Chapter Fourteen
Sophia
This is not a productive use of my time, but my brain seems incapable of focusing on molecular orbital theory when Matt Gable might be realizing that choosing me over Thanksgiving dinner was a mistake.
The evidence is circumstantial but concerning: shorter responses, longer delays between texts, and yesterday's phone call that lasted exactly four minutes instead of our usual forty-seven-minute average.
Plus, he's been "busy with homework" for two evenings in a row, which wouldn't be suspicious except that Matt typically does homework with the same casual efficiency he brings to everything else.
"You're spiraling," I mutter to myself, closing my physical chemistry textbook and opening my laptop instead. "
But that's the problem—I can't turn off the part of my brain that looks for patterns and trends and early warning signs of system failure. And right now, all my internal monitoring systems are flashing warnings about potential relationship instability.
My phone buzzes with a message from Matt: Running late for tonight's session. Can you handle setup?
I stare at the text, noting its complete lack of his usual humor or personal warmth. This is the kind of message you send to a colleague, not to someone you've been sleeping with for three weeks.
Of course, I text back. Everything okay?
Yeah, just dealing with some family stuff. See you there.
Family stuff. Which is code for "my parents think you're a bad influence and I'm starting to agree with them."
I close my laptop and pack my materials with slightly more force than necessary.
This is exactly what I was afraid would happen—that once the novelty wore off and real-world pressures started mounting, Matt would realize that dating someone with my particular brand of intensity wasn't worth the complications it created.
The rational part of my brain knows I'm probably overreacting. The irrational part—which has been steadily gaining influence since I fell in love—is convinced that this is the beginning of the end, and I need to start preparing for damage control.
By the time I reach the ice arena, I've worked myself into a state of controlled panic that I'm disguising as hyper-efficient preparation.
I arrive forty-five minutes early, complete the entire setup checklist, organize equipment with military precision, and create backup lesson plans for scenarios that will probably never occur.
"Miss Sophia!" Lucy runs over as soon as her mother finishes helping her with her skates. "Are we gonna work on jumps today? I've been practicing!"
"We'll definitely work on jumps," I say, forcing myself to smile normally instead of projecting my relationship anxiety onto a seven-year-old. "Show me your balance position first."
Lucy immediately stands on one foot, arms outstretched, wobbling slightly but maintaining the position for a solid five seconds. "Good?"
"Excellent. You've been practicing at home."
"Every day! And my mom said if I get really good, maybe I can take real skating lessons."
"That's wonderful, Lucy. Real lessons would help you learn even more advanced skills."
"Will you and Coach Matt still teach us?"
The question hits harder than it should. "We'll keep teaching the program as long as you want to keep learning."
"Good, because Tommy's mom said maybe you guys won't be teachers anymore because adults are weird about stuff."
I go very still. "What do you mean?"
"Tommy's mom talks to my mom sometimes, and she said something about how you and Coach Matt aren't appropriate teachers because you like each other too much, and maybe the program should have different adults.
" Lucy shrugs with the casual indifference of someone who doesn't understand the implications of what she's sharing.
"But I think it's good that you like each other.
It makes you both happy, and happy teachers are better teachers. "
Out of the mouths of babes.
"Lucy," I say carefully, "adults sometimes have different opinions about what's appropriate, but Coach Matt and I are committed to making sure you and all the other kids have the best possible experience learning to skate."
"I know. You're good teachers. Tommy's mom just worries too much."
Mrs. Henderson is still complaining. Even after our successful meeting with Athletic Director Morrison, even after positive parent feedback and obvious student progress, she's still trying to undermine our program by questioning our relationship.
And now Matt's family is also questioning our relationship, which means he's getting pressure from multiple directions about whether I'm worth the trouble I apparently create just by existing in his life.
"Miss Sophia?" Marcus appears beside us, his helmet slightly askew and his mittens already soaked from touching the ice. "Where's Coach Matt? Is he sick?"
"Coach Matt is running a little late," I explain. "He'll be here soon."
"Good, because I want to show him my hockey stop. I've been practicing with my dad."
"I'd love to see your hockey stop too."
"Yeah, but Coach Matt knows more about hockey stops. He's the hockey expert."
And there it is—the reminder that I'm the figure skating expert and Matt is the hockey expert, and our partnership works because we complement each other's strengths.
Except right now, I'm standing here alone, handling both sides of the program, wondering if Matt's absence is temporary logistics or the beginning of a permanent withdrawal.
More kids arrive, and I shift into full program coordinator mode, checking attendance, reviewing safety protocols, and starting warm-up activities. I can handle twenty-four children on my own if necessary—I've been handling complicated situations independently for most of my life.
But I don't want to handle this alone. I want Matt here, making jokes with the kids and providing the easy confidence that balances my structured approach. I want us to be a team, not just in title but in practice.
"Alright, everyone," I call out, gathering the kids at center ice. "Let's start with our balance exercises and work up to movement drills."
The session proceeds smoothly enough. I lead them through basic skills, help individual kids with technique corrections, and manage the chaos of twenty-four children trying to learn to skate at the same time.
But something's missing—the energy that comes from Matt's natural way with kids, the dynamic interaction between our different teaching styles.
I'm competent alone. We're extraordinary together.
"Miss Sophia," Emma asks during our water break, "is Coach Matt okay? You seem worried."
Great. Now I'm projecting my anxiety onto the children, which is exactly the kind of unprofessional behavior that gives Mrs. Henderson ammunition for her complaints.
"Coach Matt is fine," I say. "Sometimes adults have to handle other responsibilities, but that doesn't mean anything's wrong."
"My parents fight sometimes," Daniel offers helpfully. "But they always make up afterward."
"Coach Matt and I aren't fighting," I say quickly.
"But you're worried," Emma persists with the relentless observation skills of an eight-year-old.
"I'm... focused on making sure you all have a good practice session."
"You can be focused and worried at the same time," Daniel points out. "My mom does that a lot."
These children are entirely too perceptive for their own good.
"You know what?" I say, making a decision that probably contradicts several of my own rules about maintaining appropriate boundaries.
"Sometimes adults do worry about things, even when they're trying to focus on other important stuff.
But the best way to handle worry is to keep doing the things that matter, like helping all of you learn new skills. "
"So you're gonna keep teaching us even if you're worried about Coach Matt?" Marcus asks.
"I'm going to keep teaching you no matter what happens with anything else," I say firmly. "Because you guys are important, and this program is important, and some things are worth protecting even when everything else feels uncertain."
The kids nod solemnly, apparently satisfied with this explanation.
We return to practice, and I lose myself in the familiar rhythm of instruction and encouragement.
But as the session winds down and parents start arriving for pickup, I can't shake the growing certainty that something fundamental has shifted in the past few days.
Matt appears just as we're finishing, looking harried and distracted. He helps with equipment cleanup and says goodbye to the kids, but there's a distance in his interactions that feels deliberate rather than accidental.
"How did it go?" he asks as the last family leaves.
"Fine. Good. Lucy's making real progress on her balance, and Marcus successfully demonstrated his hockey stop for anyone who would watch."
"Great. That's great."
We clean up in relative silence, packing equipment and resetting the ice area for the next group.
The quiet feels loaded with all the things we're not saying—about his family, about Mrs. Henderson's continued complaints, about the growing pressure from people who think our relationship is more trouble than it's worth.
"Matt," I say finally, as we head toward the locker rooms. "Are we okay?"
"Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't we be okay?"
"Because you've been distant for three days, you missed half of tonight's session, and you're answering my questions like you're reading from a script."
He stops walking and turns to face me, and I can see the exhaustion in his expression. "I'm sorry. I know I've been... off. I'm just dealing with some family stuff that's more complicated than I expected."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not really. Not right now."
Which is code for "not with you," and that realization hits me like a physical blow. Three weeks ago, Matt Gable was the person who insisted that I eat breakfast and asked about my fears and made me feel like I was worth fighting for. Now he won't even share what's bothering him.
"Okay," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. "But Matt? If this is about us—about whether our relationship is causing more problems than it's solving—I'd rather know directly than have to guess from changes in your texting patterns."
"It's not..." He starts to deny it, then stops. "It's complicated."
"Most worthwhile things are complicated."
"I know. And I know you deserve better than me being weird and distant without explanation. I just need to figure some things out."
"Things about us?"
"Things about everything. About what I want my life to look like after graduation, about whether I'm making decisions based on what I actually want or just what feels good in the moment."
There it is—the question I've been dreading. Whether what we have is real and sustainable, or just an intense college experience that will fade when real life intrudes.
"And you need to figure that out alone?"
"I think I need to figure out who I am when I'm not trying to be the person you need me to be."
The words hang in the air between us, honest and devastating.
Because what Matt doesn't understand is that I've never needed him to be anyone other than exactly who he is.
But apparently, the pressure from his family and the complications of our situation have made him question whether being himself is enough.
"Matt," I say quietly, "I've never wanted you to be anyone other than who you are. If that's what you think this relationship is about—me trying to change you or make you into someone else—then maybe we both need to figure some things out."
"That's not what I meant."
"Isn't it? Because it sounds like you're worried that caring about me means losing yourself, and I can't... I can't be with someone who sees loving me as a compromise of their identity."
He stares at me, and I can see the moment when he realizes what he's actually saying. "Sophia, that's not—"
"It's okay," I interrupt, because suddenly I'm not sure I can handle whatever explanation he's about to offer. "You're right that this is complicated. Maybe we both need some space to figure out what we actually want instead of what feels good in the moment."
"Is that what you want? Space?"
The question is whether I want space, or whether I'm offering it because I'm terrified that if I don't give him room to choose me freely, he'll eventually feel trapped and choose someone else.
"I want you to be sure," I say finally. "About me, about us, about whether this is something worth fighting for or something you're doing because it's easier than ending it. And if you need space to figure that out, then maybe that's what we should do."
"Sophia..."
"Think about it," I say, shouldering my equipment bag and heading toward the exit. "And when you know what you want—really know, not just what you think you should want—let me know."
As I walk across campus to my dorm, I find myself thinking about the kids' questions earlier—about worry and focus and the things that are worth protecting even when everything else feels uncertain. I meant what I told them about continuing to teach no matter what happens with anything else.
But I'm also realizing that protecting something doesn't always mean holding onto it tightly. Sometimes it means giving it room to grow, even if that growth leads away from you.