Page 47 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

Mandatory. Like plague in Victorian London. Like death and taxes and working with Jack Morrison three days after our spectacular implosion.

I was still staring at the email, wondering if I could fake a dental emergency, when the first boxes of artifacts arrived from storage. The delivery person needed signatures from both assigned curators – because, apparently, the universe wasn't done torturing me yet.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered to the empty museum, surrounded by crates of Victorian medical history that needed organizing. "We can't—"

"Work together?" Jack's voice came from the doorway, making me jump. He looked exhausted, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that came from too many late-night practices and not enough sleep. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't been sleeping any better than I had. "Trust me, I tried to get out of it. Dean Williams threatened my playoff eligibility."

He moved into the room as if he owned it and as if we hadn't shattered everything between us just days ago. His familiar scent – cedar and ice and something uniquely him – made my chest ache. He was carrying a stack of books I recognized from the library's rare collection.

"Research materials," he said, noticing my look. "The trustees will want to know about Lister's influence on modern sterilization techniques. Thought we could highlight the parallel between nineteenth-century surgical innovation and contemporary sports medicine protocols."

"We just need to get through one night," I said, not looking at him. "Professional distance. Academic focus. No personal discussions."

"Right." His laugh was bitter. "Because that worked so well before."

The first crate contained a collection of early surgical implements that needed careful cataloging and arrangement. Jack reached for a particularly delicate bone saw at the same time I did. Our hands brushed, sending electricity through my skin that had nothing to do with academic cooperation.

"Sorry," we said simultaneously, then fell into awkward silence.

"The Trustees arrive at seven," I finally managed, retreating behind professionalism like armor. "We need to create a cohesive narrative that links medical innovation to athletic development."

"While maintaining proper humidity levels for the artifacts and appropriate lighting for dramatic effect?" His voice held a hint of the teasing tone that used to make my heart skip. "I did pay attention during your museum protocols lectures. Even if you think it was just—"

"Don't." The word came out sharper than intended. "Just... help me unpack these chronologically."

We worked in tense silence, arranging implements by date and significance. Jack handled each piece with careful precision, and his knowledge of their history and purpose was frustratingly evident. He paused over a set of nineteenth-century surgical tools, his expression thoughtful.

"These predate anesthesia," he said quietly. "Surgeons had to work fast, be precise, and understand exactly how the human body responded to trauma. Just like modern sports medicine – quick decisions, skilled hands, intimate knowledge of recovery processes."

I looked up from my cataloging, caught off guard by the genuine insight. "How did you—"

"Know that?" His smile was sad. "Contrary to popular belief, I did some research. Not just for..." He trailed off, then focusedback on the display. "The mortality rate dropped significantly after chloroform was introduced in 1847. Changed everything about surgical possibilities."

Stop it. Stop showing me you know this. Stop making me question whether I was wrong about—

"Sophie?" His voice was gentle. "We should probably arrange these by procedural type rather than just chronologically. Show the evolution of techniques."

"Right." My voice was too tight. "Good thinking."

"I do have those occasionally. When I'm not busy pretending to be interested in things."

The next crate contained a rare collection of early anesthesia devices. Jack lifted out a chloroform mask with surprising gentleness, his hands steady as he examined the delicate apparatus.

"You know what's fascinating?" he said, almost to himself. "Before standardized anesthesia, a surgeon's skill was measured by speed.

The faster you could amputate, the better the patient's chances. But after chloroform? Suddenly, precision became more important than speed. The whole paradigm of what made a good surgeon changed."

Why does he have to sound so passionate about this? Why does he have to know exactly the kind of details that make my academic heart race? Why can't he just be the shallow player I accused him of being?

"The parallel to sports medicine is remarkable," he continued, arranging the display with careful attention to historical context. "The shift from treating injuries as quickly as possible to focusing on proper healing time, rehabilitation protocols—"

"Stop."

He looked up, surprised. "What?"

"Just... stop being so..."

"Knowledgeable? Interested? Real?" The last word hung between us like a diagnosis we were both avoiding.

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