Page 83 of The Girlfriend Goal
Rachel glanced at me, eyebrow raised. I shrugged. "Everything makes more sense through sports analogies."
"Clearly." Her smile made my chest tight. "Maybe you can teach me that trick sometime."
As the session progressed, we fell into our natural rhythm. Rachel led soccer drills while I incorporated mental training techniques. The kids responded to our united front, their own anxieties seeming to decrease as we demonstrated healthy partnership.
"Y'all are better when you're together," Destiny, one of our regular attendees, announced during snack break. "Like peanut butter and jelly. Separately fine, but together?"
Rachel choked on her water. "We're just work partners."
The other kids giggled, clearly enjoying their coaches' discomfort.
"Okay!" Rachel clapped her hands. "Back to drills! Let's work on corner kicks!"
Her deflection only made the kids laugh harder, but they mercifully let it drop.
After the session, as we cleaned equipment, Rachel bumped my hip. "Thanks for the formula trick. That was really thoughtful."
"Kid deserves every advantage." I paused. "Like I had, once I finally got help."
"Have you thought more about going public with your dyslexia? Beyond the team?"
I'd been considering it since my father's betrayal, but the idea still terrified me. "Maybe. The NHL teams already know – Dad made sure of that with his 'protective' meddling."
"I think it could help a lot of kids," she said softly. "Seeing someone successful who learns differently."
Before I could respond, my phone exploded with notifications. Eight missed calls from Matt, dozens of texts.
"What the hell?" I scrolled through the messages, my stomach dropping. "Oh, fuck."
"What's wrong?"
I handed her my phone, unable to form words. The headline screamed across the screen: "Richard Fletcher Exclusive: My Son's Hidden Struggle – A Father's Pain"
The article was worse than I imagined. Direct quotes I'd never said, stories twisted to make my father seem like a hero who'd protected his learning-disabled son from cruel media attention. He'd even included childhood photos, making it seemlike we had a relationship beyond his occasional manipulative appearances.
"That bastard," Rachel breathed. "He's using your dyslexia for sympathy points?"
"His agency must be struggling." My voice sounded detached, even to me. "This is reputation rehabilitation 101. Position yourself as the caring father of a special needs kid."
"Oh, Lance." She touched my arm.
I jerked away, rage building. "I need to hit something."
"Okay." She gathered her things quickly. "Let's go."
I expected her to leave me at the training facility, but she followed me in, settling on a bench while I destroyed a punching bag. No gloves, no wraps, just pure anger channeled through my fists.
The pain felt good. Cleaner than the emotional agony of seeing my struggles packaged for my father's benefit.
"Lance." Rachel's voice cut through my fury. "Stop. You're bleeding."
I looked down at my knuckles, surprised by the blood. The anger drained, leaving exhaustion.
She was already moving, returning with the first aid kit. "Sit."
I complied, watching her clean my wounds with gentle efficiency. "I'm sorry."
"For what? Being human?" She didn't look up from her work. "Your father is a master manipulator who just weaponized your personal struggles for profit. You're allowed to be angry."
