Page 9 of The Girlfriend Goal
Lance had the audacity to attempt a smile as I sat down, leaving as much space between us as the connected desks would allow.
"Hi, partner," he said, like this was some cute meet-up instead of an academic hostage situation.
I turned to give him my best death glare, the one I reserved for referees who made terrible calls. "Let's get one thing straight. This is a professional arrangement. We do the work, we get the grade, we never speak again."
"Seems fair."
"I wasn't asking for your opinion." I pulled out my planner, the one Jared called my "external brain." Every hour of my life for the next three months was already mapped out, and now I had to figure out where to squeeze in meetings with hockey boy. "I have practice every morning from 5 to 7, classes until 3, film study from 3:30 to 5, and strength training three nights a week. When are you free?"
He blinked at the rapid-fire schedule dump. "Uh, I have practice most mornings, games Tuesday and Saturday nights, and—"
"Just give me your phone." I held out my hand, impatient with his stammering.
"What?"
"Your phone. I'll put my number in, you can text me your schedule, and I'll figure out when we can meet." I wiggled my fingers. "Unless that's too complicated for someone who can't read door signs."
It was a low blow, but I was too angry to care. He handed over his phone—latest model, of course, probably replaced every time he got a scratch on it.
I typed my number in quickly, saving myself as "Rachel Fox - Sports Psych" because God forbid he mix me up with his rotating cast of hookups.
"There." I shoved it back at him. "Text me your schedule by tonight. And I mean your real schedule, not just the times you plan to show up hungover and do the bare minimum."
"I don't—"
"Thursday, 8 AM, campus library. You were twenty minutes late, spent the entire time texting, and then asked Melissa for her notes." The memory was crystal clear—I'd been sitting two rows behind him, watching him flirt his way through borrowing notes he'd never read. "Sociology 101, freshman year. I have a good memory for slackers."
His face went through several expressions—surprise, confusion, maybe even a flash of shame—before settling on indignation.
"That was a year ago."
"And yet here you are, in a senior-level class, having just declared your major." I turned back to my laptop, pulling up a new document for project planning. "Let me guess—you've been coasting on hockey and hoping the NHL would work out, but now reality's setting in and you need a backup plan?"
The silence that followed told me I'd hit close to home. Good. Let him squirm.
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough." I created a shared folder for our project, my fingers flying over the keys. "You're Lance Fletcher.Star defenseman. Campus celebrity. You hook up with a different girl every weekend, you travel in a pack of equally entitled teammates, and you think consequences are for other people."
"That's not—"
"Brittany. Sigma house, two weeks ago. Ashley from the swim team, the weekend before that. That redhead from marketing — Chloe? — before the winter break." I kept typing, not bothering to look at his probably shocked face. "Like I said, good memory."
"Have you been stalking me?"
The incredulity in his voice almost made me laugh. As if I had nothing better to do than track his sexual conquests.
"Please. You're not that interesting. But my friends talk, and you've worked through half the female population on campus."
"That's an exaggeration."
"Is it, though?"
Professor Latham was explaining something about neurotransmitters, but I was only half listening. The other half of my attention was on the way Fletcher kept shifting in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with my accurate assessment of his dating history.
"For what it's worth," he said quietly, leaning closer, "I'm always honest with them. I don't promise anything I can't deliver."
The smell of his cologne—something expensive and subtly spicy—invaded my space. I scooted my chair another inch away.
