Page 39 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

The scouts would be watching.

The dean was still monitoring our mentorship. But somehow, none of that seemed as important as this:

The way Jack Morrison looked at me like I was more interesting than any first edition.

The way he made Victorian literature sound like love songs.

The way we'd both stopped pretending to be less than we were.

And maybe that was the real achievement – not the grades, games, or perfectly maintained facades.

Just this.

Just us.

Chapter thirteen

Family Pressure

There are exactly three things I've managed to keep separate during my college career: my academic life, my family's medical dynasty expectations, and whatever this thing is with Jack Morrison. So naturally, the universe decided to combine all three into what I'm now calling The Great Family Convergence of Preston University's Hockey Playoffs.

It started with a text from my mother: "Your father and I think it's time to discuss your future medical career choices. We'll be at Saturday's game. The one you're attending with that hockey boy you're tutoring. Bringing your MCAT prep books!"

This was followed immediately by one from Dex: "Heads up - Grandma Morrison is coming to the game. She's bringing Jack's baby photos AND his middle school poetry journal. This is not a drill."

Perfect. Just perfect. This totally-not-a-relationship with Jack needs our combined families to analyze our interaction while wielding standardized test prep materials and adolescent poetry.

This is how I found myself sandwiched between my mother (clutching a dental anatomy textbook "just in case you get bored, dear") and Jack's grandmother (wearing what appeared to be an entire hockey merchandise store) in Preston University's overcrowded arena. The situation felt like a Victorian novel where all the worst possible social scenarios converge at once, except instead of a ballroom, we had artificial ice and the constant risk of flying pucks.

"Sophie," my mother whispered during warm-ups, somehow making it sound like a medical diagnosis, "you do remember that the Chen family has produced doctors for three generations? Your great-grandfather started this legacy with nothing but a medical bag and determination."

"And terrible handwriting," I muttered. "Very traditional."

"I'm just saying, medical school applications—"

"Look!" Jack's grandmother interrupted, pointing at the ice where Jack was effortlessly weaving between his teammates. "That's my Jackie! Doesn't he look handsome in his uniform? Though I preferred it when he was in the drama club. He did such a lovely Hamlet in tenth grade. The tights really showed off his—"

"GRANDMA!" Dex yelped.

"Athletic ability," Grandma Morrison finished innocently. "What did you think I was going to say, dear?"

Hamlet? HAMLET? The campus bad boy played Hamlet? Don't think about Jack in tights. Don't imagine him delivering soliloquies. Don't—oh god, he's looking up at us.

Jack spotted our bizarre family gathering and nearly crashed into the boards. His usual graceful movements turned chaotic as he registered the unprecedented sight of both our familiessharing a row. Even from this distance, I could see the panic in his eyes.

He recovered quickly, but not before his teammate Mike skated into him, too busy laughing to watch where he was going.

"He's gotten so serious lately," his grandmother continued, adjusting her hand-knitted Preston University scarf (which, upon closer inspection, had "Jackie's #1 Fan" worked into the pattern). "All this hockey, hockey, hockey. Remember when he used to write poetry? Such sensitive verses about autumn leaves and unrequited love. Oh! I think I have one here somewhere—"

She began rummaging in her massive purse, which seemed to contain enough memories to fill a museum.

My mother's eyebrows shot up. "Poetry?"

Poetry? First Hamlet, now poetry? This is cosmically unfair. He's not allowed to be hot AND literary. There have to be limits. The Geneva Convention probably has something to say about boys who can score goals AND write sonnets.

"Oh yes," Grandma Morrison beamed, extracting a worn notebook with a triumphant flourish. "He still keeps a journal. Very romantic soul, my Jackie. He tries to hide it these days behind all that leather and motorcycle nonsense. Here's one from his junior year: 'The autumn leaves fall like tears of gold—'"

"MOTHER!" Jack's father arrived just in time, and his Preston Hockey Alumni jacket was a clear statement of expectations. "Put that away. Is he practicing his left-side defense? The scouts will be watching that specifically. His whole future depends on—"

---