Chapter Six
Matt
Monday morning hits like a slap shot to the face.
Not because anything particularly bad happens—just because spending Saturday wandering around Pike Place Market with Sophia Turner, kissing her, and watching her discover the revolutionary concept of eating food for pleasure, has left me in a weird headspace that I'm not entirely sure how to navigate.
The problem is that I can't stop thinking about the way she looked when she tried that bacon maple bar. Like she'd discovered fire. Or the way she admitted she doesn't know if she actually wants to be a doctor, like she'd never given herself permission to consider alternatives.
The bigger problem is that I'm pretty sure I'm falling for her, which wasn't exactly part of my carefully planned senior year strategy of "keep your head down, graduate, and figure out law school."
I'm contemplating this uncomfortable reality while lacing up my skates for Monday afternoon practice when Coach Shanahan appears in the locker room doorway with the kind of expression that suggests someone's about to get voluntold for something unpleasant.
"Gable. My office. Now."
Tyler looks up from his own gear. "Ooh, somebody's in trouble."
"Shut up," I mutter, but he's probably right. Coach Shanahan only uses that tone when someone's screwed up spectacularly or he's about to dump some administrative nightmare on an unsuspecting player.
I follow him down the hallway to his cramped office, which smells like old coffee and stale after shave. He gestures for me to sit in the plastic chair across from his desk while he shuffles through a stack of papers that looks like it might collapse under its own weight.
"We have a situation," he says without preamble.
"What kind of situation?"
"The kind where the athletic department is threatening to cut our ice time because apparently we've been 'creating unnecessary conflicts with other programs.'" He makes air quotes around the phrase, looking like he'd rather be doing literally anything else. "Specifically, the figure skating club."
My stomach drops. "Coach, I can explain—"
"Can you? Because according to Athletic Director Morrison, we've been engaged in what she calls an 'escalating territorial dispute' that's resulted in multiple formal complaints, damage to equipment, and general disruption of the facility."
Shit. I mean, she's not wrong, but when you put it like that it sounds way worse than a few hockey pucks left on the ice and some passive-aggressive note exchanges.
"It's not that serious," I try. "We've actually worked things out recently."
"Have you? Because this morning I got a call saying that unless we demonstrate our ability to 'collaborate constructively with other ice sports programs,' they're cutting our practice time in half and giving the slots to Western Washington's hockey team."
"They can't do that."
"They absolutely can do that. We're a club sport, Gable, not varsity. We exist at the pleasure of the athletic department, and right now they're not particularly pleased."
I stare at him, trying to process this information. Half our practice time would be devastating. We've got games scheduled through March, and there's no way we can maintain our competitive edge with limited ice access.
"What do they want us to do?"
Coach Shanahan leans back in his chair and gives me the look of a man who's about to deliver very bad news. "They want us to partner with the figure skating club on a youth outreach program. Something called 'Huskies Youth Winter Sports Experience' for local elementary school kids."
"Partner with them how?"
"Co-coaching. Joint practices. Demonstrating that hockey players and figure skaters can work together toward common goals instead of waging war over ice time."
I process this slowly. "You want me to teach little kids to figure skate."
"I want you to teach little kids basic ice skills alongside the figure skating club president. Who I believe you know."
"Sophia."
"Ms. Turner, yes. Apparently she's already agreed to the program."
Of course she has. Sophia Turner would never turn down an opportunity to organize something, especially if it means saving her club's ice time.
But the thought of trying to merge hockey culture with figure skating precision is...
well, it's either going to be hilarious or completely disastrous. Probably both.
"How many kids are we talking about?" I ask.
"Twenty-four. Ages six to ten. Two sessions per week for six weeks, starting this Wednesday."
"This Wednesday? As in, two days from now?"
"The athletic department wants to see immediate action. Apparently our little ice war has been more disruptive than I realized."
I think about this. Twenty-four small humans who probably have limited ice experience, supervised by me and Sophia, who until recently were engaged in what could generously be called a cold war. What could possibly go wrong?
"Coach, I've never taught kids before."
"You've got three younger cousins."
"That's not the same thing."
"It's close enough. Besides, Turner's supposedly good with kids. You'll figure it out."
"What if we don't?"
Coach Shanahan fixes me with a stare that suggests this question has only one acceptable answer. "Then you'd better hope Western Washington's hockey team has room for a transfer student."
Thirty minutes later, I'm standing outside the figure skating club's practice space, holding a folder full of youth program information and trying to figure out how to explain to Sophia that our complicated whatever-this-is just got a lot more complicated.
The door is propped open, and I can hear voices inside—Sophia giving what sounds like detailed instructions about practice schedules and competition requirements. Her voice has that precise, organized quality that usually signals she's in full president mode.
"—and remember that Regional Qualifiers are in three weeks, so we need to focus on clean run-throughs rather than learning new elements. Sarah, that means no attempting triple loops until your double loop is completely consistent."
I knock on the doorframe and stick my head in. "Sophia? Can I talk to you for a minute?"
She looks up from her clipboard—because of course she has a clipboard—and I watch her expression shift from club president to whatever we are now. Something softer, more personal.
"Sure. Everyone, keep working on your compulsory figures. I'll be right back."
She follows me into the hallway, and for a moment we just stand there looking at each other.
It's been less than forty-eight hours since our market adventure, but somehow everything feels different.
More charged, like we're both aware that we've crossed some invisible line from enemies to something else.
"How was practice?" I ask, because I'm apparently incapable of normal conversation when she's looking at me like that.
"Fine. Good. Productive." She pauses. "How was yours?"
"Haven't had it yet. Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."
Her expression immediately shifts to cautious. "Okay."
"Did Athletic Director Morrison talk to you today?"
"Yes, about the youth program. I was going to text you, but I realized we don't have each other's numbers."
"Right." I pull out my phone. "We should probably fix that."
We exchange numbers, and there's something weirdly intimate about watching her type "Matt Gable" into her contacts. Like we're officially acknowledging that this thing between us exists outside of accidental rink encounters.
"So," I say, sliding my phone back into my pocket, "twenty-four kids. Figure skating and hockey. What could go wrong?"
She laughs, but there's a nervous edge to it. "I've been thinking about that. I have some ideas for how to structure the sessions, but I wanted to run them by you first."
"Let me guess. You've already created a detailed curriculum with learning objectives and assessment metrics."
"Maybe." She looks defensive. "Is that bad?"
"It's very you. But Sophia, these are six-year-olds. They don't need assessment metrics. They need to not fall down and maybe learn to stop without crashing into the boards."
"I know that. I just... I want this to work. For both our programs."
There's something in her voice that makes me look at her more carefully. She's fidgeting with her clipboard, and there's tension in her shoulders that wasn't there on Saturday.
"Hey," I say gently. "What's really going on? Because this isn't just about ice time, is it?"
She's quiet for a moment, then sighs. "Morrison made it clear that if this program fails, it reflects poorly on both of us as program leaders. And I can't... I can't have anything else on my record that suggests I'm not capable of handling responsibility."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean my parents are already concerned about the time I spend on figure skating. If they think it's interfering with my academic performance or my leadership abilities..." She trails off.
"They'd make you quit the club."
"They'd strongly suggest I focus on more important things. Like they did before."
And there it is—the fear that's been driving her perfectionism all along. Not just the desire to succeed, but the terror of having something she loves taken away again.
"Sophia," I say, "that's not going to happen."
"You don't know that."
"Yeah, I do. Because we're going to make this program work. Together."
She looks up at me, and I can see her trying to decide whether to trust me with this. "You really think we can handle twenty-four kids?"
"I think we can handle anything when we're not actively trying to sabotage each other."
"That's... optimistic."
"I'm an optimistic guy. Plus, I have secret weapon."
"Which is?"
"You. You're incredible with organization and planning, and I'm good at making chaos seem intentional. Kids love chaos."
"That's your teaching philosophy? Intentional chaos?"
"Hey, it's worked for me so far."
She shakes her head, but she's smiling now. "This is going to be interesting."
"That's one word for it." I gesture toward the folder in my hands. "Want to grab coffee and go through the program details? We've got exactly thirty-six hours to figure out how to merge hockey and figure skating without anyone getting hurt."
"Thirty-six hours," she repeats. "That's not very much time."
"It's enough. We'll figure it out as we go."
"I don't like figuring things out as I go."
"I know. But sometimes the best things happen when you're not completely prepared for them."
She gives me a look that suggests she knows I'm not just talking about youth hockey programs anymore. "Like what?"
"Like Saturday. Like this." I gesture between us. "Like whatever we're doing right now."
"What are we doing right now?"
"I'm not sure," I admit. "But I'm starting to think that might be okay."
She's quiet for a moment, considering this. Then she nods. "Coffee sounds good. But I'm bringing my laptop."
"Of course you are."
"And a notebook. And probably some preliminary lesson plan templates."
"Turner."
"Yeah?"
"Just bring yourself. We'll figure out the rest."
She smiles at that—the real smile that makes something in my chest go warm. "Okay. But if this goes badly, I'm blaming you."
"Fair enough. But if it goes well, I'm taking all the credit."
"Deal."
As we walk toward the campus coffee shop, I find myself thinking about how much has changed in just a few days.
Last week, the idea of co-coaching anything with Sophia Turner would have seemed like a nightmare.
Now, the thought of spending two sessions a week working alongside her, watching her interact with kids who probably won't care about her color-coded organizational systems, seems like it might be the best part of my week.
Of course, there's also the very real possibility that we're about to crash and burn spectacularly in front of two dozen children and their parents, which would probably end both our programs and any chance of whatever this thing between us is becoming something real.
But as I watch Sophia pull out her phone to check her calendar app, already mentally organizing our coffee planning session, I realize I'm not worried about crashing and burning.
I'm just looking forward to figuring it out together.
Even if "together" involves a lot more clipboards and lesson plans than I'm used to.