Page 64 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

As they wheeled him toward the waiting ambulance, surrounded by medical staff and concerned teammates, he kept hold of my hand as long as he could. And I knew, with a certainty that would have impressed Victorian doctors, that some victories weren't measured in goals or points or playoff trophies.

Sometimes, they were measured in the space between heartbeats, in the press of lips, when everything finally made sense, even if those moments ended in an ambulance ride to the emergency room.

Especially then.

Chapter nineteen

The Not -So- Secret Relationship

There are exactly twenty-seven ceiling tiles in room 304 of Preston Memorial Hospital. I know because I counted them repeatedly during the endless hours of visiting Jack, trying not to look too interested when nurses came in, attempting to maintain what the team doctor called "appropriate visitor dynamics."

"Your heart rate spikes every time she comes in," the night nurse observed, checking Jack's vitals. "Should I be noting that in your chart?"

"Just excitement about Victorian medical practices," Jack said smoothly, though his hand found mine under the blanket when she turned away. "Sophie was explaining nineteenth-century treatment protocols for thoracic injuries."

I was, in fact, doing no such thing. I was actually trying not to stare at how unfairly attractive he looked, even in a hospital gown, with three broken ribs and enough painkillers to sedate a Victorian surgery ward.

"Mhmm." The nurse adjusted something on his IV. "And that's why you're both blushing?"

"Medical history is very stimulating," I managed.

Jack's thumb traced patterns on my palm, sending electricity up my arm. Two days since the playoff kiss, and every touch still felt like lightning. She could feel the warmth radiating from him. And he looked at her so intensely that she almost forgot to breathe.

"Just keep the 'stimulation' minimal," she warned. "Those ribs need rest."

After she left, Jack turned to me with that real smile that still made my heart forget basic anatomy. "So, about those Victorian treatment protocols..."

"Absolutely not. You heard the nurse. Rest."

"I am resting." His fingers kept moving against my skin. "Very restfully learning about medical history."

"Jack."

"Sophie."

She leaned in closer, and all that mattered was their shared connection; it was as if it could heal his wounds.

A commotion in the hallway made us spring apart - nearly knocking over a tray of medical supplies and him wincing at the sudden movement. The hockey team burst in, carrying what appeared to be half the campus bookstore.

"Cap!" Mike led the charge, arms full of books. "We raided the medical history section. If you're stuck here, you might as well study stuff you like instead of pretending to read playbooks."

"Also brought contraband coffee," Tommy added, producing a cup of what was definitely not hospital cafeteria quality. "Don't tell the nurses."

I started to pull my hand away, but Jack held on. The team noticed - of course they noticed - but their grins were conspiratorial rather than teasing.

"Don't mind us," Mike said, arranging books on the bedside table. "Just dropping off brain fuel for our secretly nerdy captain and his definitely-not-girlfriend."

"We're not—" I started.

"Secret?" Tommy suggested. "Because the playoff kiss was pretty public, Coach has it on his phone—"

"Here for a Victorian medical history discussion," Jack finished smoothly, but his hand tightened on mine.

The team exchanged knowing looks but played along, launching into a detailed analysis of their playoff victory that somehow incorporated both hockey strategy and nineteenth-century surgical techniques.

After three days, the hospital released Jack with strict instructions about rest and recovery. His room became our new sanctuary, though sneaking in past his teammates required timing worthy of playoff strategy.

"Coast is clear," Dex texted one evening. "Mike's at practice, and Tommy's at a study group. But hurry - team meeting in an hour."

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