Chapter Three
Sophia
The thing about biochemistry exams is that they're supposed to be predictable.
You study the material, memorize the pathways, understand the mechanisms, and demonstrate your knowledge through precise, scientific answers.
There are no variables beyond your preparation level and your ability to recall information under pressure.
"You're worth watching."
This is basic material. I know this. I've reviewed it seventeen times in the past week. The answer should flow directly from my brain to my pen without any interference from memories of dark hair falling into brown eyes or the way someone's voice can go unexpectedly gentle when they're being kind.
tRNA molecules serve as adapters that translate the genetic code from mRNA into the amino acid sequence of proteins. Each tRNA molecule has an anticodon region that pairs with specific codons on the mRNA strand through complementary base pairing...
I'm three sentences into a perfectly adequate answer when my brain decides to remind me of the exact way Matt looked when he said I was "more than I let people see." Like he was seeing something in me that I didn't even know existed.
Focus, Sophia.
The specificity of the anticodon-codon interaction ensures accurate translation of genetic information, with each of the 61 sense codons corresponding to specific amino acids...
But then I remember the way he noticed I hadn't eaten, and how that observation came from genuine concern rather than criticism.
When was the last time someone paid attention to me beyond my academic performance or organizational skills?
When was the last time someone cared whether I was taking care of myself?
Stop thinking about Matt Gable and finish the damn exam.
I glance at the clock. Forty-seven minutes remaining.
I'm halfway through the exam, which puts me exactly on schedule.
Except normally by this point, I'm completely absorbed in the material, not mentally cataloging the various ways a hockey player has managed to disrupt my carefully maintained equilibrium.
Question 15: Explain the process of allosteric regulation in enzyme function.
Allosteric regulation involves the binding of regulatory molecules to sites other than the active site, causing conformational changes that affect enzyme activity...
The irony is not lost on me that I'm writing about conformational changes while experiencing what might be my own version of allosteric regulation.
Matt Gable has somehow bound to some previously unknown regulatory site in my brain, causing structural changes that are affecting my normal cognitive function.
This is ridiculous. I don't think about boys during exams. I don't think about boys, period.
My romantic history consists of one awkward coffee date with a fellow pre-med student last semester (during which we discussed study techniques for the entire hour) and a brief high school relationship that ended when my boyfriend complained that I cared more about my GPA than I cared about him.
Which was true, but seemed unnecessarily harsh to point out.
But Matt Gable isn't like other boys I've encountered.
For one thing, he's pre-law, which I definitely hadn't seen coming.
For another, he notices things. Important things, like the fact that I haven't been eating or sleeping properly.
Most people see my organizational systems and assume I have everything under control. He saw through that immediately.
"Just because I don't color-code my life doesn't mean I'm blind."
I finish the allosteric regulation question and move on to a complex problem about metabolic pathways.
This one requires drawing diagrams and showing the complete conversion of glucose to pyruvate, including all intermediate steps and enzyme names.
It's exactly the kind of question that normally makes me feel confident and competent.
Instead, I find myself thinking about how Matt described my voice when I talked about figure skating—dreamy and unguarded. I hadn't realized I'd let my guard down at all, but apparently he'd been paying close enough attention to notice.
The glucose to pyruvate pathway flows from my pen automatically—ten steps of glycolysis with all the proper enzyme names and chemical structures. Muscle memory from hours of practice takes over while my conscious mind continues its unauthorized analysis of this morning's events.
The scientific method suggests that when faced with unexpected results, you form a hypothesis and test it systematically. So here's my hypothesis: I am developing romantic feelings for Matt Gable.
Evidence supporting this hypothesis:
Persistent thoughts about him during inappropriate times (such as during a biochemistry exam)
Increased awareness of physical details (hair, eyes, the way he holds a coffee cup)
Positive physiological responses to his attention (accelerated heart rate, elevated mood)
Desire to spend additional time in his company
The fact that I agreed to eat a Belgian waffle at his suggestion, which represents a complete departure from my established nutritional protocols
Evidence against this hypothesis:
He's a hockey player, which places him in a completely different academic and social category
Our interactions prior to this morning consisted primarily of territorial disputes and mutual antagonism
I don't have time for romantic complications, especially with someone whose lifestyle appears to be fundamentally incompatible with my academic goals
This could simply be gratitude for his unexpected kindness, misidentified as romantic interest due to sleep deprivation and stress
I finish the glycolysis diagram and move on to the final section of the exam. Twenty-eight minutes remaining, which gives me plenty of time to complete the remaining questions and review my answers.
Question 18: Discuss the regulation of the citric acid cycle and its integration with other metabolic pathways.
As I write about regulatory mechanisms and metabolic integration, I realize that my hypothesis about Matt Gable might require additional data collection. The scientific approach would be to design controlled experiments to test the validity of my emotional responses.
Except you can't exactly design controlled experiments for feelings. Trust me, I've tried.
The citric acid cycle answer flows easily—another topic I've mastered through systematic study.
But as I write about how the cycle integrates with other pathways, creating complex networks of metabolic interdependence, I can't help but think about how this morning disrupted my own carefully regulated systems.
For three years, I've maintained perfect academic performance through rigid scheduling, controlled nutrition, and elimination of variables that might impact my focus.
It's a system that works. It's gotten me a 3.
94 GPA, leadership positions in two organizations, and strong prospects for medical school admission.
But this morning, Matt Gable introduced chaos into that system—and somehow, everything worked better.
The waffle should have made me crash. Instead, I felt more alert and focused than I had in weeks.
The conversation should have been a distraction.
Instead, it made me feel more like myself than I had in months.
Breaking my routine should have thrown off my entire day.
But I'm sitting here finishing an exam with time to spare, feeling more confident about my answers than I have all semester.
Which suggests that maybe my regulatory systems aren't as perfectly calibrated as I thought.
I complete the final question and flip back through the exam, reviewing my answers systematically. Everything looks correct. My handwriting is neat and legible. I've answered every question completely and provided appropriate diagrams where requested.
But for the first time in my academic career, I'm not obsessing over whether my answers are perfect.
I'm thinking about Matt Gable's smile when I told him the waffle was "unreasonably good.
" I'm thinking about the way he looked when he admitted he'd been watching me and about how he said I was worth watching, like that was the most natural thing in the world.
I turn in my exam with twelve minutes remaining—another first. Usually I use every available second to review and revise. Today, I'm confident in my answers and ready to leave.
As I walk out of the lecture hall, I pull out my phone to check the time. 1:48 PM. Figure skating practice starts at 3:00, which gives me just over an hour to grab lunch and review the routine modifications I've been planning.
Except instead of heading to the library to eat a carefully planned sandwich while reviewing my choreography notes, I find myself walking toward the ice arena.
I tell myself it's because I want to check the ice conditions before practice.
I tell myself it has nothing to do with the possibility that Matt might be there.
I'm lying to myself, which is problematic on multiple levels.
The arena is mostly empty when I arrive, just the zamboni driver making his afternoon rounds.
The ice looks perfect—smooth and unmarked, ready for our practice session.
I sit in the bleachers and watch the zamboni work, trying to process the morning's events with some semblance of scientific objectivity.
Matt Gable has somehow managed to challenge fundamental assumptions about my life without even trying.
He made me question whether my systems are helping me or hurting me.
He made me remember that I used to love skating for the joy of it, not just because it looked good on applications. He made me eat a waffle and enjoy it.
Most importantly, he made me feel seen in a way that had nothing to do with my achievements or my reputation. He looked at me and saw someone worth caring about, not just someone worth admiring from a distance.
The zamboni finishes its circuit and exits the rink, leaving behind that perfect sheet of ice that I love so much.
In ninety minutes, my club members will arrive and we'll run through our routines, working on timing and precision and all the technical elements that make figure skating a sport rather than just an art form.
But right now, sitting here alone in the quiet arena, I'm thinking about how long it's been since I felt that sense of freedom and joy that used to come with landing a perfect jump and about how he seemed to understand that I'd lost something important, and how he made me want to find it again.
My phone buzzes with a text message. For a ridiculous moment, my heart jumps with the possibility that it might be Matt, even though we don't have each other's numbers and there's no logical reason he would contact me.
It's my lab partner reminding me about our study session tomorrow. I put my phone away and continue sitting in the empty arena, watching the perfect ice and trying to figure out when Matt Gable stopped being an obstacle to my success and started being something much more complicated.
The scientific method suggests that when your hypothesis is supported by evidence, you accept the results and adjust your worldview accordingly. Hypothesis confirmed: I am definitely developing feelings for Matt Gable. Now I just need to figure out what the hell I'm going to do about it.
I check my phone again. 2:23 PM. The other club members will start arriving soon, and I need to be ready to lead practice with my usual focus and precision.
I need to push thoughts of hockey players and unexpected kindness and the way someone can look at you like you're worth watching to the back of my mind.
But as I stand up to leave the bleachers, I catch myself hoping that maybe Matt will "forget" something else tomorrow morning and show up early at the rink.
Which is definitely not part of my usual organizational system, but might be part of whatever new system is developing to replace it. Variables, it turns out, aren't always complications. Sometimes they're improvements.