Page 35 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"Regarding the academic eligibility of John Morrison and your mentorship status..."

I read it three times before the words actually made sense. Jack was failing Victorian Literature. One paper away from losing his hockey eligibility right before playoffs. And somehow, this was apparently my fault.

No. No, no, no. This can't be happening! Not after everything. Not when he's finally—when we're finally—

My phone buzzed. Jack.

"Did you get it?" His voice was tight. "The email?"

"The one questioning my mentoring abilities and your academic commitment? Currently staring at it."

"Sophie, I—"

"Meet me at the library. Bring coffee. And that brain you pretend not to have."

The brain that quotes Keats. The brain that color-codes notes. The brain that's been deliberately hiding behind a facade for so long it's become second nature.

The library was technically closed, but I had after-hours access for "museum research purposes." At 3:47 AM, Jack found me at our usual table, surrounded by books and determination.

"Before you say anything," he started.

"You missed three assignments." I looked up from his academic record. "While maintaining perfect attendance at practice."

While kissing me on porch swings. While reorganizing medical displays. While being everything I never knew I wanted.

"Playoffs are in two weeks—"

"And you need a 94 on this paper to maintain eligibility." I pushed a stack of notes toward him. "So sit down and start explaining why Heathcliff's toxic masculinity reflects Victorian social mobility."

He sat, looking surprised. "You're not mad?"

"Oh, I'm furious. But right now, we're going to save your academic career. Then you can explain why you've been hiding your dropping grades."

And why you didn't tell me. Why you're still pretending that you can't just be the person I know you are.

The next few hours became a blur of Victorian literature analysis, coffee, and increasingly delirious literary theories. Jack's insights were brilliant when he actually focused, which just made his recent performance more infuriating.

"The thing about Heathcliff," Jack said around 5 AM, sprawled across three chairs, "is that he's basically a nineteenth-century hockey player."

I looked up from my notes. "I'm going to regret asking this, but explain."

"Think about it. Rough background, fights for everything he gets, everyone expects him to fail..." He trailed off, suddenly very interested in his coffee cup.

Oh. OH. This isn't about Heathcliff at all.

"Jack."

"It's nothing." But he wouldn't meet my eyes. "Just tired."

"Since when do you deflect with me?"

The library was silent except for the ancient heating system's complaints. Outside, the sky was starting to lighten, turning everything soft and strange.

"Dad's been talking to NHL scouts," he finally said. "Everything has to be perfect. The playoff, the scouts, my whole future..." He ran a hand through his hair. "Sometimes it's easier to fail on purpose than fail trying your best."

Something in my chest ached. "Is that why you've been skipping assignments? Setting yourself up to fail so it hurts less?"

Like how you maintain the bad boy image. Like how you hide your intelligence. Like how you're still running from expectations even now.

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