Page 23 of The Girlfriend Goal
My car sat alone in the commuter lot, looking small and vulnerable under the single flickering light. Lance waited while I unlocked it, then surprised me by opening the door anyway.
"I specifically said—"
"You said you can open your own doors. Not that I couldn't open them for you." He grinned at my expression. "Loophole."
"You're impossible."
"Yeah, but now I'm impossible with a C+ average instead of failing."
"One study session doesn't fix everything."
"No, but it's a start." His expression turned serious. "I mean it, Rachel. Thank you. I was ready to drop the class before tonight."
"That would have tanked my project grade."
"Right. Your GPA." But he was smiling like he knew better. "Drive safe."
I slid into the driver's seat, watching him wait until I'd started the engine before heading toward his own truck. I had to be up in less than four hours for practice. This was exactly the kind of poor decision-making I always avoided.
So why was I already looking forward to Thursday?
My phone buzzed as I pulled into my apartment complex.
Lance:"Made it home safe. Thanks again for tonight. You're a better teacher than most professors."
I sat in my car, engine running, debating my response. Professional distance said to leave it unanswered or send something brief and impersonal. But he'd been vulnerable tonight, admitting struggles that clearly terrified him.
I climbed the stairs to my apartment, exhausted but oddly energized. Jared would have questions about where I'd been. I'd deflect, claim I lost track of time studying, leave out the part where I'd spent hours helping Lancaster work through his learning differences.
As I quietly let myself in, avoiding the creaky floorboard that would wake Jared, I couldn't stop thinking about the way Lance's face had transformed when he finally understood a concept. The relief in his voice when I hadn't judged him. The careful way he'd made sure I got to my car safely without pushing his protection on me.
This was dangerous territory. Lance was supposed to be a project partner I tolerated, not someone whose struggles made my chest tight. Not someone whose genuine smile made me forget why I'd sworn off hockey players.
Chapter 10: Lance
"For the love of all that is holy, would you just tell me who she is?" Matt's voice carried from the kitchen as I stumbled out of my bedroom at the ungodly hour of 9 AM.
"There's no she," I lied, pouring coffee with the dedication of someone who'd gotten four hours of sleep.
"Right. That's why you've been disappearing at weird hours, smiling at your phone like a teenager, and actually doing homework." He was assembling what appeared to be a breakfast sandwich with architectural precision. "Just admit you're seeing someone."
"I'm not seeing anyone. I'm studying."
"Bullshit." He pointed his spatula at me. "I've known you for years. You've never voluntarily studied in your life. You once paid someone to write 'Lance was here' on a group project so you'd technically have contributed."
"That was freshman year."
"Last Tuesday, actually." He flipped his eggs with unnecessary flair. "So who is she? That blonde from the swim team? The redhead from your marketing class? Oh! The barista who always draws hearts on your cup?"
"None of the above." I grabbed my own breakfast—leftover pizza that had seen better days. "And her name is Marina, not 'the barista.'"
"You remembered her name? Holy shit, you are seeing someone. You never remember names unless—" He froze mid-flip, eyes widening. "Unless you actually like them. Oh my god. Lance Fletcher has feelings."
The front door then burst open with the kind of dramatic flair that should’ve come with theme music.
"Emergency coffee needed STAT!" A voice I didn't recognize preceded its owner—a guy who looked like he'd walked out of a fashion magazine despite claiming to be in crisis. Designer jeans, perfectly styled hair, and carrying what appeared to be a laptop bag made of actual leather.
Matt, master of smooth moves and legendary hand-eye coordination, promptly dropped his spatula and knocked over his coffee in one spectacular display of gay panic.
