Page 13

Chapter thirteen

Family Pressure

T here are exactly three things I've managed to keep separate during my college career: my academic life, my family's medical dynasty expectations, and whatever this thing is with Jack Morrison. So naturally, the universe decided to combine all three into what I'm now calling The Great Family Convergence of Preston University's Hockey Playoffs.

It started with a text from my mother: "Your father and I think it's time to discuss your future medical career choices. We'll be at Saturday's game. The one you're attending with that hockey boy you're tutoring. Bringing your MCAT prep books!"

This was followed immediately by one from Dex: "Heads up - Grandma Morrison is coming to the game. She's bringing Jack's baby photos AND his middle school poetry journal. This is not a drill."

Perfect. Just perfect. This totally-not-a-relationship with Jack needs our combined families to analyze our interaction while wielding standardized test prep materials and adolescent poetry.

This is how I found myself sandwiched between my mother (clutching a dental anatomy textbook "just in case you get bored, dear") and Jack's grandmother (wearing what appeared to be an entire hockey merchandise store) in Preston University's overcrowded arena. The situation felt like a Victorian novel where all the worst possible social scenarios converge at once, except instead of a ballroom, we had artificial ice and the constant risk of flying pucks.

"Sophie," my mother whispered during warm-ups, somehow making it sound like a medical diagnosis, "you do remember that the Chen family has produced doctors for three generations? Your great-grandfather started this legacy with nothing but a medical bag and determination."

"And terrible handwriting," I muttered. "Very traditional."

"I'm just saying, medical school applications—"

"Look!" Jack's grandmother interrupted, pointing at the ice where Jack was effortlessly weaving between his teammates. "That's my Jackie! Doesn't he look handsome in his uniform? Though I preferred it when he was in the drama club. He did such a lovely Hamlet in tenth grade. The tights really showed off his—"

"GRANDMA!" Dex yelped.

"Athletic ability," Grandma Morrison finished innocently. "What did you think I was going to say, dear?"

Hamlet? HAMLET? The campus bad boy played Hamlet? Don't think about Jack in tights. Don't imagine him delivering soliloquies. Don't—oh god, he's looking up at us.

Jack spotted our bizarre family gathering and nearly crashed into the boards. His usual graceful movements turned chaotic as he registered the unprecedented sight of both our families sharing a row. Even from this distance, I could see the panic in his eyes.

He recovered quickly, but not before his teammate Mike skated into him, too busy laughing to watch where he was going.

"He's gotten so serious lately," his grandmother continued, adjusting her hand-knitted Preston University scarf (which, upon closer inspection, had "Jackie's #1 Fan" worked into the pattern). "All this hockey, hockey, hockey. Remember when he used to write poetry? Such sensitive verses about autumn leaves and unrequited love. Oh! I think I have one here somewhere—"

She began rummaging in her massive purse, which seemed to contain enough memories to fill a museum.

My mother's eyebrows shot up. "Poetry?"

Poetry? First Hamlet, now poetry? This is cosmically unfair. He's not allowed to be hot AND literary. There have to be limits. The Geneva Convention probably has something to say about boys who can score goals AND write sonnets.

"Oh yes," Grandma Morrison beamed, extracting a worn notebook with a triumphant flourish. "He still keeps a journal. Very romantic soul, my Jackie. He tries to hide it these days behind all that leather and motorcycle nonsense. Here's one from his junior year: 'The autumn leaves fall like tears of gold—'"

"MOTHER!" Jack's father arrived just in time, and his Preston Hockey Alumni jacket was a clear statement of expectations. "Put that away. Is he practicing his left-side defense? The scouts will be watching that specifically. His whole future depends on—"

"Marcus," Grandma Morrison sighed, reluctantly tucking away what I desperately hoped wasn't the only copy of Jack's poetic past, "the boy can quote entire Shakespeare plays. Maybe we could discuss that instead? Did you know he's been writing again? His tutor here has been quite the inspiration—"

I choked on my water. Several rows of students turned to stare.

The tension was interrupted by my father's arrival, who had somehow managed to finish his dental surgeries early and appeared clutching what looked like every medical school brochure published in the last decade.

"Sophie!" He waved the brochures like victory flags. "I've highlighted the most prestigious neurological programs. Perhaps orthopedics would be more relevant now, given your current interests." He glanced meaningfully at the ice where Jack was doing warm-up laps.

"Dad—"

"The Johns Hopkins recruiter specifically mentioned their sports medicine division," he continued enthusiastically. "Very prestigious. Though, of course, Harvard—"

"Richard," my mother interrupted, "she hasn't even taken the MCAT yet."

"Exactly why we need to discuss study strategies now," he said, pulling out a color-coded schedule that made my organizational systems look amateur. "If she starts preparing immediately—"

"Oh!" Grandma Morrison perked up. "Speaking of studying, did Sophie tell you about the beautiful essay Jackie wrote about medical practices in Victorian literature? So passionate about the intersection of science and art. Just like his poetry—"

My father's brochures rustled in confusion. "Poetry?"

"Richard," my mother hissed, "focus on the medical connection."

But Grandma Morrison was already pulling out what appeared to be a scrapbook labeled "Jackie's Literary Journey: From Hamlet to Hockey (But Mostly Hamlet)."

"Look," she said, flipping pages with practiced enthusiasm. "Here he is at the state drama competition. His soliloquy about existential doubt won first place. And here's his poem about the tragic parallels between face-offs and fate—"

My father looked like someone had just told him teeth weren't real.

On the ice, Jack must have sensed the escalating family chaos because he kept shooting worried glances at our section, especially when his grandmother started demonstrating what appeared to be his dramatic hand gestures from Macbeth.

"The boy needs to focus," Jack's father muttered. "The Bruins' scout is watching his defensive transitions specifically—"

"The boy needs to be himself," Grandma Morrison countered, still flipping through the scrapbook. "Oh! Here's the poem he wrote last week about Victorian medical artifacts in moonlight. Sophie, dear, doesn't this line about 'dental tools glinting like stars' sound familiar?"

I choked on my hot chocolate. Several students nearby started taking videos.

"Dental tools?" My father perked up. "Perhaps there's hope for medical school after all!"

"Richard," my mother sighed, "I don't think that's the kind of dental interest you're hoping for."

The first period was a blur of family commentary. My mother critiqued the unsafe aspects of body checking ("potential cervical spine injuries! Did you know the rotational force alone—") while Jack's father analyzed every move his son made ("his crossover needs work—the Bruins' scout specifically looks for edge work"). Grandma Morrison alternated between cheering and loudly reminiscing about Jack's community theater days.

"He was also a wonderful Romeo," she told my increasingly bewildered mother. "Such passion! Though not quite as much passion as he shows around your Sophie. Did you see how he keeps looking up here? Just like in Act Two, Scene Two—"

The third period started just in time to save me from having to explain why Jack's recent poetry featured so many references to museum storage rooms and antique medical equipment. But the reprieve was short-lived.

During a particularly tense play, Jack took a hard check that sent him crashing into the boards right in front of our section. Without thinking, I jumped to my feet, one hand pressed against the glass.

"Jack!"

The entire family section went quiet. Even my father stopped color-coding medical school requirements.

"First name basis with your mentee?" my mother asked carefully.

"Very professional," my father added. "Shows good doctor-patient rapport."

"Oh please," Grandma Morrison snorted. "That's not professional concern. That's the same look Jackie gets when he's writing about forbidden love and academic boundaries."

"Mother!" Jack's father protested.

"What? I'm just saying that if they're going to sneak around having romantic moments in the museum after hours, they could at least be subtler about it. The security guard told me all about finding them discussing 'Victorian medical practices' at midnight last week."

Oh god. This is worse than the time I accidentally sent my dental tool wish list to the whole faculty. This is worse than when I tripped into the dean during orientation. This is—

"The museum?" My mother's voice hit a note usually reserved for dental emergencies.

"After hours?" My father's brochures crinkled ominously.

"For academic purposes!" I squeaked.

On the ice, Jack had recovered and was now purposefully not looking at our section while his teammates poorly concealed their laughter. Mike actually had to skate away he was laughing so hard.

"Well," Grandma Morrison said cheerfully, "that's what they're calling it these days. Though in my time, we didn't need Victorian medical artifacts as an excuse to—"

"Look!" I interrupted desperately. "Sports! Very athletic sports things happening!"

But the damage was done. My parents exchanged “that look,” which meant a long discussion about professional boundaries and career focus was in my future. Jack's father was stress-checking scout reports on his phone. And Grandma Morrison was now showing Dex what appeared to be Jack's entire collection of hockey romance poetry.

On the ice, Jack scored a spectacular goal that had the crowd roaring. But instead of his usual celebration, he looked straight up at our section. At me. The intensity of his gaze made my heart forget how to beat properly.

Don't notice how his eyes catch the light. Don't think about how he's playing better than ever since we started, whatever this is between us. Don't remember how he tastes like coffee and possibilities—

"Did you see that?" Jack's father leaned forward. "Perfect execution! That's what the scouts want to see."

"I saw a boy trying to impress someone," Grandma Morrison said quietly. "And I don't think it was the scouts."

The game ended in victory, but the real challenge came after. Both families converged outside the locker room, a collision of expectations and barely concealed judgments. My mother clutched her dental textbook like a shield. Jack's father kept checking his phone for scout feedback. Grandma Morrison smiled like she knew something no one else did.

"I found more poems!" she announced suddenly, producing another notebook from her seemingly bottomless purse. "This one's recent. Something about moonlight in museums and Victorian medical—"

"Mother!" Jack's father looked scandalized.

"What? It's very educational. All those anatomical references—"

Jack emerged just then, still damp from his shower, his hair curling slightly at the ends in a way that should be illegal in academic settings. He stopped short at the sight of our collected families, looking like he'd rather face another three periods than this conversation.

"Jackie!" his grandmother moved first, hugging him despite his protests about being sweaty. "Wonderful game! Though your Hamlet was better. Remember that soliloquy? 'To be or not to be—that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous hockey scouts—'"

"Grandma—"

"And those poems you used to write! Sophie, did he ever show you his sonnets? I have one right here about the tragic beauty of library late fees—"

Sonnets? Did he write SONNETS? This is absolutely unfair. No one should be allowed to play hockey AND write sonnets. It violates some fundamental laws of attraction. Like mixing antimatter and matter. Or wearing stripes with plaid.

"The scouts were impressed," his father interrupted. "Though your left-side defense—"

"Actually," Jack said suddenly, grabbing my hand, "Sophie and I need to discuss... Victorian medical practices. Very urgent. Academic emergency."

"At 10 PM?" my mother asked skeptically.

"Medical history never sleeps," I offered weakly, letting Jack pull me away from our families' collective stare.

"Just like young love!" Grandma Morrison called after us. "Though do try to keep the anatomical references scholarly, dears!"

Later that night, after we'd escaped our families and their combined expectations, Jack and I found ourselves in the empty museum. The dental tools gleamed in their cases, silent witnesses to our complicated story.

"So," Jack said, leaning against a display of Victorian surgical instruments, "that was..."

"A disaster?"

"I was going to say interesting." He smiled that smile that made my heart forget how to beat properly. "Though I could have done without my grandmother's dramatic readings."

"Your sonnet about library late fees was quite good."

"Just wait until you hear my epic poem about card catalogs."

"Jack."

"Complete with heroic couplets."

"You're ridiculous."

"Says the girl who color-codes dental tools."

We were both laughing now, the tension of the evening dissolving into something warmer. He moved closer, one hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

"You know," he said softly, "my grandmother's right about one thing."

"Your talent for iambic pentameter?" Your secret talent for figuring out Shakespeare’s rhythm?

"No." His thumb traced my cheekbone, sending electricity through my skin. "About not hiding anymore."

"Jack—"

"I'm serious, Sophie. I'm tired of pretending I don't write poetry. That I don't love literature as much as hockey, that I don't—" He took a breath. "That I don't feel what I feel for you."

The museum was quiet except for our breathing and the distant hum of fluorescent lights. Through the window, moonlight painted silver patterns across nineteenth-century medical displays.

"Our families—"

"Will adapt. Just like we did."

"The mentorship—"

"Ends in three weeks."

"Your hockey career—"

"Can coexist with everything else I am." His other hand found mine, fingers intertwining. "Just like your medical history obsession can coexist with breaking rules about after-hours museum access."

I laughed despite myself. "That was one time."

"Three times this week."

"For academic purposes!"

"Is that what we're calling it?"

He was closer now, close enough that I could see the gold flecks in his eyes, count his eyelashes, and feel the warmth radiating from his skin.

"Your grandmother probably has this whole conversation documented in her scrapbook already," I whispered.

"Probably. She's surprisingly stealthy for someone who wears that much hockey merchandise."

"Jack."

"Sophie."

"Are we really doing this? Risking everything?"

He smiled, that real smile that belonged to poetry and moonlight rather than hockey rinks and bad boy reputations. "Some things are worth the risk."

And there in the museum, surrounded by Victorian medical history and the weight of expectations, Jack Morrison – hockey star, secret poet, and the most complicated person I'd ever met – leaned in closer and kissed me like we had all the time in the world. The kiss seemed to be a promise – a vow.

Like our story was just beginning.

As if some things were more important than meeting expectations or maintaining reputations.

Like love could be as simple as dental tools and hockey pucks, as complicated as family pressure and academic boundaries, as perfect as poetry written in moonlight.

And maybe that's what made it real.

Even if my father was probably already researching sports medicine programs.

Even if Jack's grandmother was probably writing this whole scene into her scrapbook.

Even if we still had no idea how to explain any of this to our families.

Sometimes, the best stories are the ones you have never seen before.

Even if they involve Victorian medical artifacts, hockey playoffs, and grandmothers with surprisingly detailed documentation of your love life.

Especially then.