Page 88 of The Girlfriend Goal
He raised an eyebrow, continuing alone until my part came around again. This time I jumped in, matching his energy out of pure competitiveness.
By the chorus, we were fully committed, acting out the drama while the crowd ate it up. Lance played the scorned lover with comedic intensity, dropping to his knees during "I still love you" while I strutted around him.
"But you keep telling me no!" I sang-shouted, getting into character.
The bridge had us face-to-face, mics forgotten as we just belted at each other. His eyes held mine, and suddenly the playful performance felt too real. The lyrics about leaving, about choosing ambition over love, about regret and longing – it all hit too close to home.
We finished to raucous applause, both breathing hard. Lance's hand found my waist to steady me, and I let myself lean into him for just a moment before reality crashed back.
"I need air," I mumbled, fleeing to the bar's small patio.
Brad was there. Because of course he was.
"Nice performance," he said, nursing a beer. "Very convincing chemistry."
"Go away, Brad."
"I'm trying to have a civil conversation." He moved closer. "Heard about Seattle. Congratulations. My dad'scompany has connections there. Sports marketing, athlete management. I could make some calls, set up meetings."
"I'm good."
"Come on, Rachel." His hand touched my arm. "I'm trying to help. We could start fresh out there. Leave all the college drama behind."
"We?" I jerked away. "There is no we."
"There could be." He crowded closer. "I told you I've changed. Therapy helped me realize how badly I treated you. I want to make it right."
"You can't." My voice shook with years of suppressed anger. "You systematically destroyed my confidence. You don't get to make that right with therapy and connections."
"I was young and stupid—"
"You were cruel." Tears burned my eyes. "You told me that my scholarship was affirmative action. That no one would take a woman seriously in sports management so I should focus on being a good girlfriend instead."
"Rachel—"
"You isolated me from my friends. Convinced me that missing your games made me unsupportive while you never once came to mine. You said my parents' accents were embarrassing and asked me not to bring them to events."
His face darkened. "I said I was sorry."
"Sorry doesn't undo damage, Brad. Sorry doesn't give me back the year I spent hating myself, thinking I was never enough." I squared my shoulders. "I don't need your connections. I earned Seattle on my own merit."
"With whose help? That hockey player?" His sneer was ugly. "Trading one athlete for another."
"Lance has done nothing but support my ambitions," I snapped. "He helped me prepare for interviews while knowing success meant I'd leave. He celebrates my achievements without making them about him. He's twice the man you'll ever be."
"If he's so perfect, why are you running to Seattle alone?"
The question hit like a physical blow because I didn't have a good answer.
"That's what I thought." Brad's smirk made me want to hit him. "You're just as scared of commitment as you accuse me of being. Difference is, I'm trying to change."
He left me on the patio, his words echoing in my head. Was I running? Was choosing career over Lance just another form of self-sabotage?
"Hey." Jared appeared, concern creasing his features. "Matt saw Brad corner you. You okay?"
"He offered to help with Seattle connections."
"That manipulative piece of—" Jared's rant included creative profanity in three languages. "Please tell me you told him where to shove his connections."
