Chapter Two
Matt
The thing about Sophia Turner that most people don't realize—including Sophia Turner herself—is that she's about three missed meals and two sleepless nights away from a complete breakdown.
I've been watching her for weeks now, ever since our little ice war started escalating beyond normal hockey-versus-figure-skating territory.
She shows up every morning looking more frayed around the edges, clutching that travel mug of green tea like it's the only thing keeping her upright. Which, knowing her, it probably is.
Most guys on the team think she's just uptight. Tyler calls her "that control freak who probably schedules her bathroom breaks." But Tyler also thinks protein powder counts as a food group, so his judgment isn't exactly reliable.
The truth is, Sophia Turner is running herself into the ground, and everyone around her is too busy being intimidated by her to notice.
"Where exactly are we going?" she asks as I lead her across campus, her equipment bag slung over her shoulder like she's prepared for a skating emergency to break out at any moment.
"The HUB," I say, referring to the student union building. "They've got a decent breakfast place that opens early for people who actually believe in eating food."
"I believe in eating food," she protests. "I just believe in eating it strategically."
"Right. And your strategy is...?"
"Minimizing GI disturbances that could impact performance."
I glance sideways at her. Even at six in the morning, she looks put-together in that slightly terrifying way she always does.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a perfect ponytail—probably with that lucky hair tie she thinks nobody notices but which is actually kind of endearing in its predictability.
Her figure skating jacket is zipped up precisely to the midpoint, and she's walking with the kind of purposeful stride that suggests she's mentally reviewing biochemistry notes while navigating campus.
But there are dark circles under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide, and her hands have that slight tremor that comes from too much caffeine and not enough actual sustenance.
"Turner," I say carefully, "when you say 'minimizing variables,' what you really mean is you're scared that if you change anything about your routine, you'll lose control."
She stops walking so abruptly that I almost crash into her. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"I am not scared of losing control. I am maintaining optimal performance conditions through systematic—"
"You're scared," I interrupt, turning to face her. "And you're exhausted. And you're running on fumes and stubbornness, which might work for cramming for exams, but it's not exactly sustainable long-term."
Her eyes narrow, and for a second I think she might actually take a swing at me. Which would be interesting, considering she probably weighs about as much as my left leg.
"You don't know anything about me," she says, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
"I know you've been at the rink every morning for three weeks straight, including weekends.
I know you carry backup plans for your backup plans.
I know you rewrite your notes if they're not perfect, even though you take better notes than anyone else in your classes.
And I know you're about to crash and burn if you don't start taking care of yourself. "
She stares at me like I've just revealed state secrets. "How do you—"
"How do I know all that?" I start walking again, and after a moment she follows. "Because I pay attention, Turner. Just because I don't color-code my life doesn't mean I'm blind."
"You... pay attention to me?"
There's something in her voice that makes me look at her again. Surprise, maybe, or confusion. Like the idea that someone might notice her beyond her reputation as the campus perfectionist is genuinely shocking.
"You're hard to miss," I say, which is true. Sophia Turner commands attention wherever she goes, even if she doesn't realize it. Maybe especially because she doesn't realize it.
We reach the HUB and I hold the door open for her. She hesitates for a second, like accepting common courtesy might somehow compromise her principles, then walks through with a muttered "thank you."
The breakfast place is mostly empty except for a few early-rising grad students who look like they haven't seen sunlight in weeks. I order coffee and eggs Benedict. Sophia stares at the menu like it's written in ancient Greek.
"What do you usually eat?" I ask. "You know, back when you remembered that food was a thing?"
"Oatmeal," she says without looking up. "Steel-cut oats with precisely measured portions of berries and nuts. Optimized for sustained energy release and cognitive function."
"Sounds delicious," I lie.
"Nutrition isn't about taste. It's about fuel efficiency."
"Jesus, Turner. Do you hear yourself?"
She looks up from the menu, startled. "What do you mean?"
"You talk about food like you're a car. When's the last time you ate something just because you enjoyed it?"
"I... enjoy optimally nutritious meals."
"That's not what I asked."
She goes quiet, staring down at the menu again.
I watch her process this question like it's a particularly difficult calculus problem, and something in my chest tightens.
When did this incredibly smart, capable woman start thinking of herself as a machine that just needed the right inputs to function correctly?
"I don't remember," she admits finally, so quietly I almost miss it.
"Okay," I say. "Here's what we're going to do. You're going to order something that sounds good to you. Not nutritionally optimized, not strategically planned. Just something that makes you think 'yeah, I'd like to eat that.'"
"But—"
"No buts. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"Pre-law, actually, but that's not the point."
She blinks. "You're pre-law?"
Shit. I hadn't meant to let that slip. The team doesn't know about the law school plans—they think I'm just coasting through a general studies degree until I can hopefully get drafted.
Which, to be fair, was the original plan before I realized I actually liked learning about contracts and constitutional law more than I liked the idea of playing professional hockey.
"Don't tell the guys," I say. "They already think I'm going soft."
"Because you're studying law?"
"Because I think you should eat breakfast before your midterm instead of just letting you faint in the middle of campus."
"I wasn't going to faint."
"Turner, you swayed a little when you were standing in the arena. That's your body telling you it needs fuel."
She looks down at her hands, and I notice they're still shaking slightly. "I just... I have a system. It works."
"Does it? Because from where I'm sitting, your system involves slowly killing yourself with stress and sleep deprivation."
The waitress comes over before Sophia can respond, which is probably for the best since she looks like she's gearing up to deliver a lecture on the scientific benefits of controlled nutritional intake.
"I'll have the Belgian waffle with strawberries and whipped cream," Sophia says suddenly, like she's ripping off a Band-Aid.
The waitress nods and heads off to place our order. I stare at Sophia.
"Belgian waffle?"
"You said to order something that sounded good." She fidgets with her travel mug. "It sounded... good."
"When's the last time you had a waffle?"
"Sophomore year of high school. My parents took me out for breakfast after I won the regional figure skating championship." She pauses. "They had strawberries."
There's something wistful in her voice that makes me want to ask more questions, but I can tell she's already feeling vulnerable about the waffle confession. Instead, I lean back in my chair and try to look casual.
"So," I say. "Biochem midterm in a few hours. How are you feeling about it?"
"Prepared," she says automatically, then catches herself. "Actually, I'm terrified I'm going to forget everything I've studied and fail spectacularly, which will tank my GPA and ruin my chances of getting into a good medical school, which will derail my entire life plan."
"That's... honest."
"You asked."
"I did." I take a sip of my coffee. "What if you don't become a doctor?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what if medicine doesn't work out? What would you do instead?"
She looks at me like I've suggested she take up professional fire-eating. "Medicine has to work out. It's the plan."
"But what if it wasn't? What if you could do anything?"
"I..." She stops, frowning. "I don't understand the question."
"Come on, Turner. There has to be something else you're interested in. Something you do just because you love it, not because it fits into your master plan for world domination."
"I don't have a master plan for world domination."
"You have a master plan for something. Probably color-coded."
She almost smiles at that. Almost. "Figure skating," she says quietly.
"What about it?"
"I used to love it. Not just the technical aspects or the way it looks good on applications. I loved the way it felt to land a perfect jump, or the way a routine could tell a story, or..." She trails off, looking embarrassed.
"Or?"
"Or the way it felt like flying, sometimes. When everything came together perfectly."
There's something in her voice that I've never heard before—something dreamy and unguarded that makes me want to keep her talking just so I can hear it again.
"When did you stop loving it?"
"I didn't stop loving it. I just... prioritized other things. Medical school applications don't care if you feel like you're flying. They care about GPA and MCAT scores and leadership experience."
"So you turned something you loved into another item on your resume."
"That's not—" She stops, considering. "Maybe. Yeah. Maybe I did."
Our food arrives, and I watch Sophia stare down at her Belgian waffle like it might attack her. It's loaded with strawberries and enough whipped cream to fuel a small party, and she looks both fascinated and terrified.
"It's just a waffle, Turner."
"It's not just a waffle. It's completely outside my nutritional parameters. The sugar content alone—"
"Will give you energy for your midterm."
"Or make me crash in two hours."
"Or," I say, cutting off a piece of my eggs Benedict, "it will remind you that food can be enjoyable instead of just functional."
She picks up her fork and takes the world's most tentative bite. I watch her expression change from anxiety to surprise to something that might actually be pleasure.
"Good?" I ask.
"It's..." She takes another bite, bigger this time. "It's really good. Like, unreasonably good."
"See? Sometimes the non-optimized choice is the right choice."
"That goes against everything I believe in."
"Maybe what you believe in could use some updating."
She looks up at me, and for a second we just stare at each other across the table. There's something happening here, something that has nothing to do with our ongoing ice war and everything to do with the way she's looking at me like she's seeing me for the first time.
"Why are you doing this?" she asks suddenly.
"Doing what?"
"This. Buying me breakfast. Being... nice to me. We're supposed to be enemies."
I think about this. The truth is, I'm not entirely sure when Sophia Turner stopped being just "that uptight figure skater who leaves passive-aggressive notes on our locker room door" and started being...
well, this. This exhausted, brilliant, slightly lost person who works too hard and doesn't take care of herself and has the most beautiful smile when she lets her guard down.
"Maybe I'm tired of being enemies," I say finally.
"But the ice war—"
"Is stupid. We're both just trying to use the rink to do what we love. Doesn't mean we have to hate each other."
She takes another bite of waffle, considering this. "The guys on your team think I'm a control freak. What do you think?"
The question catches me off guard. Not because it's unexpected, but because the answer that comes to mind isn't something I can just say out loud without completely changing the dynamic between us.
I think you're incredible and you're brilliant and dedicated and stronger than you realize.
I think you push yourself too hard because you're scared of not being good enough. But you have no idea how good enough you already are. You’re beautiful when you're focused on something you care about, and I think you light up the ice rink every morning just by being there, and I'm in serious trouble because I've been watching you for weeks and I can't stop.
"I think," I say carefully, "that you're more than you let people see."
She goes very still. "What does that mean?"
"It means you show everyone the perfect student, the organized president, the girl who has her whole life planned out.
But sometimes, when you think no one's looking, you let your guard down a little.
And that version of you—the one who talks about flying when she skates—that's the version I think is most real. "
"You've been watching me," she says, and it's not a question.
"Yeah," I admit. "I have."
"Why?"
I think: because you fascinate me. You're nothing like what I expected. Every time I think I have you figured out, you surprise me. You care so much about everything that it makes me want to care more too. Instead I say, "Because you're worth watching."
The silence stretches between us, loaded with things neither of us is quite ready to say. Sophia takes another bite of her waffle, and I notice she's not shaking anymore.
"I should get back," she says finally. "I still need to review my notes before the exam."
"Right. Of course."
We finish eating mostly in comfortable silence, and I insist on paying despite her protests about financial independence. As we walk back toward campus, she seems more relaxed than I've seen her in weeks.
"Matt?" she says as we reach the science building.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For the breakfast. And for..." She waves her hand vaguely. "For noticing, I guess."
"Anytime, Turner."
She starts to walk away, then turns back. "About the ice war..."
"What about it?"
"Maybe we could call a temporary truce. Until after midterms, at least."
I grin. "I think that can be arranged."
"Good." She adjusts her equipment bag and starts to leave again, then pauses. "And Matt? Good luck with the law school thing. I think you'd be good at it."
She's gone before I can respond, disappearing into the science building with that purposeful stride of hers. I stand there for a moment, watching the door close behind her, and realize that everything just changed. The ice war might be over, but something else is just beginning.