Page 5 of The Girlfriend Goal
"Same. Dad's back is getting worse, but he won't stop taking extra shifts. Mom's still cleaning houses even though her arthritis is killing her. Ryan's... Ryan."
"Still at the warehouse?"
"For now. He says he's looking for something better, but..." I shrugged, the weight of family responsibility settling on my shoulders like it always did. "I sent them part of my scholarship money last week. Told them it was from tutoring."
"Oh, honey." Jared reached over and squeezed my hand. "You know it's not your job to save everyone, right?"
"I know. But if I can get a good job after graduation, maybe I can actually help. Get Dad to see a real doctor. Help Ryan go back to school. Something."
"And what about what you want?"
I thought about it for a moment. What did I want? Besides my family to be okay, besides my team to get the recognition we deserved, besides proving that women's sports mattered just as much as men's?
"I want to not let another relationship distract me from my goals," I said finally. "No more Brads. No more guys who think my ambitions are adorable hobbies."
"Amen to that." Jared raised his coffee mug in a toast. "Though maybe aim for someone who sees you as an equal partner next time? Just a thought."
"No next time. I'm taking myself off the market. Officially."
"Sure." He smirked. "We'll see how long that lasts when you meet someone who actually appreciates that sexy brain of yours."
"The only thing I'm interested in is my GPA and getting our team to nationals."
"And avoiding hockey players in locker rooms?"
The memory of Lance’s shocked face flashed through my mind again. The way his eyes had widened, how he'd immediately spun around, the genuine distress in his voice when he apologized.
I shook my head. One moment of apparent decency didn't erase everything I knew about hockey players. About what they'd done to Ryan. About how they strutted around campus like they owned it.
"Especially avoiding hockey players," I said firmly.
But as I got ready for class, I couldn't quite shake the image of Lance standing there, looking genuinely mortified. Or how he'd admitted that most of his teammates were dicks.
I grabbed my backpack, checking my color-coded planner one more time. Advanced Sports Psychology at 10 AM. My favorite class, the one place where I could merge my love of athletics with my academic goals.
Nothing was going to distract me from that. Especially not Lance Fletcher and his stupidly perfect face. Absolutely nothing.
Chapter 3: Lance
The sound of a blender being murdered pulled me from the depths of sleep. I cracked one eye open to see 6:58 AM glowing mockingly from my phone screen. Only Matt would think making a smoothie required the same sound levels as a jet engine.
"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty." His voice carried from the kitchen, way too cheerful for someone who'd been up until 3 AM swiping through dating apps. "I'm perfecting my post-workout fuel recipe."
"It's not post-workout if you haven't worked out," I groaned, burying my face in the pillow.
"I worked out. I did three whole push-ups this morning."
"When?"
"In my dream. It was very strenuous." The blender roared to life again. "You want some? It's got kale and protein powder."
"I'll pass." I dragged myself out of bed, knowing sleep was impossible with Chef Matt in the kitchen. Our off-campus house was decent for a bunch of college guys—meaning it only smelled like a gym bag half the time and we'd remembered to take the trash out last week.
I found Matt in the kitchen wearing nothing but hockey shorts and an apron that said "Kiss the Cook" with strategic placement of the text. He was pouring a violently green liquid into two glasses despite my protests.
"So," he said, sliding a glass toward me. "You gonna tell me what had you all weird yesterday, or do I have to guess?"
"Nothing had me weird." I took a tentative sip and immediately regretted it. "Jesus, this tastes like grass flavored chalk."
