Page 81 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

My heart is doing that thing again - that skip-flutter race that started the day I accidentally assaulted him with dental tools. Back then, I tried to diagnose it, catalog it, and make it fit some organizational system. Now I know better. Some feelings defy classification.

The exhibition itself was a perfect blend of our worlds. Historic medical instruments shared space with modern sports equipment, telling the story of how athletic treatment had evolved. Jack's collection of rare medical texts provided context, while his practical experience made history relevant to modern athletes.

"Remember when we used to sneak in here after hours?" Jack murmured, finding me by the Victorian surgical display. "For 'research purposes'?"

"You mean when we violated several preservation protocols while discussing medical history?"

"Very thorough historical discussions," he agreed, his hand finding mine. "Though maybe we don't mention those to my new teammates. Or your graduate advisors."

The museum had transformed for the evening. Display cases gleamed under carefully calibrated lighting, showing off both historical artifacts and modern equipment. In one corner, the Bruins' team doctor was having an animated discussion with my academic advisor about the parallels between nineteenth-century and modern rehabilitation techniques.

"Sophie!" Mike called, waving us over to where he was explaining something to my parents. "I was just telling them about that time Jack quoted Victorian surgical procedures during playoffs."

"That was never actually a strategy," I started, but Jack cut in.

"Three goals that game," he reminded me. "Turns out shouting about nineteenth-century amputation techniques really throws off the opposition."

"The Bruins' coaching staff is concerned about your historical intimidation methods," I informed him.

"They'll appreciate it when I start quoting medical texts during penalty kills."

We made our way through the crowd, stopping to greet guests and explain displays. Jack moved easily between worlds - discussing training techniques with his future teammates one moment, debating preservation protocols with museum staff the next. He'd found his balance, no longer hiding either side of himself.

"Ms. Chen," Dr. Pierce caught me by a display of early sports medicine implements. "Your young man has been quite secretive about the final piece of the exhibition. Says it's some sort of surprise?"

Before I could question this, Jack appeared at my side. "Almost time," he said, checking his watch. "Everyone's here?"

"Team's accounted for," Mike reported from nearby. "Operation Full Circle is a go."

"Why does that sound ominously like the time you tried to reenact Victorian surgical procedures with hockey equipment?"

"This is much better organized," Jack assured me. "Plus, I had professional help with the preservation protocols this time."

He led me toward the medical history section where we'd spent so many late nights "discussing historical context." Our families followed, along with the team and what appeared to be most of the museum staff.

"Jack-"

"Just trust me." His smile was soft. "Some things are worth doing properly."

The medical history section had been transformed. Display cases formed a path through Victorian medical innovations, each one telling part of our story. The dental tools that started everything. The surgical texts we'd studied together—even preserved specimens from the medicinal garden where we'd planned our future.

At the end of the path stood a new display case, still covered. Jack stopped beside it, suddenly looking nervous despite his perfect suit and NHL confidence.

"So," he said, his voice carrying in the quiet room, "I had this whole speech planned. About how some things don't fit into normal categories. About how sometimes the best stories start with dental tool assaults and end with something perfectly imperfect."

"But really," he continued, reaching for the display case cover, "it comes down to this: sometimes the best things in life don't need proper categorization." He pulled away the cloth to reveal an antique display case, perfectly lit to preservation standards.

Inside, arranged with museum-quality precision, sat a Victorian-era ring box. Open. Empty.

As I processed this, Jack reached into his jacket pocket and produced what was unmistakably a matching ring, which he'd somehow authenticated and documented to historical preservation standards.

"Found it in that weird bookshop that's only open during lunar eclipses," he explained, dropping to one knee with surprising grace for a hockey player. "Complete with original documentation about its use in medical school graduations.Apparently, Victorian doctors used to propose rings that had medical significance-"

"Jack-"

"Which I know is probably historically inaccurate, but it seemed appropriate given everything, and I had it properly authenticated and-"

"You're rambling about historical documentation while proposing."

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