Page 57 of The Girlfriend Goal
"Can't have that. Your team might actually murder me."
"They might." I wrapped the tape around my wrist like a bracelet. "Where are you sitting?"
"Wherever I can see you best. Maya snuck me a ticket." He grinned. "Apparently she approves of me. Said anyone who makes you smile at your phone like an idiot passes her test."
The field was perfect. Cold, crisp air that made every breath sharp. The stands were fuller than I'd ever seen for our games. And there, still in his hockey practice gear like the beautiful idiot he was, Lance Fletcher in the third row.
The whistle blew, and everything else faded.
Ninety minutes of the best soccer I'd ever played. Every pass crisp, every run calculated, every decision flowing from three years of preparation. We moved like a unit, like we shared a brain, like we'd been born to play together.
State College was good. Ranked third in the conference, they'd beaten us earlier in the season. But that was before we'd found our rhythm. Before we'd learned to trust each other completely. Before we'd decided we deserved to win.
The goal came in the 73rd minute. A corner kick from Maya that I saw developing before she even struck it. I lost my defender with a quick cut, found the space I knew would open, and met the ball with my head. Time slowed as I watched it arc toward the corner, their keeper stretching and reaching.
The net rippled and the crowd exploded.
My teammates mobbed me, screaming and crying and laughing all at once. But through the chaos, I found Lance inthe stands, on his feet pumping his fist like he'd scored the goal himself.
The final seventeen minutes were the longest of my life. State College threw everything at us, desperate for an equalizer. Our defense held. Our keeper made two impossible saves. I ran until my legs screamed, tracked back to defend, pushed forward to maintain pressure.
When the final whistle blew, I dropped to my knees. We'd done it.
The celebration was chaos. Champagne spraying everywhere. Photos with the trophy. Hugs from teammates, coaches, staff who'd believed in us when no one else would.
I found Lance by the tunnel, having somehow charmed his way past security.
"Congratulations, champion," he said, pulling me into a hug despite my sweat-soaked state. "You were incredible. That header? Pure poetry."
"You know soccer terms?"
"I've been studying. YouTube's very educational." He grinned. "Plus, Maya's been texting me play-by-play analysis all season. She's very thorough."
"Traitors, all of you."
"Team picture!" Our photographer called. "Fox, get over here."
"Go," Lance said, stepping back. "This is your moment."
I ran back to my team, trophy held high, grinning until my face hurt. The locker room afterwards was emotional chaos. Tears, laughter, Coach giving a speech about dedication anddreams and proving doubters wrong. I should’ve been fully present, soaking in every second.
Instead, I kept touching the tape around my wrist and thinking about Lance waiting outside.
"Go," Maya said, catching my distraction. "We'll celebrate tomorrow. Go be with your hockey player, before he freezes to death in those practice clothes."
I showered at light speed, threw on team sweats, and found Lance exactly where I'd left him, waiting patiently.
"Hi," I said, suddenly shy.
"Hi yourself, champion." He opened his arms and I walked into them, fitting against him perfectly. "Ready to get out of here?"
The drive to his house felt endless. Lance kept one hand on my thigh, thumb tracing absent patterns that made thinking difficult.
His room had hockey gear in one corner, textbooks scattered on the desk, a few trophies on a shelf.
"So," he said, suddenly awkward. "Want to watch film of the game? I recorded it on my phone. We could analyze your defensive positioning."
I laughed. "You did not record my game on your phone."
