Page 63 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"You're still an idiot."

"Your idiot. If you want."

"I want." The words felt like a victory, like playoffs and first editions and perfectly preserved history. "Even if you have questionable self-preservation instincts."

"Says the girl who attacks people with dental tools."

"That was one time!"

His smile was brighter than playoff lights, more genuine than any role he'd ever played. "Best concussion of my life."

The doctor finally insisted on getting Jack to the hospital. As they helped him off the ice, he looked back at me.

"Meet me in the rare book room when they release me? I found a first edition about Victorian sports medicine. Very relevant to current events."

"You're supposed to be resting."

"Reading is resting."

And there, watching him being led away still in hockey gear, quoting medical texts with broken ribs and a playoff trophy waiting, I realized something:

Some victories aren't measured in goals. Some saves happen off the ice. And some games are worth every hit taken. Some love stories start with dental tools and end with playoff kisses.

And some idiots who play hockey with broken ribs while collecting Victorian medical texts are worth every moment of worry.

Even if they need to learn about proper injury protocols, they have questionable decision-making skills, and even if they make you fall in love between rare books and playoff games.

Especially then.

Something broke open in my chest – all the careful rules, all the protective distance, all the reasons this couldn't work,shattering like dropped surgical tools. I moved without thinking, closing the space between us, my hands finding his jersey.

He kissed like he played hockey – all controlled power and perfect timing, holding back just enough to make you want more. He tasted like victory and possibility and something uniquely him that made my heart forget how to beat properly.

One of his hands slid into my hair, tilting my head just so, deepening the kiss until I made a sound that definitely wasn't professional. His other hand stayed on my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone like I was something precious, something worth protecting, something real.

This is happening. This is really happening. I'm kissing Jack Morrison on playoff ice, and he loves how I organize history, and his lips are perfect and—

Cameras clicked. The team erupted in cheers that had nothing to do with hockey. But I barely registered any of it, too lost in the way Jack's fingers traced patterns on my skin, the way he smiled against my lips, the way everything finally felt right in a way that no organizational system could capture.

"Hospital," I said firmly, though I made no move to step back. "Before you do any more damage to those ribs."

"Come with me?"

"Obviously." I smoothed his jersey where I'd gripped it. "Someone needs to make sure you actually follow medical advice this time."

His smile was soft, real, just for me, though I could see the pain starting to show through his adrenaline. "I love you."

"I love you too." The words felt like victory, like perfectly preserved history, like everything falling into place. "Even if you have questionable self-preservation instincts."

"Even if I play hockey with broken ribs?"

"Even then."

The team doctor was insistent now, and trainers appeared with a wheelchair that Jack eyed with obvious disdain. But as the adrenaline faded, even he couldn't hide the grimace of pain. They helped him into the chair, careful of his injured side.

"Stay?" he asked quietly, reaching for my hand.

I laced my fingers through his. "Not going anywhere."

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