women’s soccer team?"
"What? No." I turned partially, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the ceiling tiles. "Look, I'm Lance Fletcher. I play defense for—"
"I don't care if you're the dean's love child," she snapped. "You're a creep who just invaded my space, and I'm about five seconds away from calling campus security."
"Please don't do that." I risked a glance down and immediately regretted it. Not because of her state of undress—she'd managed to pull on the jersey—but because the fury on her face made Coach Stevens look like a teddy bear. "It was an honest mistake. I've been coming here since freshman year and I was just on autopilot."
"On autopilot?" She stepped forward, and even though she was at least seven inches shorter than me, I found myself backing up. "Must be nice to be so comfortable on campus that you can just cruise around on autopilot, walking into any room you please. Tell me, do they give you a map during hockey orientation labeled 'These Are All Your Spaces Because You're Special'?"
"I don't think I'm special." Well, that wasn't entirely true. I'd been told I was special my whole life, just not in the way she meant. More in the 'Special Ed' way that I'd spent years hiding.
She laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "Right. The star defenseman for the university's golden boys doesn't think he's special. I bet you also don't think you deserve the brand-new weight room they built just for you guys last year. Or the chartered flights to away games. Or the fancy nutritionist."
"Okay, I get it." I held up my hands in surrender. "Hockey gets a lot of resources. But that doesn't mean I'm someentitled asshole who goes around perving on women's soccer players."
"Could’ve fooled me." She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, a gesture that for some reason made my brain short-circuit for half a second. "And we're not 'women's soccer players.' We're soccer players. We don't call you 'men's hockey players,' do we?"
She had a point. Several points, actually. All of them sharp and aimed directly at my ego.
"You're right. I'm sorry. You're soccer players." I retrieved my phone from the floor, noting with dismay that the screen had cracked. Karma worked fast. "I'm Rachel Fox, by the way. Captain of the soccer team."
"Captain?!" Now I was impressed.
"What? Surprising? That a woman can be a team captain?"
"No! Jesus, do you always assume the worst?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Her eyes flashed dangerously. "When it comes to hockey players? Yes. You've given me no reason to think otherwise. Your whole team struts around campus like you own the place, taking up entire pathways, commandeering study rooms during finals week, acting like your sport is the only one that matters."
"That's not—" I started to protest, then stopped. Because honestly? She wasn't entirely wrong. The guys did tend to travel in packs, and we weren't exactly known for our spatial awareness off the ice. "Okay, some of the guys can be dicks."
"Some?"
