Page 24 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

Just like Jack Morrison, who raced motorcycles and read poetry, who played hockey and quoted Keats, who wore leather jackets and reading glasses.

Just like me, discovering that maybe I didn't need to choose between the museum girl and someone who could appreciate both Victorian literature and a perfect slap shot.

Their dreams didn’t have to exist in two different worlds. She had felt every moment on the ice with him. They could, she realized, be complimentary to each other and push each other to new heights.

Maybe we could all be contradictions.

Maybe that's what made us interesting.

Chapter nine

Team Dynamics

The Preston University hockey arena was a cathedral of ice and noise. The stands vibrated with chanting students, their breath visible in the cold air as they stamped their feet and waved blue and gold banners. Below, the ice gleamed under harsh lights, fresh from the Zamboni's pass.

I'd spent my entire college career avoiding sports, but now I found myself clutching Dex's extra ticket, watching Jack lead his team through warm-ups. He moved with a grace that belonged in art galleries, not sports arenas. The way he handled the puck made even my sports-ignorant eyes understand why scouts filled the VIP section.

This is a different Jack entirely, I realized. Not the bad boy who crashed parties or the secret scholar who organized books at 2 AM. This was something else - something real and electric and impossible to ignore.

"Jack's been incredible this season," said Ryan, a junior defenseman who was sitting out with a sprained ankle, droppinginto the seat behind us. "Been drilling the team twice as hard this week."

"Really?" Dex asked, adjusting one of her mourning brooches. Because obviously, that's what one wears to a hockey game.

"Yeah. Had them in at 5 AM for extra practice. Said if we're gonna make it to the playoffs, we need to be perfect." Ryan leaned forward. "Been helping the freshmen too. Spent three hours yesterday working with Tommy on his defensive stance."

Of course, he did. Because Jack Morrison never does anything halfway - whether it's analyzing Victorian literature or leading a hockey team. How did I ever think he was simple enough to fit into one category?

On the ice, Jack gathered his team into a tight circle. His captain's C gleamed on his jersey as he spoke, his voice too low for us to hear, but his intensity was visible even from the stands. Each player got individual attention - a pat on the shoulder here, a quick demonstration there, words that made them stand straighter.

"Morrison's Motivationals," another injured player, Wilson, explained as he joined Ryan. "Best pre-game speeches in the league. Got me through my first rivalry game last year."

The game moved like a violent dance. Jack orchestrated his team with subtle signals and quick calls, adapting their strategy as State's defense tried to lock them down. He was everywhere at once - defending one minute, setting up plays the next, always three steps ahead of the opposition.

He reads the game like he reads Victorian literature, I thought with sudden clarity.Seeing patterns, making connections, and understanding the deeper story beneath the surface. How did I ever think he was only playing a role?

"Watch this," Mike nudged me as Jack intercepted a pass. "Cap's gonna set up Tommy. Kid's been practicing this all week."

Sure enough, Jack drew two defenders, opening a lane. His pass threaded through impossibly small space, landing perfectly on Tommy's stick. The freshman, barely visible behind State's massive defense, fired the puck into the top corner.

It's like watching someone conduct an orchestra, I realized.Every movement deliberate, every player knows exactly where to be. This is why they follow him, not because of his reputation but because he makes them better.

The crowd erupted. Tommy looked stunned until Jack reached him, saying something that made the kid beam with pride.

"That's why he's captain," Davis said. "Knows exactly what each of us needs. Tommy's been doubting himself all season. Watch how different he plays now."

The game grew more physical as State fell behind. Their checks got harder, and their tactics became more aggressive. Jack took the worst of it, absorbing hits meant for smaller teammates but always getting back up.

"They're targeting him," Dex muttered, gripping my arm as Jack picked himself up from another brutal check.

"Always do," Mike confirmed. "Cap won't let them get to the younger guys. Takes the hits himself."

It happened in the third period. Tommy had the puck again, confidence from his goal making him bold. State's captain, all six-foot-four of him, lined up for a hit that would have destroyed the freshman.

Jack saw it coming. He always did.

"No!" I was on my feet before I realized I'd moved, watching Jack throw himself between Tommy and the incoming hit. The sound of impact echoed through the arena like a gunshot.

Please get up. Please be okay. Please don't be hurt because you were trying to protect someone else. Please-

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