Page 16 of The Girlfriend Goal
"Is that why you tap your pen during lectures? Neural pathway activation?"
He'd noticed my pen tapping. Of course he had. Observant Lance who remembered coffee orders and noticed nervous habits.
"Something like that,"I replied, then forced myself to put the phone down.
This was fine. This was just collegial conversation about our mutual academic interests. Nothing more. Nothing that would lead to Jared planning a hockey-themed wedding.
Absolutely nothing.
But when my phone buzzed again—"Found another article. Sending it your way. Warning: it's 30 pages. Might need that lavender latte to get through it"—I couldn't quite suppress the smile that spread across my face.
Friday morning suddenly seemed very far away.
Chapter 8: Lance
The Greenfield Community Center looked like it had been decorated by someone who'd raided a craft store clearance bin in 1987 and never looked back. Motivational posters with peeling edges covered water-stained walls, and the basketball court's lines had faded to suggestions rather than actual boundaries. The whole place smelled like industrial cleaner mixed with decades of sweat—nostalgic in a way that made my chest tight.
"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.
