Page 6 of The Girlfriend Goal
He hopped up to sit on the counter, a move that made his dating app notification go off. "Oh, hello. Mason from the swim team is up early."
"Didn't you just match with Mark from the business school?"
"And? I'm a free agent, Fletcher. Playing the field. Keeping my options open." He waggled his eyebrows. "Unlike someone who runs from anything resembling emotional connection like it's a forechecker in the neutral zone."
"That's a terrible analogy."
"You're deflecting. Come on, what happened yesterday? You were off your game at practice, completely zoned out during the team meeting, and then you spent the rest of the day looking like someone told you Santa isn’t real."
I considered lying, but Matt had been my best friend since we'd been paired as roommates freshman year. He'd seen me through my worst days—the ones where reading a simple text message felt like decoding hieroglyphics, where I'd rather take a hit from a 250-pound enforcer than read aloud in class.
"I walked into the women's locker room by mistake."
Matt's smoothie came out his mouth. "You what?"
"I was watching game footage, not paying attention, muscle memory took me to the wrong door." I grabbed paper towels to clean up his mess. "And before you ask, yes, someone was in there. Rachel Fox, the soccer captain."
"Oh shit." His eyes went wide. "Was she...?"
"Changing? Yeah. And she let me have it. Full verbal assault. Called me entitled, privileged, accused me of doing it on purpose."
"I mean..." Matt tilted his head. "Can you blame her? That's probably terrifying for a woman. Strange dude walks in while you're vulnerable."
"I know. I felt like complete shit about it. Still do." I slumped against the counter. "But it was the way she looked at me, man. Like I was everything wrong with the world wrapped up in hockey gear."
"Maybe because you kind of are?" He held up a hand before I could protest. "Hear me out. You're a rich boy who plays the most privileged sport at this school. You're conventionally attractive—and yes, I can say that as your best friend—you've never had to work a day in your life outside of hockey, and you literally just invaded her safe space."
"When you put it like that..."
"I'm not done. You also have a reputation on this campus. How many women have you hooked up with this semester?"
I did some quick mental math. "I don't know, five? Six?"
"Eight. I keep track because I'm a good friend who makes sure you remember their names." He pointed his smoothie at me accusingly. "You're a walking stereotype, buddy. Hot hockey player who loves and leaves 'em."
"I'm always honest about not wanting anything serious."
"Sure, but that doesn't mean you're not contributing to a certain image. And then you literally stumble into this woman's space while she's changing? Of course she's going to assume the worst."
I hated that he was right. "She said something about how hockey players get everything on campus. The new weight room, the chartered flights, all of it."
"Because we do." Matt shrugged. "When's the last time you went to a women's soccer game?"
"I don't know."
"Never. The answer is never. I know because I've never been either, and we do everything together." He polished off his smoothie with a grimace. "Face it, we're kind of assholes."
"Speak for yourself."
"Oh, I am. I'm a certified disaster bisexual who uses humor to avoid real connections and treats dating apps like a video game." He grinned. "But at least I'm self-aware about it. You still think you're one of the good guys just because you're not actively a dick."
My phone buzzed with a reminder. "Shit, I've got Sports Psych in an hour."
"The class you enrolled in last minute because you finally had to declare a major?" Matt hopped off the counter. "Still can't believe you're voluntarily taking a psychology class. Doesn't that require, like, reading?"
My stomach clenched at the reminder. "I'll figure it out."
"You know you could just tell—"
