Page 60 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"Is it true doctors used to taste their patients' urine to diagnose diabetes?" Mike asked, somehow making it sound like a serious academic inquiry.

"Can we include that battlefield amputation manual in our playoff strategy presentation?" Tommy added.

"These diagrams would make sick tattoos," someone in the back contributed.

Jack, their captain, and leader, just smiled and started explaining the historical significance of early diagnostictechniques. His reading glasses caught the light, his hands moved confidently over ancient pages, and every pretense of being anything other than himself fell away.

Later that evening, after the team had dispersed to practice and the medical texts were carefully returned to their places, I found Jack still in the office, carefully wrapping a particularly delicate volume for transport.

"Heading out?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"Actually..." He adjusted his glasses, a gesture I was starting to recognize as nervousness rather than scholarly affectation. "I found another first edition that needs evaluating. If you're free tonight? Say, midnight in the rare book room?"

I looked at him - really looked at him. At the boy who'd stopped pretending to be anything other than himself. The hockey captain who now proudly displayed medical texts in his locker. The supposed bad boy who handled rare books with more care than his own heart.

"For scholarly purposes?" I asked, fighting a smile.

"Obviously." His answering grin was real - no masks, no roles, no pretense. "Very serious academic research. Might even need color-coding."

"Well, in that case..." I found myself returning his smile. "How could I refuse?"

Because some talents aren't meant to stay hidden, some truths need to be seen. Some people make you brave enough to be the person you are inside.

Even if who you are is a medical historian who's falling for a book-collecting hockey player. Especially then.

Chapter eighteen

The Playoffs

There are exactly sixty minutes in a regulation hockey game. But during playoffs, time becomes fluid - stretching like taffy during crucial power plays, compressing into heartbeats during penalty kills, freezing entirely when the puck hangs suspended in playoff-deciding moments.

Preston University's playoff run started in late March, when the ice still held winter's edge, and every game could be their last. I watched as the team practiced increasingly brutal hours, Jack pushing himself harder than anyone.

"Regional bracket looks tough," Dex said, bringing me coffee one morning as I pretended not to watch practice. "Michigan, Minnesota, Boston College... all the powerhouses."

"I'm sure they'll—" I stopped as Jack took a particularly hard hit during drills, bouncing back up like it was nothing. "They're ready."

The first round against Michigan set the tone. Jack scored in triple overtime, a beautiful shot that sent the Preston sectioninto chaos. He didn't celebrate - just helped his exhausted teammates off the ice and started preparing for the next game.

That night, I found him in the rare book room, still in his workout clothes, reading about Victorian surgical techniques.

"Light reading?" I asked.

"Research." His voice was tight. "Sports medicine during wartime. How they kept soldiers - athletes - functioning through impossible conditions."

Don't worry about the dark circles under his eyes. Don't notice how his hands shake slightly from exhaustion. Don't think about—

"Jack—"

"I'm fine." He didn't look up. "Just need to be prepared. For whatever comes."

The quarterfinals brought Boston College and a different kind of tension. Their defense targeted Jack mercilessly, trying to take Preston's captain out of play. He absorbed hit after hit, setting up teammates for goals instead of taking glory shots.

"He's playing smart," Mike told me after they advanced. "Never seen him like this - it's like he's seeing the whole game three moves ahead."

But I saw the ice packs. The careful way he moved after games. The growing collection of medical texts about injury recovery and pain management in his locker.

The fight happened before the semifinals. I found him reviewing game tape at 3 AM, surrounded by empty coffee cups and playbook diagrams.

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