Page 23 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

Jack spotted us during warm-ups. Even through his helmet, I could see that infuriating smirk. He skated past our section, deliberately showing off with a complex move that made the crowd gasp.

"Show-off," I called out, just loud enough for him to hear.

He lifted his helmet visor, revealing eyes dancing with mischief. "Thought you might appreciate the academic application of physics and momentum."

"Is he... flirting through scientific principles?" someone behind us whispered incredulously.

"While doing a hockey trick?" another added.

"In front of the whole crowd?"

Of course, he is. Apparently, Jack Morrison can make even physics sound like poetry because he understands what he's doing to my carefully maintained academic facade.

I pulled his jacket tighter, fighting a smile. "Your form needs work, Morrison."

"Such a harsh critic." He grinned. "Maybe I need a private tutoring session to improve my technique."

The nearby crowd went silent, probably wondering if they'd just witnessed Jack Morrison, notorious commitment-phobe, publicly flirting through academic metaphors.

"Focus on your game," I said, but I couldn't help smiling. "Though your metaphorical application of educational principles to athletic pursuit is... noted."

His laugh echoed across the ice. "There's the museum girl I know and—" He caught himself, smile softening. "Save me a dance later?"

"Pretty sure there's no dancing in hockey."

"Night's young." He winked, then skated away to join his team, leaving a wake of shocked whispers behind us.

"Did Jack Morrison just... "But he never..."With the museum girl?"

With the girl who hit him with dental tools. Who makes him color-code his notes? Who's currently wearing his jacket like some academic letter sweater.

Dex bumped my shoulder. "Still think he's just the campus bad boy?"

I pulled out his copy of Keats, running my fingers over his annotations in the margins. Next to a particularly passionate verse, he'd written: "Some reputations are worth risking. Some people are worth the leap."

"No," I said softly, watching him lead his team through warm-ups, all power and grace and hidden depths. "He's something much more interesting."

"And much more dangerous?" Dex teased.

"Only to my carefully constructed worldview."

The game began, and I found myself actually enjoying it. Not just because Jack was a brilliant player – though he was, all strategic moves and explosive speed – but because I could see the poetry in it. The rhythm of plays, the flow of motion, the story written in ice and skill.

"He's always played center," Dex explained, noticing my interest. "It's the quarterback of hockey - you have to see the whole game, control the pace, set up the plays. Dad wanted himon wing, said it was better for scoring, but Jack insisted. Said he'd rather make the plays than just finish them."

Of course, he's center. The position requires both strategy and creativity. The one that has to understand every other player's role. Just like how he sees the connections between Victorian literature and modern life, he brings together seemingly opposite worlds.

"You're watching him like he's a rare book," Dex observed.

"I'm watching him like he's a contradiction," I corrected. "One I'm finally ready to understand."

Jack scored the winning goal with seconds left, a beautiful shot that even I could appreciate. The crowd erupted, but he looked straight at our section, touched his heart, and then pointed to the pocket where I'd tucked his copy of Keats.

Uh oh! He's not even trying to hide it anymore. Not trying to maintain the façade or trying to pretend this is just tutoring.

And in that moment, surrounded by screaming fans and the smell of cedar cologne, I realized something important: sometimes, the best stories are the ones that don't fit neatly into genres.

Just like the best people are the ones who refuse to be categorized.

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