Page 25 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

He didn't get up this time.

The crowd went silent. On the ice, Tommy looked horrified, his gloves pressed to his mouth. The team gathered around their fallen captain as medical staff rushed out.

"Jack!" The word tore from my throat, too loud in the hushed arena. Players turned to look, including most of the team. My voice had carried across the ice, betraying every pretense of academic detachment.

The medical bay hummed with tension. Jack sat on the exam table, his jersey discarded, arguing with the medic despite the impressive bruising already spreading across his ribs.

"I need to get back out there," he insisted, wincing as he tried to stand. "There's still ten minutes—"

"You need X-rays," the medic cut him off, pressing him back down. "Possible concussion, definite rib contusions. You're done for tonight, Morrison."

The team had gathered outside, pressed against the glass partition. Tommy's face was streaked with tears, his helmet clutched tight against his chest. Mike kept mouthing "I'm sorry, Cap" through the window.

They love him, I realized.Not the reputation, not the image, but him. The way he leads, the way he protects, the way he makes them believe in themselves.

"Let me at least talk to them," Jack pleaded, his captain's voice cracking slightly. "They need—"

"They need their captain alive for playoffs," the medic interrupted. "Two minutes. Then you're going to the hospital."

The team flooded in the moment the door opened. Tommy reached Jack first, practically falling over his skates.

"Cap, I'm so sorry, I should've seen him coming, I—"

"Hey." Jack's voice was firm despite his obvious pain. "You played exactly like you should have. That goal? That's what we practiced for. That's Preston hockey."

"But you—"

"Did my job. That's what captains do." Jack looked around at his team, meeting each pair of eyes. "Now you do yours. Ten minutes left. Show them what this team is made of."

Mike stepped forward, his usual joking demeanor gone. "We've got this, Cap. For you."

"For Preston," Jack corrected, but his smile was proud. "Davis, you're acting captain. Remember what we worked on about their left defense?"

"Weak on the cross-ice pass after penalty kills," Davis nodded. "Already spotted it."

"Tommy, they'll be watching for you now. Use it. Draw them out like we practiced."

The team huddled closer, listening intently as Jack laid out quick strategy adjustments. Even through his pain, his hockey mind was sharp, identifying weaknesses and opportunities.

"For Preston," they said in unison, tapping their sticks on the floor - their traditional team gesture.

Three hours and several X-rays later, Jack was officially diagnosed with bruised ribs and a mild concussion. The doctorprescribed rest and monitoring, which he accepted with poor grace.

"This is unnecessary," he grumbled as we helped him into Dex's car. "I've had worse in practice."

"Again, not reassuring," I said, sliding into the back seat with him since Dex insisted he needed "monitoring."

The ride was quiet. Jack's eyes were closed, but every bump made him tense. Without thinking, I took his hand. He squeezed back.

"That was stupid," I said softly. "Brave, but stupid."

"Mike's half my size," he murmured. "Would've been worse for him."

"Is this a captain thing or a Jack thing?"

He opened his eyes, looking at me with surprising intensity despite the painkillers. "Maybe it's a 'some things are worth protecting' thing."

The way he's looking at me, like maybe I'm one of those things worth protecting. Maybe we've both been protecting ourselves from the wrong things all along.

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