Page 11 of The Girlfriend Goal
I smiled despite myself. Jared's protective streak was both endearing and occasionally alarming. He'd already offered toaccidentallyspill something on Lance at least three times since hearing about our partnership.
Lance was late, of course. I pulled up my research document and added a note to our project timeline about the importance of punctuality when working with youth. Maybe I could work in some passive-aggressive lesson about time management—
"Sorry."
I looked up to find Lance practically jogging toward my table, laptop bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp like he'd just showered. Post-practice, probably. Because naturally his hockey schedule took precedence over our meeting.
"You're late," I said flatly.
"Seven minutes. There was a thing with—" He stopped, seeming to realize excuses wouldn't help. "You're right. I'm late. I'm sorry."
He pulled out the chair across from me, then paused. "Give me two minutes? I need to grab coffee. I'm running on about three hours of sleep and if I try to contribute without caffeine, I'll just embarrass myself."
Something about the honest admission made me wave him toward the counter.
Back at the table soon, he set two drinks down, sliding the latte toward me. "Peace offering. I noticed you drinking one in class the other day."
I blinked at the cup, then up at him. "You noticed my coffee order?"
"I'm observant. It's a hockey thing. You have to track a lot of moving pieces on the ice." he pulled out his laptop. "Plus, lavender honey is a pretty distinctive order. Not exactly a basic vanilla latte."
The gesture threw me off balance. I'd prepared for Late Lance, Unprepared Lance, even Cocky Lance. I hadn't prepared for Observant Lance who remembered my coffee order and looked genuinely contrite about being late.
"Thanks," I muttered, wrapping my hands around the warm cup. It was perfect—the right temperature, the right ratio of honey to lavender. Which was annoying. I didn't want him doing thoughtful things. Thoughtful things made it harder to maintain my carefully constructed wall of disdain.
"So," I said, redirecting to safer ground, "I've created a preliminary outline for our project. The community center haskids from ages 10-14, which means we need to account for different developmental stages in terms of cognitive processing and emotional regulation."
"Right." He opened his laptop, and I noticed him discretely angle it away from me. "I actually had some thoughts about that."
"You did?" I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice.
"Don't look so shocked. I do occasionally have thoughts that don't involve hockey or... what was it you said? Gym, tanning, laundry?"
"That was aJersey Shorereference."
"I know. I'm not completely culturally illiterate." He pulled up what looked like actual notes. "I've worked with kids at hockey camps since sophomore year. The ten-year-olds and fourteen-year-olds are basically different species when it comes to attention span and emotional maturity."
I leaned forward despite myself. "Go on."
"The younger kids, they're all about fun. You can teach them visualization by turning it into a game. Have them imagine they're superheroes or their favorite players. But the older kids? They're starting to feel real pressure. Travel teams, high school tryouts, parents who think they're raising the next Olympic star."
"That's actually insightful."
"Again with the shock." But he grinned, and I noticed he had one dimple, just on the left side. "I've been that kid getting yelled at by his dad for missing a shot. I know what pressure feels like. And what about breaking them into three groups? Ten to eleven-year-olds focused on fun and fundamentals, twelve tothirteen in the middle with mixed approaches, and fourteen-year-olds dealing with more advanced mental training?"
I was already typing, incorporating his suggestions. "That could work. We'd need different curricula for each group, though. More time investment."
"I'm good with that. Despite what you think, I actually want to do well on this project."
"Why?" The question came out sharp, my fingers pausing on the keyboard. "You've coasted through three years. Why care now?"
He took a sip of coffee, buying time. Was he terrified of graduating without any real skills beyond hockey? Or did he desperately want to prove he was more than just a dumb jock?
"Maybe I'm tired of coasting," he said finally. "Maybe I want to do something that actually matters. These kids are at such a crucial age. The right guidance could change their whole relationship with sports. Make it about joy and growth instead of just winning."
"That's very noble."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
