Page 74 of The Girlfriend Goal
I should’ve retreated, should’ve used Jared's interruption as an excuse to rebuild my walls. Instead, I said, "Want to go for a walk? Just to talk more?"
The smile that broke across his face was worth every moment of fear.
We bundled up and headed into the snow-covered woods behind the cabin. The conversation that followed was the most honest we'd been with each other—about families and dreams and the way we'd both been shaped by other people's failures. Lance told me about his father's absence and his mother's death, how hockey had been escape and prison both. I shared more about the pressure of being the ‘success story’ in my family, the weight of everyone's hopes on my shoulders.
"No wonder you're so driven," he said as we walked. "You're not just carrying your dreams, you're carrying theirs too."
"Is that bad?"
"No. But it's a lot for one person." He caught my hand, interlacing our gloved fingers. "Maybe you could let someone else help carry it sometimes."
"I don't know how," I admitted.
"We could figure it out together," he suggested. "Start small. Like maybe admitting this thing between us is more than physical?"
I squeezed his hand. "It's more than physical."
"And maybe we could try actual dates? The kind where we're not pretending it's just studying?"
"Our studying sessions were very productive," I protested weakly.
"Very productive at getting you naked."
"Lance!"
"What? It's true." He pulled me closer.
"This doesn't change the Seattle thing," I warned. "And I still need to focus on my career. And we should take things slow. Figure out what we are before—"
He pulled me against him and kissed me like he'd been dying to do it for ages. Which, if he felt anything like I did, he had been.
When we broke apart, both breathing clouds into the cold air, he rested his forehead against mine.
"Slow is good," he agreed. "But maybe we could be slow after I get you back to my room?"
"That's not slow," I pointed out.
"We'll go slowly on the way there?"
I laughed despite myself. "Your logic is terrible."
"Hockey player," he reminded me. "We're not known for our reasoning skills."
"Just your stamina?"
His eyes darkened. "Want to find out?"
I did. I really, really did.
The walk back to his room was charged with anticipation. We barely made it through the door before he pressed me against the wall.
We eventually made it to his bed, leaving a trail of winter gear in our wake. What followed was different from our previous encounters—slower, more intentional, infused with the weight of acknowledged feelings. When he whispered my name against my skin, it sounded like a promise. When I traced the scars hockey had left on his body, it felt like acceptance.
Afterward, we lay tangled together, breaking another of my rules about cuddling. His fingers played with my hair while I traced patterns on his chest.
"So," he said eventually. "Still think this is casual?"
"Shut up," I mumbled into his shoulder.
