Page 11

Chapter eleven

Party Crash

T he hockey house loomed at the end of fraternity row, a Victorian mansion with peeling paint and questionable structural integrity. Music pulsed through its ancient windows, and clusters of students spilled onto the wraparound porch, their laughter mixing with the bass line that seemed to make the whole building shake.

"You're here!" Dex yanked me inside before I could retreat, past a group of hockey players engaged in what appeared to be a complex drinking game involving their playoff rings. "I thought I'd have to forge a dental emergency to get you to come."

"I'm only here because—"

"Because the museum's closed for renovations, and you need a distraction from your paper on Victorian medical practices?" She grinned, steering me through the crowd. The living room had been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, with the team's trophies lining the mantelpiece above a fireplace that probably hadn't worked since the last century. "Or because a certain hockey captain mentioned he'd be here?"

"Because you threatened to reorganize my dental tool collection if I didn't come."

The official excuse for the party was to celebrate Jack’s quick recovery, but this was mostly just an excuse to drink. The partygoers were a mix of athletes, theater kids, and what looked like the entire chemistry department. Someone had strung Christmas lights across the ceiling, casting everything in a soft glow that almost made the beat-up furniture look intentionally vintage rather than just old.

Jack held court by the grand staircase, surrounded by the usual mix of admirers and teammates. He wore dark jeans and a black Henley that made him look like he'd stepped out of one of those cologne ads that always seemed to feature motorcycles for no apparent reason. But something was off – his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and his responses to the giggling sorority girls around him seemed automatic.

Then he looked up and saw me.

The change was immediate and electric. His whole face transformed, the practiced smirk giving way to something real and warm. He moved through the crowd with fluid grace, leaving a wake of whispers and stares.

"Sophie?" He reached us, ignoring the several people who tried to intercept him. "You hate parties."

"I'm expanding my horizons." I gestured vaguely at the room. "Studying social dynamics. Very academic."

Not because I've been thinking about you since that night in the museum. Not because I wanted to see what you're like in your element. Definitely not because I missed you.

The moment shattered as Kendra materialized beside Jack, all perfect hair and calculated grace. She wore her beauty like armor, and her smile had edges sharp enough to cut.

Her dress probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and she moved with the kind of confidence that came from never having tripped over your own feet in public.

"Jackie," she purred, placing a manicured hand on his arm. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

"Kendra," he said flatly, stepping away from her touch. "You know who Sophie is."

Is she really pretending that we didn’t just speak the other day?

"The tutor," Kendra said, making it sound like a disease. She turned to her perfectly curated audience. "Remember when he went through that artistic phase with Sarah? Or that intellectual streak with Emma?" Her laugh tinkled like broken glass. "Jack just loves playing different roles. Currently, it's reformed bad boy discovering literature."

She lifted her phone, scrolling through something. "Look, I have his whole evolution documented. The musician phase lasted three months. The poet phase? Six weeks. The serious athlete focusing on his future? Almost a full semester, that was impressive." She glanced at me. "Wonder how long the scholarly phase will last?"

Don't react. Don't show that it bothers you. Don't think about how many others there might have been before you; all of them are probably gorgeous and socially graceful, and definitely not the kind of girls who spend Friday nights cataloging medical artifacts.

"Still trying to make 'Jackie' happen?" I asked before I could stop myself. Several nearby conversations stopped. A group of hockey players by the stairs turned to watch, abandoning their drinking game entirely.

Kendra's perfect smile sharpened. Her fingernails, painted a precise shade of red that matched her dress, tapped against her cup. "Careful, sweetie. You're not the first project he's taken on. Once he gets bored—"

"Don't," Jack's voice was quiet but hard. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "You don't get to do this, Kendra."

"Do what? Warn her? Tell her how you love playing the misunderstood bad boy until—"

"Until what?" I interrupted. The music seemed too loud suddenly, the Christmas lights too bright. "Until he helps someone pass calculus? Organizes rare books at 2 AM? Protects his teammates?"

Where did that come from? When did I become the person who defends Jack Morrison? When did I start caring enough to stand up to his ex in the middle of a party?

Kendra blinked, her perfect composure cracking slightly. Behind her, someone whispered, "Oh shit," with something like admiration. "You actually believe the good guy act?"

"No," I said, taking a step forward. "I believe the bad boy who quotes Keats and handles first editions like they're precious. The one who color-codes his notes and teaches kids hockey. The one who's exactly as complicated as he pretends not to be."

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the music seemed muted. Jack was staring at me like he'd never seen me before, and somewhere in the crowd, Mike let out a low whistle.

"Whatever," Kendra finally said, but her voice wavered slightly. "You'll learn." She turned on her heel, her departure somewhat undermined by having to squeeze past a group of freshmen who were openly filming the whole thing.

"Dance with me," Jack said suddenly. The party seemed to hold its breath.

"What?"

"Dance with me." He held out his hand, his eyes never leaving mine. The Christmas lights caught the gold flecks in them, making them look almost molten. "Unless you're scared."

The music changed to something slower, though whether by coincidence or the DJ reading the room was unclear. Around us, other couples were already moving to the dance floor. However, most were still watching our drama unfold with undisguised interest.

A week ago, I would have had a dozen reasons why dancing was a terrible idea. Professional boundaries. Academic propriety. The fact that I move with all the grace of a drunken giraffe. But now...

"I'm terrible at dancing," I warned, but took his hand.

"Impossible," he said, pulling me close. The warmth of his hands through my sweater made me forget about the crowd still watching. "You're terrible at following rules. Dancing is just organized chaos."

The music wrapped around us, something slow and intimate that made the crowded room feel suddenly private. Jack's hands were warm on my waist, steady and sure as he guided me through the steps. The Christmas lights cast shifting patterns across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the slight smile that was nothing like his usual smirk.

"Thank you," he said softly, his voice barely audible above the music. "For what you said to Kendra."

"I only stated facts. Very academic of me."

"Sophie." His voice was rough. "You're the only person who's ever seen... who didn't just accept the reputation."

"Maybe you're the only person worth looking past it for."

Did I really just say that out loud? In public? Where people can hear me admitting that Jack Morrison is more than his reputation? Where people can see how my hands are trembling on his shoulders? Where everyone can witness me falling for—no, stop that thought right there.

The crowd around us had thinned slightly, but those who remained were watching with undisguised interest. Whispered fragments floated past:"

“Jack Morrison and the museum girl?"

"Did you see how he looked at her?"

"Never seen him like this..."

"They're talking about us," I murmured.

"Let them." His hands tightened slightly, drawing me closer. The scent of his cologne mixed with leather and familiar old books, a combination that was becoming dangerously familiar. "Unless you're worried about your reputation?"

Yes. No. Maybe. Not for the reasons I should be. I thought about my carefully organized life, my neat boxes, and predictable patterns. Then I thought about moonlit confessions in museums and motorcycle rides in the rain.

"Maybe some reputations need shaking up."

He laughed, spinning me in a way that violated several laws of physics. The movement sent Christmas lights spinning, turning the room into a kaleidoscope of color and shadow. "Sophie Chen, embracing chaos? What's next, impromptu dental tool demonstrations?"

"I'm keeping some standards." But I was laughing, too, letting him pull me closer as the music changed. The new song was slower and more intimate, and Jack's hand slid to the small of my back, keeping me close when other guys tried to cut in.

We danced for what felt like hours. Jack effortlessly steered us away from Kendra's subsequent attempts at drama, shot down advances from other girls with increasing firmness, and somehow made me forget I was supposed to be terrible at this. The party moved around us like water around stones; for once, I didn't mind being the center of attention.

"You're staring," I said during a slow song. The crowd had thinned enough that we could move without colliding with other couples. However, plenty of people were still watching.

"You're beautiful." He said it simply, like it was just another fact about Victorian medical practices.

"That's not very bad boy of you."

"You make me want to break character."

The way he looked at me at that moment made the rest of the party fade away. The music softened to background noise, the Christmas lights blurred into a soft glow, and even the persistent whispers of onlookers seemed distant and unimportant.

Later, as the party grew louder and the air inside became too thick with heat and music, we escaped to the front porch. The swing creaked under our weight as we sat, and the cool night air was a relief after the crowded rooms. Jack's teammates occasionally passed by, offering knowing grins and exaggerated winks, which he waved off with practiced ease.

"Do you regret coming?" he asked, his thumb tracing patterns on my palm where our hands had somehow become entwined.

The night air carried fragments of party noise: laughter, music, and the occasional cheer from what sounded like an impromptu hockey demonstration in the backyard. Above us, stars competed with streetlights, and somewhere down the street, a car alarm briefly serenaded the night before falling silent.

"No," I said honestly. "Some things are worth getting a little messy for."

"Even bad boys who disrupt your carefully organized world?"

"Especially them." I leaned my head on his shoulder, watching a moth dance around the porch light. "Though I'm keeping my dental tool organization system."

"Wouldn't dream of asking you to change that." His fingers interlaced with mine. "I like how you color-code history."

The night air was cool, the porch swing creaked, and somewhere inside, someone was butchering a karaoke version of "Sweet Caroline." A group of freshmen stumbled past, doing a double-take at seeing Jack Morrison, notorious campus bad boy, sitting contentedly on a porch swing with the museum girl.

"You surprised me tonight," he said quietly, the swing's gentle motion matching the rhythm of distant music.

"By dancing without causing bodily harm?"

"By defending me to Kendra." He turned to look at me, the porch light casting shadows that made his features sharper, more serious. "No one's ever done that before."

"Maybe no one else saw past the leather jacket and motorcycle."

"Maybe no one else was worth showing the rest to."

A crash from inside interrupted whatever might have happened next, followed by cheering and what sounded like Mike attempting to recreate Jack's last playoff goal using a pool cue and someone's textbook. The front door burst open, spilling light and noise onto the porch as Mike stumbled out, grinning broadly despite what would definitely be a bruise tomorrow.

"Cap! Sophie!" He threw his arms wide, nearly taking out a potted plant. "You guys are like... like Romeo and Juliet! But with hockey. And dental stuff."

"I think that's our cue to leave," Jack said, standing and pulling me up with him. "Before he starts comparing our star-crossed love to root canals."

The motorcycle gleamed under the streetlight, its chrome reflecting the party lights in distorted patterns. Jack was already holding out his helmet, the gesture so familiar now it felt like muscle memory.

"What happened to maintaining your reputation?"

"Maybe I'm ready for a new one." He stepped closer, one hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch lingered, warm against the cool night air. "Bad boy who's completely gone for the museum girl."

"That's quite a reputation change." My voice was steadier than my heartbeat. "Sure you can handle it?"

"Sophie." His other hand came up to cup my face, and the world narrowed to just this: the warmth of his touch, the sound of distant music, the way the light caught his eyes. "I've been handling rare books and medical artifacts for weeks. I think I can handle falling for the girl who taught me how."

This time, when he leaned in, there was no janitor to interrupt. No flash of fluorescent lights. Just the distant party music and the feeling of Jack Morrison's lips finally meeting mine.

Someone wolf-whistled from the doorway—probably Mike, documenting what would undoubtedly be tomorrow's top campus gossip. The sound of phone cameras clicking mixed with appreciative cheers and at least one "Finally!" that sounded suspiciously like Dex.

"Still worried about your reputation?" Jack murmured against my lips.

"Honestly?" I smiled, pulling him back down. "I don't care anymore."

The kiss deepened, and somewhere in the background, Mike started a slurred but enthusiastic rendition of what might have been a love song if love songs typically included hockey metaphors and references to dental history. The porch light flickered, casting us in alternating light and shadow, but we were both long past caring about who might see.

Let them see.

Let them talk.

Let them write whatever gossip they wanted.

Because this—the bad guy and the museum girl, the chaos and order, the unexpected narrative none of us could have predicted—was worth any reputation.

And as Jack's motorcycle roared to life minutes later, as I held onto him while we carved through empty streets under starlight, as the night wrapped around us like a promise, I knew we'd made the right choice.

Some stories are worth the scandal.

Some risks are worth taking.

Some reputations are worth changing.

And Jack Morrison was worth all of it.