Page 30 of The Girlfriend Goal
The timer finally, mercifully, beeped. We collapsed onto our mats, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.
"Call it a draw?" I suggested.
"Not a chance. Battle ropes, two minutes. Winner takes all."
"You're evil."
"And you're stalling."
The battle ropes were tucked in the corner, thick and intimidating. We took our positions, and I caught her checking out my arms as I gripped the ropes.
The next two minutes were pure torture. Waves, slams, spirals—every variation designed to destroy what little energy we had left. But something happened in the suffering. We fell into sync, our movements matching, creating a rhythm.
By the time the timer sounded, we were both destroyed. Sweat dripped, muscles screamed, and neither of us had given an inch.
"Draw," we said simultaneously, then laughed at the synchronicity.
We sprawled on the mats again, too exhausted to maintain proper distance. Our shoulders touched, and neither of us moved away.
"Why are you really here at midnight?" I asked the ceiling.
"Can't sleep. Big game this weekend. You?"
"Can't sleep. NHL scout’s coming to Saturday's game. Probably just checking out Morrison, but still. It's terrifying," I admitted. "What if I'm not good enough? What if the dyslexia means I can't handle the playbooks? What if—"
"Hey." She turned her head, and suddenly we were too close. "You're more than good enough. I've seen you teach. The way you break down complex plays for Marcus, that's intelligence. The way you read the ice, that's genius. Don't let fear talk you out of your dreams."
"What about you? The internship?"
"Waiting to hear back. They said by end of month." She sighed. "It's perfect. Youth sports psychology program in Seattle. Exactly what I want to do."
"You'll get it."
"You don't know that."
"I do. You're brilliant, Rachel. Annoyingly brilliant. They'd be idiots not to take you."
We lay there in comfortable silence, the gym's ventilation system humming overhead. This felt dangerous in a different way than our bickering. It felt real.
"We should probably—" she started.
"Yeah, we should."
Neither of us moved.
"This is weird," she said. "We don't like each other. I mean, you're arrogant and cocky and—"
"And you're uptight and controlling," I added.
I turned my head, and she turned hers. We were inches apart, close enough that I could see gold flecks in her eyes, close enough to count individual drops of sweat on her skin, close enough that leaning in would take minimal effort.
"This is a bad idea," she whispered. "I don't even like hockey players. Especially not cocky ones who think they can—"
I kissed her. Or she kissed me.
Honestly, we met in the middle so fast I couldn't tell who moved first. All I knew was that her lips were on mine, her hand was in my hair, and every rational thought evaporated like sweat under stadium lights.
She tasted like determination and coconut water, kissed like she competed—with absolute focus and no surrender. I rolled toward her, deepening the kiss, feeling her respond with equal intensity.
