Page 40 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"Marcus," Grandma Morrison sighed, reluctantly tucking away what I desperately hoped wasn't the only copy of Jack's poetic past, "the boy can quote entire Shakespeare plays. Maybe we could discuss that instead? Did you know he's been writing again? His tutor here has been quite the inspiration—"

I choked on my water. Several rows of students turned to stare.

The tension was interrupted by my father's arrival, who had somehow managed to finish his dental surgeries early and appeared clutching what looked like every medical school brochure published in the last decade.

"Sophie!" He waved the brochures like victory flags. "I've highlighted the most prestigious neurological programs. Perhaps orthopedics would be more relevant now, given your current interests." He glanced meaningfully at the ice where Jack was doing warm-up laps.

"Dad—"

"The Johns Hopkins recruiter specifically mentioned their sports medicine division," he continued enthusiastically. "Very prestigious. Though, of course, Harvard—"

"Richard," my mother interrupted, "she hasn't even taken the MCAT yet."

"Exactly why we need to discuss study strategies now," he said, pulling out a color-coded schedule that made my organizational systems look amateur. "If she starts preparing immediately—"

"Oh!" Grandma Morrison perked up. "Speaking of studying, did Sophie tell you about the beautiful essay Jackie wrote about medical practices in Victorian literature? So passionate about the intersection of science and art. Just like his poetry—"

My father's brochures rustled in confusion. "Poetry?"

"Richard," my mother hissed, "focus on the medical connection."

But Grandma Morrison was already pulling out what appeared to be a scrapbook labeled "Jackie's Literary Journey: From Hamlet to Hockey (But Mostly Hamlet)."

"Look," she said, flipping pages with practiced enthusiasm. "Here he is at the state drama competition. His soliloquy about existential doubt won first place. And here's his poem about the tragic parallels between face-offs and fate—"

My father looked like someone had just told him teeth weren't real.

On the ice, Jack must have sensed the escalating family chaos because he kept shooting worried glances at our section, especially when his grandmother started demonstrating what appeared to be his dramatic hand gestures from Macbeth.

"The boy needs to focus," Jack's father muttered. "The Bruins' scout is watching his defensive transitions specifically—"

"The boy needs to be himself," Grandma Morrison countered, still flipping through the scrapbook. "Oh! Here's the poem he wrote last week about Victorian medical artifacts in moonlight. Sophie, dear, doesn't this line about 'dental tools glinting like stars' sound familiar?"

I choked on my hot chocolate. Several students nearby started taking videos.

"Dental tools?" My father perked up. "Perhaps there's hope for medical school after all!"

"Richard," my mother sighed, "I don't think that's the kind of dental interest you're hoping for."

The first period was a blur of family commentary. My mother critiqued the unsafe aspects of body checking ("potential cervical spine injuries! Did you know the rotational force alone—") while Jack's father analyzed every move his son made ("his crossover needs work—the Bruins' scout specifically looks for edge work"). Grandma Morrison alternated between cheering and loudly reminiscing about Jack's community theater days.

"He was also a wonderful Romeo," she told my increasingly bewildered mother. "Such passion! Though not quite as much passion as he shows around your Sophie. Did you see how he keeps looking up here? Just like in Act Two, Scene Two—"

The third period started just in time to save me from having to explain why Jack's recent poetry featured so many references to museum storage rooms and antique medical equipment. But the reprieve was short-lived.

During a particularly tense play, Jack took a hard check that sent him crashing into the boards right in front of our section. Without thinking, I jumped to my feet, one hand pressed against the glass.

"Jack!"

The entire family section went quiet. Even my father stopped color-coding medical school requirements.

"First name basis with your mentee?" my mother asked carefully.

"Very professional," my father added. "Shows good doctor-patient rapport."

"Oh please," Grandma Morrison snorted. "That's not professional concern. That's the same look Jackie gets when he's writing about forbidden love and academic boundaries."

"Mother!" Jack's father protested.

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