Page 41 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"What? I'm just saying that if they're going to sneak around having romantic moments in the museum after hours, they could at least be subtler about it. The security guard told me all about finding them discussing 'Victorian medical practices' at midnight last week."

Oh god. This is worse than the time I accidentally sent my dental tool wish list to the whole faculty. This is worse than when I tripped into the dean during orientation. This is—

"The museum?" My mother's voice hit a note usually reserved for dental emergencies.

"After hours?" My father's brochures crinkled ominously.

"For academic purposes!" I squeaked.

On the ice, Jack had recovered and was now purposefully not looking at our section while his teammates poorly concealed their laughter. Mike actually had to skate away he was laughing so hard.

"Well," Grandma Morrison said cheerfully, "that's what they're calling it these days. Though in my time, we didn't need Victorian medical artifacts as an excuse to—"

"Look!" I interrupted desperately. "Sports! Very athletic sports things happening!"

But the damage was done. My parents exchanged “that look,” which meant a long discussion about professional boundaries and career focus was in my future. Jack's father was stress-checking scout reports on his phone. And Grandma Morrison was now showing Dex what appeared to be Jack's entire collection of hockey romance poetry.

On the ice, Jack scored a spectacular goal that had the crowd roaring. But instead of his usual celebration, he looked straight up at our section. At me. The intensity of his gaze made my heart forget how to beat properly.

Don't notice how his eyes catch the light. Don't think about how he's playing better than ever since we started, whatever this is between us. Don't remember how he tastes like coffee and possibilities—

"Did you see that?" Jack's father leaned forward. "Perfect execution! That's what the scouts want to see."

"I saw a boy trying to impress someone," Grandma Morrison said quietly. "And I don't think it was the scouts."

The game ended in victory, but the real challenge came after. Both families converged outside the locker room, a collision of expectations and barely concealed judgments. My mother clutched her dental textbook like a shield. Jack's father kept checking his phone for scout feedback. Grandma Morrison smiled like she knew something no one else did.

"I found more poems!" she announced suddenly, producing another notebook from her seemingly bottomless purse. "This one's recent. Something about moonlight in museums and Victorian medical—"

"Mother!" Jack's father looked scandalized.

"What? It's very educational. All those anatomical references—"

Jack emerged just then, still damp from his shower, his hair curling slightly at the ends in a way that should be illegal in academic settings. He stopped short at the sight of our collected families, looking like he'd rather face another three periods than this conversation.

"Jackie!" his grandmother moved first, hugging him despite his protests about being sweaty. "Wonderful game! Though your Hamlet was better. Remember that soliloquy? 'To be or not to be—that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous hockey scouts—'"

"Grandma—"

"And those poems you used to write! Sophie, did he ever show you his sonnets? I have one right here about the tragic beauty of library late fees—"

Sonnets? Did he write SONNETS? This is absolutely unfair. No one should be allowed to play hockey AND write sonnets. It violates some fundamental laws of attraction. Like mixing antimatter and matter. Or wearing stripes with plaid.

"The scouts were impressed," his father interrupted. "Though your left-side defense—"

"Actually," Jack said suddenly, grabbing my hand, "Sophie and I need to discuss... Victorian medical practices. Very urgent. Academic emergency."

"At 10 PM?" my mother asked skeptically.

"Medical history never sleeps," I offered weakly, letting Jack pull me away from our families' collective stare.

"Just like young love!" Grandma Morrison called after us. "Though do try to keep the anatomical references scholarly, dears!"

Later that night, after we'd escaped our families and their combined expectations, Jack and I found ourselves in the empty museum. The dental tools gleamed in their cases, silent witnesses to our complicated story.

"So," Jack said, leaning against a display of Victorian surgical instruments, "that was..."

"A disaster?"

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