Page 49 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"The humidity controls should be stabilizing," he said, checking readings on his phone. "Temperature might fluctuate a bit, but nothing that should damage the artifacts. We'll need to monitor the more sensitive pieces throughout the evening."

The fact that he knew which pieces needed extra monitoring and that he understood the preservation protocols without being told made everything more complicated.

"We should head back up," he said finally. "I can hear cars arriving. Trustees must be early."

The exhibition itself was a bizarre dance of forced cooperation and carefully maintained distance. The trustees arrived in waves, all pearls and power suits and potential funding. Each interaction required a delicate balance of historical expertise and modern relevance – exactly the kind of performance Jack and I had perfected before everything fell apart.

"The evolution of anesthesia," Jack explained to a particularly distinguished-looking trustee, "revolutionized medical practice and athletic recovery. This chloroform mask from 1847 represents a fundamental shift in how pain management and surgical intervention were approached."

I watched him handle the artifact with precise care, his knowledge evident in every gesture. A small group had gathered, drawn in by his natural charisma and surprisingly detailed expertise.

"Fascinating," said Dr. Eleanor Pierce, head of the medical school board. "And you see parallels in modern sports medicine?"

"Absolutely." Jack's eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Take concussion protocols, for example. Just like Victorian surgeons had to relearn their approach after anesthesia, modern teams had to completely restructure their response to headinjuries. It's not about getting players back in the game quickly anymore – it's about proper recovery time, careful monitoring, long-term health considerations."

"You seem quite knowledgeable about medical history," another trustee observed. "For a hockey player."

I tensed, waiting for Jack's practiced charm to surface. Instead, he smiled genuinely.

"I had an excellent teacher," he said, not looking at me. "Someone who showed me how medical innovation isn't just about tools and techniques – it's about changing how we understand human vulnerability and resilience."

Don't. Don't make it sound real. Don't remind me of late nights discussing medical philosophy. Don't—

"Ms. Chen," Dr. Pierce turned to me. "Your mentorship program seems remarkably successful. Not many students grasp both the historical significance and modern applications so thoroughly."

"Jack did most of the research himself," I heard myself say. "He has a natural aptitude for understanding historical context."

Across the room, Jack's hands stilled on the display he was adjusting.

"Quite the partnership," Dr. Pierce smiled knowingly. "Historical expertise and athletic insight, working in perfect harmony."

If she only knew.

The evening continued in this vein – Jack and I moving around each other like binary stars, close enough to maintain a professional appearance but never quite touching. His knowledge of Victorian medicine kept surprising me. Eachcasual reference to surgical innovation or medical philosophy another crack in my certainty about his motives.

"The progression of surgical techniques during the Civil War," he was saying to a cluster of trustees, "mirrors the evolution of modern sports medicine. This bone saw, for instance – surgeons had to adapt their methods based on battlefield conditions, just like team doctors adjust treatments depending on game situations."

"Remarkable comparison," said a trustee who'd been introduced as the head of hospital administration. "You've clearly done extensive research."

"The history of medicine is fascinating," Jack replied, handling the bone saw with familiar care. "How we learn to heal, to adapt, to trust new methods..." His eyes met mine across the room. "Sometimes the hardest part isn't the technical knowledge – it's having faith in the process."

I turned away, busying myself with adjusting display lighting that didn't need adjusting.

"Quite knowledgeable, your hockey player," one of the trustees commented beside me. "And so passionate about medical history. How long did it take you to teach him all this?"

"I didn't," I said softly, watching Jack demonstrate the proper Victorian surgical technique to a fascinated audience. "He learned it on his own."

The trustee smiled knowingly. "Love makes excellent scholars of us all."

Love.

The word echoed through the museum like a diagnosis, bouncing off display cases and centuries-old implements. Jack looked up at that moment, catching my eye across the room, and for a second, everything else fell away.

Then someone asked about sports medicine funding, and the moment shattered like dropped surgical tools.

As the evening wound down, the trustees gathered for a final toast to "the remarkable integration of historical preservation and modern athletics." Jack and I stood at opposite ends of the room, maintaining our careful orbit.

"Well," he said later, as the last trustee left, "we survived."

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