Page 78 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"I have acceptance letters to organize," I protested weakly, but I was already reaching for his hand. "And your agent wants those contract responses-"

"Some things are more important than proper documentation." He pulled me up, then paused. "Though we should probably file these chronologically before we leave. I'm not completely uncivilized."

Twenty minutes later (after properly organizing both our decision-related paperwork), Jack's motorcycle carried us through darkening streets. The familiar weight of his leather jacket around my shoulders and the warmth of his body against mine made everything feel simultaneously more natural and less terrifying.

He surprised me by pulling up to the Longfellow Museum of Medical History - a small but respected institution just outside Boston that I'd been following obsessively since discovering their Victorian surgical collection.

"How did you-" I started, but he was already producing a key.

"Remember that curator I mentioned? The one who's been helping evaluate some of my medical text finds? Turns out she's retiring soon. They're looking for someone to help manage their sports medicine collection while pursuing graduate work."

"Jack-"

"Just look," he said, leading me into the hushed space. Evening light filtered through Victorian windows, catching on glass cases filled with carefully preserved instruments.The surgical tools gleamed like treasures, their brass fittings reflecting what little illumination remained.

"The graduate fellowship includes curatorial duties," he continued, watching my face as I took in the historical treasure trove. "Twenty hours a week during the academic year, full-time in summer. They're especially interested in someone who can help develop their new sports medicine wing - tracking the evolution of athletic treatment and rehabilitation techniques."

"Someone who understands both medical history and sports medicine," I said slowly, realization dawning. "Who can bridge both worlds."

"Someone who organizes dental tools by date and significance while learning hockey statistics." His hand found mine in the dim light. "Who makes both worlds make sense when brought together."

He led me through the quiet halls, past displays I'd only seen in research papers. His hand was warm in mine as he pointed out specific pieces he remembered me mentioning - the rare amputation kit I'd written about, the experimental Victorian rehabilitation devices I'd been tracking.

My heart feels like a caught breath, like that moment before discovery, like finding something precious in forgotten archives. This boy who once sent my carefully organized world into chaos is now planning our future with the same attention to detail I give to preservation protocols.

"The Bruins' medical staff actually consults their archives sometimes," he explained, pausing at a display of early sports medicine implements. "Their head trainer is fascinated by how treatment methods evolved. Says understanding the history helps develop better modern techniques."

"That's why they're expanding the sports medicine collection?"

"Partially. They're also partnering with the team on some research initiatives. Looking at how athletic treatment has developed, especially in hockey. Apparently, my peculiar combination of interests caught their attention."

"Your agent mentioned this to them?"

"Actually," he looked slightly embarrassed, "the team doctor found my thesis on Victorian-era rehabilitation techniques and their influence on modern sports medicine. He's been helping me track down some rare texts for my collection."

Of course, he had. Because Jack Morrison, a future NHL player, had somehow managed to impress Boston's medical staff with his knowledge of nineteenth-century medical practices.

"Is there anyone you haven't charmed with your secret medical history obsession?"

"The equipment manager is still suspicious of my requests to organize the training room based on historical significance."

He led me up to the museum's rooftop garden, a hidden gem designed to replicate a Victorian medical garden. Herbs and medicinal plants grew in careful patterns, their scents mixing in the cool evening air. Jack had clearly planned ahead - a blanket waited in a secluded corner, surrounded by softly glowing lanterns.

"You're getting worryingly good at proper preservation-appropriate romantic setups," I noted, examining how he'd positioned everything safely away from the historic plantings.

"I may have consulted the conservation department about appropriate distances from period vegetation," he admitted, looking slightly embarrassed. "Your influence is becoming concerning."

The city spread out before us, lights twinkling like stars. From this height, you could just make out both Harvard's campus andthe Bruins' practice facility - our future laid out in illuminated possibility.

Six hours apart. I should be terrified. I should be making contingency plans and risk assessments. Instead, all I can think about is how his eyes light up talking about our future, like it's the most fascinating historical discovery he's ever made.

"I know it won't be easy," Jack said softly, pulling me down beside him on the blanket. "NHL schedule is brutal, especially for rookies. Lots of travel, weird hours. And graduate work is intense - late nights, research deadlines."

"We're kind of experts at weird hours and late nights," I pointed out. "All those improper preservation protocols in the rare books section."

His laugh was warm in the cool air. "True. Though maybe we should keep those stories away from my future teammates. And your future academic advisors."

"What, you don't think the Bruins want to know about that time in the Victorian medical section?"

---