Page 17 of The Girlfriend Goal
"Let's start with names," Rachel suggested, pulling out her phone to take notes because of course she would. "Everyone circle up."
The kids arranged themselves in a lopsided circle, energy barely contained. As they introduced themselves, I made mental notes—not just names but details.
Then there was Marcus. He sat outside the circle, hood up, arms crossed, radiating twelve-year-old fury. Everything about his posture screamed "leave me alone"—the defensive hunch of shoulders, the way he'd positioned himself with clear exits, the constant scanning of the room like he was cataloging threats.
I knew that posture. I'd lived in that posture for most of middle school.
"What about you?" Rachel addressed him directly. "Want to join us?"
"I'm good."
"We need everyone participating," she pressed, using what I'd started thinking of as her captain voice.
"I said I'm good." His tone carried enough edge to make Rachel's expression tighten.
I caught her eye and shook my head slightly. Pushing would only make him dig in deeper. Instead, I turned back to the group and started explaining what we'd be doing—games that secretly taught focus, breathing exercises disguised as competitions, visualization wrapped in storytelling.
Throughout the initial activities, I kept Marcus in my peripheral vision. He pretended not to watch, but I caught him leaning forward during the concentration game, saw his lips move when the other kids practiced positive self-talk. He wanted to join, but he just couldn't let himself.
Twenty minutes in, I made my move.
"Hey," I said, dropping down next to him while Rachel led the others through a breathing exercise. "I'm Lance."
He stayed silent for a long moment. "I know who you are."
"You play any sports, Marcus?"
A shrug.
"Let me guess—hockey?"
That got a reaction. His head snapped up. "How'd you know?"
"The way you're sitting. Hockey players always protect their left side when they're defensive. It's a goalie thing usually, but sometimes defensemen pick it up too." Total bullshit, but it sounded good.
"I'm not a goalie," he said. "I was center. Whatever."
"Was?"
Another shrug, but this one carried weight. "Got kicked off the team. And the team before that. And the one before that."
"That sucks."
He looked at me suspiciously, probably waiting for the lecture. When it didn't come, he relaxed fractionally.
"Coaches said I had anger issues. Like, no shit. You'd be angry too if—" He cut himself off.
"If what?"
"Nothing. Doesn't matter."
I let the silence stretch, comfortable with waiting. In my experience, kids would fill silence if you didn't rush them.
"My dad left," he finally said. "Just gone. Mom works two jobs now. I gotta watch my little sister most nights, help her with homework and stuff. I'm tired all the time, and then coaches get mad when I'm late or miss practice, and it's like, what am I supposed to do? Let my seven-year-old sister starve?"
Christ. I thought about my own dad issues—the pressure, the criticism, the impossible standards. But at least he'd been there. At least I'd never had to choose between hockey and keeping my family fed.
"That's rough, man. Really rough."
