Page 12 of The Girlfriend Goal
"I say that like someone who's heard a lot of pretty words from athletes who don't follow through." I went back to typing. "But fine. You want to help kids. I want to help kids. We can work with that common ground."
He was making it harder to hate him, and I resented that. Every thoughtful comment, every genuine insight into youth sports psychology, chipped away at the stereotype I'd built in my head. Lance was supposed to be a two-dimensional villain, not a complex person with actual understanding of performance anxiety and parental pressure.
"So what's your story?" he asked, pulling me from my thoughts. "Why sports psychology?"
"We're here to work on the project, not share life stories."
"Come on. We're going to be partners all semester. Might as well know something about each other beyond 'you hate hockey players' and 'I apparently can't read door signs.'"
I shot him a look, but there was self-deprecating humor in his expression that made it hard to stay defensive.
"Fine. My brother was a hockey player, actually. Got recruited to Greenfield, had his whole future mapped out." I kept my eyes on my screen, not wanting to see his reaction. "They pulled his scholarship last minute for a 'better recruit.' He never recovered. Dropped out, struggled with depression, still working warehouse jobs five years later."
"Shit. Rachel, I'm sorry. That's—"
"That's hockey," I cut him off. "That's what your sport does. Uses people up and spits them out when they're not useful anymore."
The silence stretched between us. I'd said too much, shown too much. This was supposed to be a professional meeting, not therapy.
"You're right," he said quietly. "Hockey can be brutal. The politics, the pressure, the way they treat players like commodities instead of people. I've seen guys destroyed by it."
I looked up, surprised by the honesty in his voice.
"But I've also seen it save people," he continued. "Guys who had nothing else, no other path, and hockey gave them purpose, structure, a family." He met my eyes. "I'm not defending what happened to your brother. That's fucked up. Butmaybe that's why this project matters. Teaching kids that sports should enhance their lives, not define them."
I stared at him for a long moment. I wanted to keep hating him—it was simpler, cleaner. But he'd complicated things by being human.
"That's a good perspective for the project," I admitted grudgingly. "We should incorporate that. The balance between passion and identity."
"Look at us, finding common ground. Mark the date. Thursday, the fifteenth, Rachel Fox admitted Lance Fletcher had a good idea."
"Don't push it. And it's the sixteenth."
"Right. The sixteenth." He made a show of typing it into his phone. "Should I also note the exact time, for posterity?"
"You're ridiculous."
"I've been called worse. Usually by you, actually."
This time I did smile, just a flash before I caught myself and returned to business mode. We fell into an easier rhythm, trading ideas back and forth. I had the theoretical knowledge—citations ready for every concept, studies memorized on adolescent development. He had the practical experience—years of camps and clinics, understanding what actually held kids' attention versus what looked good on paper.
We'd been working for an hour, and I'd almost forgotten I was supposed to hate him. Almost. Then his phone would buzz with a text, and I'd see a girl's name flash on the screen, and I'd remember exactly who I was dealing with.
"Sorry," he said after the fourth text, flipping his phone to silent. "Group project for another class."
"Sure." I didn't believe him, but it wasn't my business. "Where were we?"
"Week three curriculum. I was saying we could bring in guest speakers. Active athletes who could talk about their mental training."
"As long as they're diverse. Not just hockey players."
"Obviously. I was thinking that soccer player who went pro last year? Melissa something?"
"Melissa Torres. She was my team captain when I was a freshman." I was impressed despite myself. "You know her?"
"We had a class together. She was brilliant. Scary intense about visualization and pre-game routines." He paused. "Kind of like someone else I know."
"I'm not scary intense."
