Page 62 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

He intercepted a pass at Preston's blue line with two minutes left. What happened next would be talked about for years - how he split their defense, barely stayed upright, and the puck left his stick just as another hit came.

The goal horn sounded. Preston 3, North Dakota 2.

The final seconds ticked down like heartbeats.

When the buzzer sounded, the Preston section erupted. Players poured onto the ice, sticks and gloves flying. Jack stood apart for a moment, watching his team celebrate, something unreadable in his expression.

Then his legs folded, and he fell to the ice.

I was moving before I realized it, pushing through crowds, past security, and onto the ice. By the time I reached him, the team doctor was already there.

"Probable broken ribs," the doctor was saying. "Been playing through it since Minnesota—"

"You idiot," I said, and everyone turned. Jack looked up from where he sat on the ice, still in full gear, pain finally visible on his face. "You absolute Victorian-era-medical-practices level of idiot."

His smile was tired but real. "That's quite the diagnosis, Dr. Chen."

"Three broken ribs," the doctor interjected. "Maybe four. Been playing through it since that Minnesota hit. It could have punctured a lung. Could have—"

"Could have lost," Jack finished quietly. "Wasn't an option."

The celebration swirled around us - teammates hugging, photographers shoving cameras, reporters calling questions. But on our small patch of ice, time slowed to heartbeats and held breath.

"The team needed their captain," he said like that explained everything as if he thought it justified the risk, the pain, and the weeks of hiding an injury between games.

"And what about what you needed?" My voice cracked. "What about taking care of yourself? What about—"

"What about the girl who reorganizes dental tools when she's worried?" His eyes held mine. "The one who's been watching practice from the museum window? Who left nineteenth-century medical texts about injury recovery in my locker when she thought I wouldn't notice?"

Oh.

"You're still an idiot."

"Probably." He winced as the doctor helped him up. "But I'm an idiot who won playoffs."

"An idiot who could have seriously injured himself."

"An idiot who missed you."

The words hung between us like visible breaths in cold air. Around us, the celebration continued - the team receiving their trophy, cameras flashing, fans screaming. But we might as well have been alone in the museum at midnight.

"I can't be just hockey," he said quietly. "Even during playoffs. I tried. Tried to focus only on the game, on what everyone needed from me. But I kept thinking about Victorian medical practices and rare books and the way you color-code everything, including feelings."

"Jack—"

"I love you." He said it simply, a fact, a diagnosis, something too true to need elaborate presentation. "I love how you organize history by date and significance. I love how you protect old medical tools like they're precious. I love that you came to the playoffs even when you were mad at me. I love—"

I kissed him. Right there on playoff ice, in front of cameras, teammates, and what felt like the entire hockey world. His lips were cold from ice, warm from exertion, and perfect against mine. His hands - the same hands that just won playoffs, that handled rare books with such care - came up to cup my face.

Someone (probably Mike) wolf-whistled. Cameras clicked. The team erupted in cheers that had nothing to do with hockey.

"Finally!" Dex's voice carried across the ice. "Do you know how long I've had to watch you two pine over medical history?"

Jack laughed against my lips, then winced. "Ribs."

"Hospital," I said firmly. "Now."

"Worth it." He kissed me again, softer. "Every hit. Every game. Everything."

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