Page 79 of The Girlfriend Goal
"That's it? Just 'Brad'?" He stepped closer, and I instinctively backed away. "Come on, Rachel. We dated for two years. You can't even say hello properly?"
"Hello properly," I deadpanned, trying to sidestep him. "Now if you'll excuse me—"
His hand shot out, not quite touching me but blocking my path. "I've changed, you know." He leaned against the wall, positioning himself to trap me in conversation. "Therapy, anger management, the whole deal. I'm not the same guy who—"
"Who what?" I interrupted, anger flaring. "Who screamed at me for attending my own team's championship game because it conflicted with your regular season match? Who told me I was getting 'too muscular' from training? Who said my sports management degree was a 'cute backup plan' for when I failed as an athlete?"
His jaw tightened. "I said I've changed."
"Congratulations. I haven't." I pushed past him, my hands shaking. "Stay away from me, Brad."
"We're going to be at every athletic mixer, every campus event," he called after me. "You can't avoid me forever."
I practically ran to my apartment, slamming the door behind me. Jared looked up from his position on the couch, surrounded by fabric swatches for his latest theater production.
"Honey, you look like you've seen a ghost dressed in last season's Walmart clearance rack." He set aside his samples. "What happened?"
"Brad won’t leave me alone." The words came out strangled.
Jared's face went through an impressive range of emotions – shock, disgust, and finally, protective fury. "That manipulative, gaslighting, emotionally abusive excuse for a trust fund baby is harassing you again?"
I collapsed next to him, burying my face in a throw pillow. "He says he's changed."
"Oh, please." Jared's voice dripped disdain. "That's like saying a designer knockoff becomes authentic because you scotch-taped a real label on it. Trash is trash, regardless of the packaging."
My phone buzzed. Lance:Hey, you still on for community center at 3? Marcus has been asking about you.
The text that usually made me smile now filled me with dread. How could I explain that seeing Brad had triggered every defense mechanism I'd built? That I needed to retreat into myself to survive?
I typed back:Can't make it. Something came up.
"Are you seriously canceling on Lance because that expired protein shake showed up?" Jared snatched my phone. "Oh no. We are not doing this self-sabotage spiral again."
"I'm not self-sabotaging," I protested weakly. "I just need space."
"Space from the man who literally held your hair during the Great Halloween Puke Fest? Who defended you against his horrible father? Who looks at you like you personally invented both soccerandthe concept of athletic wear?"
"It's complicated."
"It's not, though." Jared fixed me with his most serious expression, which was still pretty dramatic. "Brad broke you down systematically for two years. Lance has spent months building you back up. Don't let that sentient red flag undo all your progress."
But the damage was already done. Over the next week, I became a master of avoidance. I changed my routes to class, timed my practices to avoid the athletic complex during hockey hours, and responded to Lance's increasingly concerned texts with short, impersonal messages.
Sorry, swamped with internship apps.
Can't tonight, team meeting.
Rain check on studying?
Each lie carved away another piece of my soul, but the alternative – being vulnerable when Brad lurked around every corner – seemed impossible.
The worst part was practice. My teammates noticed immediately.
"Okay, what crawled up your cleats and died?" Samantha asked after I'd brutally slide-tackled her during a friendly scrimmage. "That's the third time you've nearly taken someone out today."
"Just focused," I muttered, helping her up.
"Focused on murder, maybe." She brushed grass off her shorts. "Look, I heard Brad transferred here. If he's bothering you—"
