Page 26 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

My phone buzzed with a text from Mike: "Tell Jack we won it for him. Tommy scored in the final minute. Exactly like Cap taught him."

I showed Jack the message, watching a proud smile replace his pained expression. "Never doubted them," he said softly.

"The team's blowing up the group chat," Dex announced, checking her phone at a red light. "They want to know if Jack's girlfriend is taking good care of him."

"I'm not—" I started.

"She's not—" Jack said simultaneously.

"Right," Dex drawled. "Because tutors always rush onto the ice screaming when their mentees get hurt."

"I did not scream," I protested. "I expressed academic concern."

I just happened to express it at a volume that could be heard over an entire hockey arena and ran toward the ice with tears streaming from my eyes. But that was purely a professional concern. Obviously.

"Pretty sure I heard you from the ice," Jack said, but he was smiling despite his split lip.

Dex dropped us at Jack's apartment despite my protests. "He needs monitoring," she said firmly. "Consider it an academic necessity."

The third-floor walk-up proved challenging with Jack's injuries. Each step earned a poorly concealed wince, though he stubbornly refused help. His apartment door bore evidence of his dual nature - a Preston Hockey schedule tacked next to a carefully preserved playbill from last semester's production of "The Importance of Being Earnest."

Inside, the space defied every expectation of a college athlete's apartment. Bookshelves lined every wall, volumes arranged with a care that contradicted his casual campus persona. A vintage medical text I'd been hunting for months sat casually among poetry collections. Hockey trophies shared space with first editions. Like their owner, nothing here fits into neat categories.

"You're staring," he murmured, easing himself onto the leather couch with visible discomfort. "Concussion monitoring," I said, taking in the carefully organized shelves. "Very scientific."

Very scientific. Science requires me to notice how soft his hair looks in this light. How vulnerable he seems without his usual defenses. How much I want to—

"Sure." He shifted, wincing. "Thanks for coming. To the game. And after."

"Well, I couldn't have my best student missing tutorials because of heroic hockey injuries."

"Best student, huh?"

"Don't let it go to your head. You're my only student."

He smiled, then grimaced as it pulled at his split lip. Without thinking, I reached out to touch the bruise forming on his jaw.

His skin was warm under my fingers. Too warm. Or maybe that was just me, suddenly aware of how close we were, how late it was, how many lines we were blurring.

We should stop this, I thought hazily.Should maintain a professional distance. Should remember all the reasons why this is complicated. But his skin is so warm, and he's looking at me like I'm a first edition he's afraid to touch, and—

"Sophie," he said softly, leaning into my touch. His voice was rough with something that wasn't just pain. "I..."

The moment stretched between us, delicate as a rare manuscript page. I should move away. Should remember all the reasons this was complicated. Should stop noticing how vulnerable he looked, how his usual carefully maintained facade had crumbled under exhaustion and painkillers.

His phone buzzed again - another team update. He reached for it but stopped halfway, the movement making him wince.

"Here," I grabbed it for him. A video from Tommy: the winning goal, exactly as Jack had designed it. The team's celebration after was deafening, even through the phone's tiny speaker.

"Go to sleep, Jack," I whispered but didn't move my hand from where it had settled back against his jaw.

"Stay?"

One word. So simple. So dangerous.

Say no, my rational mind insisted.Say you need to maintain professional boundaries. Say anything except—

I promised him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

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