Page 7 of The Girlfriend Goal
"No." The word came out harsher than I intended. "I'm not telling anyone."
Matt's expression softened. "It's not something to be ashamed of, Lance. Lots of people have dyslexia. It doesn't make you stupid."
"Tell that to every teacher who's ever asked me to read aloud." I headed for my room. "Or every girl who's wondered why I'd rather watch a movie than read the book. Or my dad, who still thinks I'm just lazy."
"Your dad's an asshole."
"Yeah, well, he's an asshole who pays my tuition." I grabbed clothes from the pile on my chair—the clean pile, not the dirty pile, an organizational system Matt called "depression chic."
"You know there are resources, right? The learning center has—"
"I said no, Matt." I softened my tone. "I've made it this far without anyone knowing. I'm not starting now."
"Alright. But when you fail this psych class because you can't read the textbook, don't come crying to me." He paused. "Actually, do come crying to me. I'll make you another smoothie. This time with extra kale."
I showered quickly, trying not to think about the reading list I'd glimpsed on the syllabus. Three textbooks, weekly journal articles, a research paper. Why the fuck had I chosen psychology? Oh right, because it was the only major left that didn't require a foreign language, and there was no way I was trying to learn Spanish when English already felt like a foreign language half the time.
Matt was in the living room when I came out, simultaneously texting three different people and watching hockey highlights on TV. "Oh, speaking of my romantic disasters, you'll never guess what happened at Theta Apple Pie's party on Saturday."
"Please tell me you didn't actually hook up with twins."
"I didn't hook up with them." He looked offended. "I just may have been texting both of them without realizing they were related. And they may have compared notes at the party, in front of everyone."
"Jesus, Matt."
"In my defense, they had different last names." He shook his head mournfully. "The dating pool on this campus is more like a dating puddle. A very small puddle where everyone knows everyone."
"Maybe take a break from dating?"
"And deprive the people of Greenfield of all this?" He gestured to himself. "That would be selfish."
I grabbed my backpack, shoving my laptop inside along with a notebook I probably wouldn't be able to take decent notes in. "I'm out. Try not to burn the house down."
"That was one time, and the toaster was definitely defective."
The walk to campus took fifteen minutes, just enough time for my anxiety about the psychology class to really settle in. I'd gotten through most of my gen eds by strategically choosing classes with minimal reading, professors who posted detailed slides online, and subjects where I could lean on my ability to memorize things I heard rather than read.
But I was a senior now. I'd run out of easy classes and ways to avoid declaring a major. Psychology had seemed like the best of bad options—at least it was somewhat related to sports, and I figured I could bullshit my way through with personal experience.
The psychology building loomed ahead, all modern glass and steel, trying to look impressive next to the historic brickbuildings that made up most of campus. I checked the room number on my phone three times, the numbers doing their usual dance before settling into place. Room 341.
I took the stairs two at a time, my usual strategy of arriving early to claim a back corner seat. Professors were less likely to call on you if you were tucked away in the back, partially hidden by the kid who always brought their giant emotional support water bottle.
Chapter 4: Rachel
I arrived at Advanced Sports Psychology fifteen minutes early, my preferred buffer for claiming the perfect seat and organizing my materials. Third row, left side, optimal view of both the board and the projector screen. I'd mapped out the ideal locations in all my classrooms freshman year and hadn't deviated since.
My color-coded system was already in place—blue for lecture notes, green for reading annotations, yellow for exam prep, pink for project work. Jared mocked my organizational methods, but he also begged to borrow my notes before every exam, so who was the real winner?
I pulled out my laptop, opening the document where I'd already outlined potential approaches for the semester project. Working with youth athletes had always been a passion of mine. Maybe because I remembered being twelve and desperately wanting someone to tell me that the pressure I felt was normal, that it was okay to be terrified of failing.
More students filtered in, the usual mix of athletes and sports management majors, with a few psychology students who'd wandered in thinking it would be an easy elective. They'd learn quickly that Professor Latham didn't believe in easy anything.
Then the energy in the room shifted.
I didn't need to look up to know he'd arrived. Hockey players had this way of taking up space, like they traveled with their own gravitational field. The subtle murmur of recognition, the way conversations paused—Lance Fletcher had that effect on a room.
I kept my eyes on my laptop screen, determined not to give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment. But my peripheral vision betrayed me, tracking his movement to a seat in the back corner. Typical. Close enough to technically attend, far enough to avoid being called on.
