Page 61 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"You need rest," I said, moving to turn off the screen.

"What I need is to figure out Minnesota's penalty kill patterns." His voice had an edge I hadn't heard before. "What I need is to be ready. What I need is—"

"To sleep? To take care of yourself? To remember you're human?"

"What I need," he said carefully, dangerously, "is to focus on hockey right now. Not... this." He gestured between us. "Not complications. No distractions."

The words hit like body checks. "Distractions?"

"Sophie—"

"No, you're right." My voice was ice. "Focus on hockey. That's what you're really good at, isn't it? Focusing on exactly what you need at the moment? Whether it's hockey or literature or medical history or—"

"Don't." He stood, all athlete's grace turned to tension. "Don't make this about that. This isn't about us, or trust, or any of it. This is about my team. My responsibility. My last chance to prove—"

"Prove what? That you're more than the bad boy with a reading habit? That you're worth your father's expectations? That you can play through anything, even if it breaks you?"

"Get out."

"Jack—"

"Please." His voice cracked. "Just... I can't right now. I can't be what you need. I can't be anything except Preston's captain until this is over."

I left. He didn't stop me.

The semifinals against Minnesota were brutal. Jack took a hit in the first period, which would have benched most players. But he got up, blood on his jersey, and orchestrated a masterclass in strategic hockey. Preston won 3-2.

I didn't go to the locker room after. Didn't text congratulations. I didn't leave Victorian medical texts about injury recovery in his locker like I wanted to.

The playoff game loomed, carrying the weight of everything unspoken between us.

The morning of the playoff finals dawned cold and clear. North Dakota, the defending champions, waited on home ice. Despite our fight, despite everything, I found myself in the stands next to Dex, clutching the worn leather strap of a lucky dental tool case.

"He's been watching film all week," Dex said quietly. "Up until 4 AM every night. Mom's worried."

On the ice, both teams warmed up. Jack moved differently - a subtle hesitation in his left side that most people wouldn't notice. But I'd spent too many hours watching him practice to miss the signs.

"That hit from Minnesota—" I started.

"Is worse than he's letting on." Dex nodded. "But you try telling him that."

The game started fast. North Dakota's defense was legendary, but Preston had Jack Morrison playing like a man possessed. Every shift was calculated, every pass precise, every hit absorbed and turned into opportunity.

"He's protecting Tommy's line," Mike's girlfriend explained from behind us. "Taking the hardest matchups so the younger guys don't have to."

I watched Jack set up play after play, putting his teammates in position to score while taking brutal hits himself. His left side was definitely compromised - he favored it on turns, compensated with his right, and pushed through the pain with pure determination.

Halfway through the second period, with Preston up 2-1, it happened. North Dakota's largest defenseman caught Jack with his head down. The hit was legal but devastating. The crowd's collective gasp echoed through the arena as Preston's captain went down hard.

Get up. Please get up. Please be okay. Please—

He got up. Because he was Jack Morrison, and this was playoffs, and there was blood on his jersey, but his team needed him.

"He shouldn't be playing," I whispered.

"Try stopping him," Dex replied, but her knuckles were white on the railing.

The third period was war on ice. North Dakota tied it with ten minutes left. Jack's line came out, and even from the stands, I could see the cost of each stride, each turn, each hit. But his eyes were clear, focused, seeing patterns in the chaos like he did in Victorian medical texts.

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