Page 59 of The Girlfriend Goal
"How should I be thinking?"
"Like someone who knows Rachel Fox." He fixed me with a look. "When has she ever responded well to being cornered?"
"Never."
"Exactly. She's like a cat. The harder you chase, the faster she runs." He patted the space beside him. "Sit. Uncle Jared's going to fix this mess."
"There's no way you're uncle anything," Matt protested.
"Hush, I'm scheming." Jared pulled out his phone. "She has film review in twenty minutes. Alone, because she gave the team the day off post-championship. The film room locks from the inside, but more importantly, she won't be expecting you because you have practice in thirty."
"I do have practice—"
"Do you want the girl or not?"
I considered. Coach was already pissed about me skipping for her game. But then I remembered Rachel in my bed, soft and unguarded, telling me she loved me like it was ripped from her chest.
"Fuck it. What's one more missed practice?"
"That's the spirit." Jared clapped. "Now, when you get there, don't lead with accusations. Don't demand answers. Just be there. Let her come to you."
"That's your advice? Just be there?"
"Trust me. I know my best friend." His expression softened. "She's scared, Lance. Not of you, but of what you represent. What choosing you means."
"I told her she doesn't have to choose."
"But she does, in her mind. Between the Rachel who has everything planned and controlled, and the Rachel who likes you despite all logic." He stood, dragging a protesting Matt with him. "Give her time to reconcile those two versions. And maybe remind her they're not mutually exclusive."
They left, bickering about something. I sat for another minute, gathering courage I shouldn't need. We'd said we liked each other. We'd spent the night proving it. That should make this easier, not harder. But nothing with Rachel was ever easy.
The athletic complex was mostly empty, afternoon classes keeping most people away. I slipped through the halls like I was sneaking into an opposing team's rink, all stealth and held breath. The film room door was closed, but not locked. I could hear the game footage playing inside.
I knocked. The sound stopped immediately.
"Maintenance," I called, pitching my voice lower.
"Come back later," came the response, so clearly Rachel that my chest tightened.
I tried the handle. It turned easily, and I stepped inside before she could protest.
Rachel sat at the front, laptop open, her championship game paused on the screen. She looked perfect and terrible at once—hair in a messy bun, my hoodie drowning her frame, shadows under her eyes suggesting sleep had been as elusive for her as it had for me.
"That's breaking and entering," she said without turning around.
"Door was unlocked. And I knocked."
"Under false pretenses."
"Desperate times." I closed the door behind me, leaning against it. "You've been avoiding me."
"I've been busy."
"Bullshit."
She finally turned, and the look on her face—guilt and longing and fear all mixed together—nearly broke me.
"Lance, what are you doing here?"
