Page 98 of The Girlfriend Goal
We stayed up until dawn researching neighborhoods and making plans. Not perfect plans, not guaranteed plans, but our plans.
Chapter 37: Rachel
"I'm telling you, the analytics support increasing our TikTok presence by thirty percent," I argued, gesturing at my presentation while the Storm's senior staff looked on. "Our engagement rates triple when we feature behind-the-scenes content."
"Kids doing dances?" Mr. Patterson, the old-school general manager, looked skeptical. "That's what'll sell tickets?"
"Humanizing our players sells tickets," I corrected. "Fans want connection, not just highlights. Emotional investment translates to merchandise sales, ticket purchases, and long-term loyalty."
"The numbers support her proposal," Diana, my supervisor, added. "Rachel's social media strategies have increased our Instagram following by forty-two percent since June."
I tried not to preen at the praise. Six months in, I'd moved from fetching coffee to actually contributing to the Storm's marketing strategy. My twice-weekly posts had become daily content calendars. The players trusted me with their stories, and I'd learned to balance authenticity with professionalism.
"Fine," Patterson conceded. "But I want approval on all content. No embarrassing the organization."
"Absolutely," I agreed, already mentally planning a series where players tried to explain basketball rules using only emojis.
The meeting adjourned with approved budgets and expanded responsibilities. Diana caught me in the hallway, grinning.
"Nice work in there. You handled Patterson perfectly."
"I translated everything into old-school sports metaphors in my head," I admitted. "Helped me speak his language."
"Smart. Keep that up and you'll be running this department in five years."
The compliment warmed me through my afternoon tasks. I edited video content, responded to fan comments, and coordinated with players for upcoming shoots. My phone buzzed with texts from Lance between his practice sessions.
The thirty-minute drive to Tacoma had become routine. Three times a week, sometimes four, depending on our schedules. Lance's apartment was bigger than mine, with actual furniture and a kitchen he'd learned to use. Domestic Lance was a revelation – the man who'd survived on protein shakes and takeout now made actual meals.
"I'm stress-cooking," he announced when I arrived that evening, the apartment smelling like garlic and possibility. "Coach mentioned potential call-ups next month."
"That's amazing." I dropped my bag to hug him. "Which games?"
"December road trip. Three games to see how I handle the pace." He stirred something that looked impressively edible. "It's not permanent, just injury replacement, but—"
"But it's NHL ice time." I squeezed tighter. "Everything you've worked for."
"Everything we've worked for," he corrected, kissing my temple. "Couldn't have managed this season without you."
"Please, you were always going to succeed."
"Maybe. but succeeding while happy? That's all you."
We'd gotten good at this – celebrating each other's victories, supporting through challenges. The distance that had terrified me in May felt manageable now, reduced to singing along to playlists on I-5.
My phone rang, displaying Jared's face mid-dramatic expression.
"Put me on speaker," he demanded without preamble. "Matt's being unreasonable about Thanksgiving."
"Hi to you too," I said, complying. "What's the crisis?"
"He wants to dobothfamily dinners. His parents and mine. In the same day! The logistics alone—"
"Are completely manageable," Matt's voice came through, suggesting they were also on speaker. "It's a forty-minute drive between houses."
"Twenty minutes of digestion time. We'll explode from turkey overdose."
Lance and I exchanged amused looks. Our friends' long-distance relationship had survived surprisingly well, with Matt visiting Boston monthly and Jared planning to move after graduation.
