Page 22 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"He makes me want to take risks," I admitted finally. "And that terrifies me."

"Good." Dex stood, grinning. "Because he just texted asking if you'd be at tonight's hockey game. The team wants to meet the girl who's got their captain quoting Romantic poetry at midnight."

"I don't know anything about hockey."

"But you know about taking risks now, don't you?"

She left me there, surrounded by the scent of cedar and old books, holding a volume of Keats that felt less like a book and more like a beginning.

Maybe it was time to stop categorizing Jack Morrison and trying to fit him into neat boxes labeled 'bad boy,'' secret intellectual,' or 'off limits.'

Maybe it was time just to let him be all of it – the motorcycle rebel and the midnight reader, the hockey star and the poetry lover.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to let myself be more than the uptight academic who never took chances.

I picked up my phone and typed: "I don't know the first thing about hockey."

His response came immediately: "I don't know the first thing about Victorian medical practices. Didn't stop you from teaching me."

"Is that an invitation?"

"That's a promise. Front row seats. I'll even explain the rules."

"No motorcycle rides to the rink?"

"Wouldn't dream of it. Though you're still wearing my jacket, aren't you?"

I smiled, breathing in cedar and possibility. "Maybe."

"Keep it. It looks better on you, anyway. See you at seven?"

"Seven," I agreed, already wondering what one wears to watch him play hockey while wearing his jacket and carrying his copy of Keats.

Life had gotten wonderfully, terrifyingly complicated.

And for once, I was ready to embrace the chaos.

The hockey rink was a world I'd actively avoided until now, dismissing it as the antithesis of academic pursuit. But standing here in Jack's leather jacket, clutching a worn copy of Keats, I had to admit there was something electric about the atmosphere.

"Is that his jacket?" A girl behind me whispered to her friend. "Jack Morrison's actual jacket?"

"Impossible," her friend replied. "He never lets anyone wear it. Sarah tried to borrow it when they dated last semester, and he practically ran away."

I sank lower in my seat, but Dex just grinned beside me. "Oh, just wait until they see what's in your pocket."

"The Keats stays hidden," I hissed. "I have a reputation to maintain."

"Pretty sure that reputation went out the window when you showed up to a hockey game wearing the team captain's jacket."

Before I could respond, the teams skated out for warm-ups. I'd seen Jack in various states of academic dishevelment, but this was different. On the ice, he moved with a grace that belonged in poetry. His jersey – number 13, because, of course, he'd choose an unlucky number – clung to broad shoulders I wasn't noticing.

"Captain's looking sharp tonight," one of the girls behind us commented. "Think it has anything to do with the tutor everyone's talking about?"

"The museum girl? No way. Jack Morrison doesn't do relationships. He does wild parties and motorcycle races and—"

"Poetry annotations at midnight?" I muttered under my breath.

Dex snorted. "Don't forget the color-coded bookshelf."

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