Chapter Thirteen
Matt
"What do you mean you can't come home?" My mom's voice carries that particular brand of disappointment that she's perfected over twenty-two years of dealing with what she calls my "tendency toward poor prioritization."
"I mean the program has expanded to include a holiday session, and we can't both be gone the same week," I explain, sitting down on my bed and rubbing my forehead. "Sophia's parents are expecting her home too, so one of us has to stay and coordinate with the facility."
"And it has to be you?"
"We decided together. It makes the most logistical sense."
"Matt." My dad's voice joins the call, which means they've put me on speakerphone in the kitchen while my mom makes her mental list of all the ways I'm failing to meet family expectations. "Son, you're talking about skipping Thanksgiving for a girl you've known for a month."
"I'm talking about skipping Thanksgiving for a program that twenty-four kids and their families are counting on, and for a partner who I..." I pause, trying to find words that won't send my mother into full crisis mode. "Who I care about a lot."
"Care about a lot," my mom repeats flatly. "Matthew, you realize you're a senior in college with exactly one semester left before you have to figure out your actual future, right? This is not the time to be making major life decisions based on some college girlfriend."
College girlfriend. Like Sophia is some temporary distraction instead of the person who's fundamentally changed how I think about everything.
"It's not like that," I say, but I can already hear how this sounds to them. How it sounds to anyone who doesn't understand what Sophia and I have built together.
"Then what is it like?" my dad asks, and I can hear the genuine concern under his skepticism. "Because from where we're sitting, it looks like you're throwing away family time for someone you barely know."
I lean back against my pillow and stare at the ceiling, trying to figure out how to explain that Sophia Turner isn't someone I barely know—she's someone I know better than I've ever known anyone.
That working with her has made me want to be better at everything, not just hockey or teaching, but at being the kind of person who shows up for people who matter.
"It's like I finally found something I'm actually good at," I say eventually. "Something that matters."
"You're good at lots of things, honey," my mom says, and her voice softens slightly. "You're good at hockey, you're good with people, you're responsible and kind and—"
"Mom, I'm good at showing up and not causing problems. That's not the same thing as being good at something that actually makes a difference."
"What are you talking about?"
I think about how to explain this without sounding like I'm having some kind of quarter-life crisis.
"I'm talking about the fact that for the first time in my life, I'm doing something that feels important.
These kids are learning and growing and gaining confidence, and I'm part of that.
Sophia and I are building something real together. "
"And you can't build something real while also maintaining family relationships?" my dad asks.
"Of course I can. But sometimes priorities shift, and right now this program and this partnership are more important than one family dinner."
There's a long silence on the other end of the line, and I know I've said the wrong thing. In the Gable family hierarchy of values, family dinner isn't just family dinner—it's proof of loyalty, commitment, and proper prioritization of relationships.
"Matthew," my mom says finally, and her voice has gone cold in the way that means I've crossed a line I didn't know existed. "I think you need to be very careful about letting some girl convince you to abandon the people who've supported you your entire life."
"She's not convincing me to abandon anyone. She doesn't even know about this conversation."
"But she's the reason you're having it."
And there it is—the fundamental disconnect between my family's view of relationships and what I'm actually experiencing with Sophia. To them, caring about someone outside the family means caring less about the family. To me, caring about Sophia has made me more capable of caring about everyone.
"Look," I say, trying to find some middle ground. "What if I came home for a long weekend in December instead? After the holiday session ends?"
"It's not the same thing," my mom says. "Thanksgiving is about tradition. It's about showing up for the people who matter most."
"You matter most. You and Dad and Jamie and the whole family. But Sophia matters too, and this program matters, and I'm not going to apologize for having commitments that extend beyond our kitchen table."
The silence that follows is loaded with all the things we're not saying—about expectations and priorities and the fact that I've never pushed back on family obligations before. About the fact that until Sophia, I never had anything I cared enough about to push back for.
"We'll talk about this later," my dad says finally. "When you've had some time to think about what's really important."
"I know what's really important," I say, but they've already hung up.
I drop my phone on the bed and stare at the wall, trying to process what just happened.
In the span of fifteen minutes, I've apparently become the kind of person who chooses girlfriend over family, prioritizes a temporary college program over established relationships, and makes poor decisions based on romantic feelings. Except that's not what this is at all.
The problem is, I'm not sure how to explain what this actually is.
How do you tell your parents that falling in love with Sophia Turner has made you realize you want to be the kind of person who builds things that matter, not just the kind of person who shows up where expected?
How do you explain that choosing to stay for the holiday session isn't about abandoning family—it's about becoming the kind of man who keeps commitments to people who are counting on him?
My phone buzzes with a text from Sophia: How did the parent call go? Are they excited about you missing turkey for the sake of small humans learning to skate?
I stare at the message, trying to figure out how to respond.
The truth is, I didn't tell my parents about the youth program expansion because I knew they'd see it as proof that I'm letting extracurriculars take over my life.
I told them it was about responsibility, not about the fact that watching Sophia teach kids how to fall safely has become one of my favorite things in the world.
Still processing, I text back. Call you tomorrow?
Everything okay?
Yeah. Just family stuff. Nothing we can't handle.
Three dots appear and disappear several times before her response comes through: You know you can talk to me about family stuff, right? I'm not just here for the fun parts.
And that's the thing that my parents don't understand. Sophia isn't some college girlfriend who's distracting me from real life—she's someone who makes me want to engage more fully with real life. Someone who makes me want to be better at all of it, not just the parts that come easily.
I know, I text back. Rain check on the deep family analysis? Currently questioning all my life choices.
All of them? Even the really good ones?
Especially the really good ones.
That seems counterproductive. The really good ones are the reason you're questioning the questionable ones.
I find myself smiling despite the lingering tension from the phone call. This is what I mean about Sophia—she has this way of cutting through emotional noise and finding the logical center of things. Not in a cold, analytical way, but in a way that makes complicated feelings feel manageable.
You're very wise for someone who color-codes her sock drawer, I text.
My sock drawer organization system is a thing of beauty and you know it.
I know. I've seen it. It's both impressive and slightly terrifying.
The best organizational systems usually are.
I set my phone aside and think about what my parents said—about priorities and commitments and the difference between temporary college relationships and real life. The thing is, what I have with Sophia doesn't feel temporary. It feels like the most real thing I've encountered in years.
But I also know that my family has a point about priorities. I am a senior in college with exactly one semester left before I have to figure out what comes next. I do have law school applications to finish and decisions to make about my future that extend far beyond this campus and this program.
The problem is, all of those future decisions feel abstract compared to the very concrete reality of twenty-four kids who are counting on us to be there next week, and one brilliant, complicated woman who's somehow become the center of my world without me entirely realizing when that happened.
My phone rings, and for a moment I think it might be my parents calling back to continue our conversation. Instead, it's Jamie, my younger sister, calling from what sounds like a very loud party.
"Hey, loser," she says by way of greeting. "Mom just called me in full crisis mode about how you're abandoning the family for some ice skating girlfriend. Please tell me you're not actually having a nervous breakdown over a girl."
"I'm not having a nervous breakdown over a girl."
"Good. Are you having a nervous breakdown over something else?"
I consider this. "Maybe? I'm having some kind of breakdown about the fact that I apparently have to choose between being a good son and being a good partner, and I don't understand why those things have to be mutually exclusive."
"They don't," Jamie says immediately. "Mom's just freaking out because you've never missed a family holiday before, and she's interpreting it as you pulling away from us."
"Am I pulling away from you?"
"Are you?"
"I don't think so. I think I'm just... growing toward something instead of just away from things, if that makes sense."
"It makes perfect sense. And it's about time, honestly."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Matt, you're the most accommodating person I know.
You've spent four years of college making sure you don't cause problems for anyone—not the family, not your teammates, not your professors.
It's kind of refreshing to hear that you finally care about something enough to potentially inconvenience people. "
I hadn't thought about it that way. "You think I'm too accommodating?"
"I think you're so focused on being a good guy that you sometimes forget to be your own guy. And if this skating program and this girlfriend are helping you figure out what you actually want instead of just what everyone else expects from you, then good for you."
"Even if it means missing Thanksgiving?"
"Especially if it means missing Thanksgiving. Matt, you're allowed to have a life that doesn't revolve around family approval."
I lean against my headboard, processing this perspective. "When did you get so wise about family dynamics?"
"When I realized that Mom and Dad raised us to be independent and then act surprised when we actually become independent.
" She pauses, and I can hear music and laughter in the background.
"Look, I have to go, but Matt? Don't let them guilt you into thinking that caring about someone outside the family means you care less about us. That's not how love works."
"Thanks, Jamie."
"Thank me by bringing this mysterious ice skating girlfriend home for Christmas so I can interrogate her properly."
"Deal."
After we hang up, I sit in the quiet of my room and think about what she said—about being accommodating versus being my own person, about the difference between independence and abandonment.
For most of my life, I've defined being a good person as being easy to get along with, not causing problems, showing up where expected and doing what was asked of me.
My phone buzzes with another text from her: Random question: what are you most afraid of?
I stare at the message for a long moment, trying to figure out how to answer honestly. What am I most afraid of? I'm afraid that my parents are right about priorities, and I'm making short-sighted decisions based on feelings that might not last.
Right now? I'm afraid of being the kind of person who chooses safe over meaningful, I text back.
That's a good fear. It means you're paying attention to what matters.
What about you? What are you most afraid of?
That I'll convince myself I don't deserve the good things when they show up.
And what are the good things?
You. This program.
I read her message three times, feeling something tight in my chest loosen with each reading. This is what my parents don't understand—Sophia isn't a distraction from figuring out my life. She's helping me figure out what kind of life I actually want to build.
We're quite a pair, I text back. You're afraid of deserving good things, I'm afraid of choosing them.
Maybe that's why we work. We can remind each other that we're worth the risk.
Deal.
As I get ready for bed, I think about my parents, who love me enough to worry about my choices even when they don't understand them. And I think about Jamie's words about being my own person instead of just being accommodating.
Most of all, I think about Sophia's text about deserving good things and choosing them, and how maybe the most mature thing I can do is trust that I'm capable of making decisions that serve both my current happiness and my long-term growth.