Page 80 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"Jack-"

"Think about it - who better to explain the evolution of sports medicine than someone who understands both the history and the practical application? Someone who can make nineteenth-century techniques relevant to modern athletes?"

"You really want to do this?" I asked softly. "Balance NHL career with academic projects?"

"I want to be who I am," he said simply. "The hockey player who loves medical history. The athlete who gets excited about rare books. The guy who fell in love with a museum girl and found ways to make impossible things possible."

When he kissed me, it felt like futures were aligning, like worlds merging in ways that somehow made perfect sense. His lips were soft against mine, tasting of promises and that ridiculous expensive coffee he'd started drinking during our study sessions.

"I love you," I said because some things were worth saying, even if they couldn't be properly categorized. "Even when you try to incorporate medical history into hockey strategy."

"That absolutely works, and I will defend my methods."

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

And I did. Loved how he could talk about both power plays and preservation techniques with equal passion. Loved how he planned futures that made space for both our dreams. Loved how he made impossible things feel possible.

"So," he said after a while, his fingers still tracing patterns on my skin. "Want to revolutionize sports medicine while maintaining questionable preservation protocols?"

"Want to play professional hockey while quoting Victorian medical texts?"

"Want to build a future that doesn't make sense to anyone except us?"

We made plans under stars and lantern light, surrounded by Victorian medicinal herbs and possibilities. Real plans, with color coding, proper documentation, and maybe a few questionable preservation techniques.

Because some futures are worth any challenge. Worth finding ways to make them work. Worth building something unique together.

Even if it involves long-distance romance, weird schedules, and learning to balance NHL games with graduate seminars.

Because some things - like love found between hockey rinks and medical history, like futures built on shared passions and careful planning, don't need to fit into careful categories.

Chapter twenty-four

Full Circle

The Preston University Museum looked the same as the first day I'd accidentally assaulted Jack Morrison with Victorian dental tools. It had the same imposing columns, questionable lighting, and the same sense that history was watching with vaguely medical interest. But now, standing in the entrance hall surrounded by both our families, I felt the weight of everything that had changed.

"Ready for your last official tour as student curator?" Jack asked, adjusting his tie. He'd come straight from signing his NHL contract in Boston, still wearing the suit that made him look unfairly attractive for someone who'd just spent four hours in meetings. "Try not to attack anyone with historical artifacts this time."

"That was one time," I protested, but I couldn't help smiling. "And it worked out pretty well."

"Best concussion of my life."

The museum was hosting a special exhibition - "The Evolution of Sports Medicine: From Victorian Innovation toModern Practice" - combining my academic research with Jack's practical experience. Our families, the team, and even several Bruins' staff members had come for the opening.

"Jackie organized the surgical tools by date AND significance," his grandmother announced proudly to anyone who would listen. "Though I still think he should have included more Victorian courtship implements."

"Mother," Jack's father sighed, but he was smiling. He'd slowly come around to his son's unique combination of interests, especially after Boston's medical staff had praised Jack's understanding of injury treatment history.

The team had shown up in force, all wearing custom t-shirts that read "Team Medical History" on the front and "Don't Make Us Get the Bone Saw" on the back. Mike was earnestly explaining nineteenth-century rehabilitation techniques to a group of amused Bruins executives.

"Your boy's got interesting ideas about incorporating historical knowledge into modern training," Boston's head trainer told me, examining a display of Victorian-era athletic equipment. "Not many rookies show up with research papers on the evolution of injury treatment."

"He's full of surprises," I agreed, watching Jack demonstrate proper Victorian exercise techniques to his future teammates. His ability to quote medical texts while explaining power play strategies had apparently made quite an impression during the development camp.

My parents had finally accepted our unique relationship. However, my father still occasionally tried to steer Jack's medical history interest toward actual medical school. "Just think," he'd say hopefully, "you could combine professional hockey with surgical training..."

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