Page 32 of The Girlfriend Goal
The walk home was cold. I replayed every moment, analyzing it like game footage. The way she'd fit against me. The surprised sound she'd made when I'd deepened the kiss. The panic in her eyes when reality crashed back in.
She was scared. Hell, I was scared too. This thing with Rachel—because there was definitely a thing, despite her denials—wasn't part of the plan. I did hockey and hookups. She did soccer and color-coded life planning. We weren't supposed to work.
But that kiss had felt more real than anything in my carefully controlled life.
My phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't Matt.
Rachel:"Thursday study session is cancelled. I'll email you notes from the reading."
I stared at the text, then typed:"Running away doesn't make it not real."
Rachel:"There's nothing to run from. Goodnight, Fletcher."
I almost threw my phone into the street. Instead, I shoved it in my pocket and picked up my pace. Matt would be waiting with wine and questions. I'd deflect, make jokes, pretend it didn't matter that Rachel Fox had kissed me like the world was ending and then acted like it never happened.
But Thursday would come whether she cancelled or not. We had the community center, classes, our project. She couldn't avoid me forever.
And maybe I could convince her that what happened in that gym was worth not ignoring. Maybe I could convince myself too.
Chapter 13: Rachel
"Zombie soccer player is inspired," Jared declared, attacking my face with what appeared to be an entire tube of fake blood. "Sporty but deceased. Athletic but apocalyptic. I'm a genius."
Our suite had transformed into Halloween headquarters, with costumes in various stages of completion draped over every surface. Jared's vision for our group theme—"Undead Athletes"—had somehow resulted in him going wildly over budget at three different costume shops.
"Stop moving," he commanded. "Dead people don't fidget."
"Dead people also don't go to parties."
"That's the spirit. Embrace the nihilism." He added more blood to my jersey. "Speaking of embracing things, when are you going to admit you kissed Lance?"
I jerked away, causing him to smear blood across my cheek. "What? I didn't. How do you—"
"Please. You've been smiling at your phone for three days, you cancelled your Thursday study session, and you literally hid behind a plant when you saw him on campus yesterday."
"That plant was very large. I was admiring it."
"You were hiding. Badly." He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Spill, or I'm giving you a zombie unibrow."
"There's nothing to spill."
"Rachel, I've seen you through every crisis, every triumph, and every questionable bangs phase. Do not lie to me about kissing hockey players in gyms."
"How do you even—"
"Matt told me. Relax, Lance didn't give him details. But apparently he came home looking, and I quote, 'like someone had rearranged his entire molecular structure.'" Jared grinned. "Matt's very poetic when he's not distracted by my looks."
"There's nothing between Lance and me."
"Except tongue, apparently."
"Jared!"
"What? I'm happy for you. It's about time you let someone past those walls." He returned to bloodying my face. "Was it good? Please tell me it was good. I have a bet with Matt."
"You're betting on my love life?"
"It's not a love life if you never let anyone love you," he said gently. "And yes, I bet it was spectacular. Matt thinks Lance was probably too nervous to perform well."
