Page 70 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"Athletic Department," he said, reading. "Coach wants to meet. Something about 'maintaining proper focus' and 'avoiding distractions during crucial development periods.'"

"Jack—"

"They're reviewing game footage," he continued, voice hollow. "Looking for signs that my 'academic pursuits' affected my performance. Like actually using my brain somehow makes me a worse player."

I moved to sit beside him, our shoulders touching. His copy of "Victorian Medical Innovations" sat on the nightstand, pages marked with his careful notes. Real notes. Real interest. Real knowledge they were all questioning.

A knock at the door made us jump apart.

"Just me," Mike called through the door.

I grabbed my bag, but Jack caught my hand. "This is ridiculous. We're not doing anything wrong."

"Tell that to the Academic Board. And the Athletic Department. And—"

"And everyone who thinks they get to decide who we are? What we feel? What we're capable of?"

His thumb traced patterns on my palm, the same way he traced important passages in books.

Another knock, more urgent. "Seriously, guys, they're coming down the hall."

I pulled away reluctantly. "We need to be smart about this."

"Smart?" His laugh was bitter. "Like how I was finally smart enough to understand medical history? To care about books? To be more than what everyone expected?"

"Jack—"

"Ms. Chen?" A sharp voice called from the hallway. Dr. Pierce. "I believe we need to discuss appropriate academic boundaries."

Mike's voice again: "I'll stall them. You've got thirty seconds."

I moved to the window - the classic escape route we'd used so many times before. But Jack's voice stopped me.

"What if we didn't hide?"

"What?"

"What if we just... stopped pretending? Stopped playing their games? Stopped acting like this is something shameful?"

Through the window, I could see students gathering on the quad, phones out, probably adding to the growing storm of gossip. In a few hours, the Academic Board would question every grade, every paper, every achievement he'd worked for. The Athletic Department would scrutinize every game, every play, looking for signs that caring about more than hockey had somehow tainted their star player.

"Your hockey career," I started.

"Means nothing if I have to pretend to be less than I am." He stood, moving closer. "I'm done hiding my books. Done pretending I don't care about medical history. Done acting like loving you somehow makes me less of an athlete."

"Jack—"

"Ms. Chen!" Dr. Pierce again, closer now.

"Twenty seconds," Mike warned.

The next morning, separate meetings were held because apparently, even our damage control needed appropriate academic distance.

I sat in Dean Williams' office, surrounded by documentation of Jack's academic progress. Every paper, every test, and every project carefully organized and annotated. Evidence of real work, real learning, real passion for the subjects.

"This is a serious matter, Ms. Chen," Dean Williams said, her office feeling colder than the hockey rink. "The mentorship program's integrity must be maintained."

"The mentorship ended after playoffs," I pointed out, gripping my folder. "Everything after that was—"

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