Page 84 of The Girlfriend Goal
"The scouts will see this. Every team will."
"They already knew about your dyslexia. This changes nothing except proving your father is trash." She applied antibiotic ointment with unnecessary focus. "You could take control of the narrative."
"How?"
"Press conference. Your words, your truth." She finally met my eyes. "Show them who you really are, not your father's fiction."
"I don't know if I can do that."
"You can." Her conviction steadied me. "I'll help you prepare, if you want."
The next two days blurred together. Rachel helped me craft a statement that acknowledged my challenges while maintaining dignity. She ran practice questions, coached my delivery, and generally acted like the partner I desperately wanted her to be in all aspects of life.
Matt and Jared provided moral support, though their new relationship energy occasionally overwhelmed the room.
"Focus on your core message," Jared instructed, sitting in Matt's lap despite three empty chairs being available. "You're not a victim, you're a victor who happens to learn differently."
"That's actually good," I admitted.
"I have my moments." He preened. "Usually they're overshadowed by my devastatingly good looks, but occasionally my brain contributes too."
"Your brain contributes constantly, babe," Matt corrected, pressing a kiss to his lips. "Your GPA is higher than mine."
"Well, that's not saying much, considering you thought Jane Austen was a type of tea last week."
"I was joking!"
"Were you, though?"
Rachel cleared her throat. "Can we focus on Lance's crisis for five minutes before you two start your foreplay disguised as bickering?"
They both flushed but mercifully stopped touching.
The press conference arrived too quickly. I stood outside the media room, hands shaking slightly despite the prepared remarks in my pocket.
"Hey." Rachel appeared beside me. "You've got this."
"What if I freeze? What if I can't read the statement?"
"Then you speak from the heart." She straightened my tie with casual intimacy. "You know your truth. The paper is just backup."
"Will you stay where I can see you?"
"I'll be right in front." She stepped back, hands dropping. "Go show them who Lance Fletcher really is."
The room was packed. Local media, campus reporters, and several national sports outlets filled every seat. I spotted my teammates in the back, providing silent support.
"Thank you for coming." My voice sounded steadier than I felt. "I want to address recent articles about my learning differences and set the record straight."
I found Rachel in the crowd, her encouraging nod giving me strength.
"I have dyslexia. This isn't new information – I was diagnosed in third grade. What is new is seeing my personal challenges exploited by someone who claims to care about my well-being."
The words flowed easier than expected. I talked about the reality of learning differently, the shame I'd carried, the coping mechanisms I'd developed. I named specific teachers and coaches who'd helped, pointedly excluding my father from any narrative of support.
"I'm not sharing this for sympathy," I continued. "I'm sharing it because somewhere, there's a kid struggling to read, thinking they're stupid or lazy. You're not. Your brain just works differently, and that's okay."
Questions followed, but I felt prepared. Rachel's coaching had covered every angle, and having her steady presence in my eyeline kept me grounded.
