Page 42 of The Girlfriend Goal
"So is processing your feelings about kissing Lance in a hot tub."
"We didn't kiss in the hot tub."
"But you wanted to," Matt added helpfully, dodging when I swung my gear bag at him. "What? Lance hasn't shut up about you for days. It's actually affecting his game. Coach is concerned."
"That's not my problem."
"Isn't it though?" Jared stopped walking, forcing our little parade to halt. "Babe, I love you, but this whole 'I don't date because career' thing? It's starting to look less like ambition and more like fear."
"I'm not afraid."
"Then why are you hiding in a glorified storage closet pretending to analyze game film?"
"She's in the film room?" Matt perked up. "Lance has been looking for her everywhere. He has those community center forms that need both signatures."
"Do not tell him—"
But Matt was already texting, fingers flying across his phone screen with alarming speed.
"I hate you both," I announced.
"No, you don't," Jared said, linking his arm through mine. "You love us. We're your favorite disaster duo."
"Disaster duo?" Matt looked offended. "I prefer 'chaotic catalyst for romance.'"
"You would," Jared sniffed, but I caught him fighting a smile.
They bickered all the way to the film room, something about Matt's breakfast choices being "aggressively basic" and Jared's coffee order being "pretentious performance art." I let their ridiculous flirting wash over me, using it as white noise while I mentally prepared for seeing Lance.
The film room door stood open, warm light spilling into the hallway. I could see Lance's broad shoulders hunched over the desk, still in his practice gear. My traitorous heart did a little skip that I ruthlessly suppressed.
"Delivery," Matt announced, shoving me through the doorway. "One emotionally constipated soccer captain, as requested."
"I'm filing a harassment claim," I informed them.
"Get in line," Jared said. "Matt's existence is harassment. Look at those cargo shorts in November. It's criminal."
I left them to their bickering and faced Lance, who'd turned in his chair to watch me with those stunning eyes.
"Hey," he said, mouth quirking in that half-smile that made me want to throw things. "Nice of you to stop by your own film room."
"I've been busy."
"Right." He held up a manila folder. "Marcus's progress report. Needs both our signatures for the community center board."
I snatched the folder, careful not to let our fingers touch. The last thing I needed was another electric shock of connection. I'd had enough of those to power a small city.
"Fine. Where do I sign?"
"Page three and seven, and the back." He watched me flip through pages, pen poised. "You know, we should probably discuss his behavioral plan for next week."
"Text me."
"I've been texting you." He stood, and suddenly the small room felt microscopic. "Rachel, what's going on? I thought after the hot tub—"
"Nothing happened in the hot tub. That was just medicinal."
"Medicinal?" His eyebrows shot up. "That's what we're calling it?"
