Page 14 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"I don't. But when the dean emails the entire classics department about proper fountain etiquette—"

"Why do you care?" He shut his book with more force than nineteenth-century literature deserved. The sound echoed in the small room, making a freshman at the next table jump. "Doesn't fit your neat little rules? Your perfect organized world where everyone behaves as they should?"

Because I spent all weekend thinking about how carefully you handled those museum pieces. Because I can't reconcile that Jack with this one. Because maybe I want the rumors to be false and that terrifies me.

"I care because I'm supposed to be helping you maintain academic eligibility, not watching you self-destruct over some girl—"

"Some girl?" His laugh was harsh, nothing like the warm sound I'd heard in the museum. He stood up abruptly, sending his chair scraping across the floor. "You really believe everything you hear, don't you? Miss Perfect Sophie Chen, judging from her ivory tower of dental tools and Victorian literature."

A group of students at nearby tables looked up at the commotion. One girl was already typing furiously on her phone, probably adding to the campus gossip mill: "Jack Morrison fights with tutor in library - romance gone wrong?"

"At least I'm not the one with a Twitter account dedicated to my bad decisions!"

The silence that followed was deafening. Jack stood up slowly, and for the first time, I saw real anger in his eyes. Not the performative kind he used to maintain his reputation, but something raw and genuine that made me want to take a step back.

"You want to know the truth?" His voice was dangerously quiet, barely carrying across the study table between us. "I was working at the bookstore Saturday night. Because that's not just my job – it's my mandatory work study. Part of my disciplinary probation."

He yanked up his sleeve, revealing a time card stamped with Saturday's date. The movement made his shirt pull tight across his shoulders, but for once, I wasn't distracted by that.

The time card showed an eight-hour shift, spanning the exact hours of the alleged party destruction.

Wait, what? My carefully constructed narrative wobbled like a poorly organized display case.

"Yeah," he continued, pacing in our small study room, running his hands through his hair in a way that looked less calculatedand more genuinely agitated. "Turns out when you get caught breaking into the library at 3 AM, they don't just let it go, even if you're the hockey team captain. Even if you were only there because—" He stopped abruptly, turning to stare out the window.

"Because what?"

The silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the soft whir of the library's ancient heating system and the muffled whispers of students pretending not to eavesdrop.

He spun back to face me. "Because I needed to use the rare books room for research. My dyslexia's worse at the end of the semester, and the quiet helps. But try explaining that to campus security."

I sat there, processing. The infamous library break-in last semester had been attributed to a party gone wrong. The official report mentioned alcohol, vandalism, and a stolen mascot costume. But now...

"Why didn't you just request access? The library has accommodations—"

"Right, because what I need is more people knowing the hockey team captain can barely read under pressure." His bitter laugh hurt something in my chest. He grabbed his leather jacket from the back of his chair, the movement sharp with frustration. "Better to be the bad boy who breaks rules than the guy who needs help."

A few books tumbled from the table. I reached for them at the same time he did, our hands colliding.

"Jack—"

"Don't." He straightened, shoving his books into his bag with none of the care I'd seen him show in the museum. "I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity. I just... I didn't know."

And isn't that the problem? How many other things don't I know? How many assumptions have I made based on campus gossip and carefully maintained reputations?

"No, you didn't. Because you decided who I was the moment you saw me. Bad boy, party animal, another dumb jock breaking hearts and rules." He shoved his books in his bag with enough force to make the table shake. "Guess what? Sometimes people live up to their reputations because it's easier than fighting them."

Like uptight museum girls who make rules about everything because it's easier than admitting they might be wrong about someone?

"The car in the fountain—"

"Was the football team. But hey, blame the guy with the record, right?" He headed for the door, his boots echoing on the library's wooden floors. Several students quickly pretended to be absorbed in their books as he passed. "You know what's funny? I actually thought you might be different. Might see past the reputation. My mistake."

"Wait," I stood up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed—"

"Rule 335, remember?" His smile was sharp enough to cut. "No personal discussions."

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