Page 12

Chapter twelve

Academic Crisis

T he email from Dean Williams arrived at 3 AM, which is never a good time for administrative correspondence. It sat in my inbox like a Victorian medical diagnosis: potentially fatal, definitely uncomfortable, and bound to change everything.

"Regarding the academic eligibility of John Morrison and your mentorship status..."

I read it three times before the words actually made sense. Jack was failing Victorian Literature. One paper away from losing his hockey eligibility right before playoffs. And somehow, this was apparently my fault.

No. No, no, no. This can't be happening! Not after everything. Not when he's finally—when we're finally—

My phone buzzed. Jack.

"Did you get it?" His voice was tight. "The email?"

"The one questioning my mentoring abilities and your academic commitment? Currently staring at it."

"Sophie, I—"

"Meet me at the library. Bring coffee. And that brain you pretend not to have."

The brain that quotes Keats. The brain that color-codes notes. The brain that's been deliberately hiding behind a facade for so long it's become second nature.

The library was technically closed, but I had after-hours access for "museum research purposes." At 3:47 AM, Jack found me at our usual table, surrounded by books and determination.

"Before you say anything," he started.

"You missed three assignments." I looked up from his academic record. "While maintaining perfect attendance at practice."

While kissing me on porch swings. While reorganizing medical displays. While being everything I never knew I wanted.

"Playoffs are in two weeks—"

"And you need a 94 on this paper to maintain eligibility." I pushed a stack of notes toward him. "So sit down and start explaining why Heathcliff's toxic masculinity reflects Victorian social mobility."

He sat, looking surprised. "You're not mad?"

"Oh, I'm furious. But right now, we're going to save your academic career. Then you can explain why you've been hiding your dropping grades."

And why you didn't tell me. Why you're still pretending that you can't just be the person I know you are.

The next few hours became a blur of Victorian literature analysis, coffee, and increasingly delirious literary theories. Jack's insights were brilliant when he actually focused, which just made his recent performance more infuriating.

"The thing about Heathcliff," Jack said around 5 AM, sprawled across three chairs, "is that he's basically a nineteenth-century hockey player."

I looked up from my notes. "I'm going to regret asking this, but explain."

"Think about it. Rough background, fights for everything he gets, everyone expects him to fail..." He trailed off, suddenly very interested in his coffee cup.

Oh. OH. This isn't about Heathcliff at all.

"Jack."

"It's nothing." But he wouldn't meet my eyes. "Just tired."

"Since when do you deflect with me?"

The library was silent except for the ancient heating system's complaints. Outside, the sky was starting to lighten, turning everything soft and strange.

"Dad's been talking to NHL scouts," he finally said. "Everything has to be perfect. The playoff, the scouts, my whole future..." He ran a hand through his hair. "Sometimes it's easier to fail on purpose than fail trying your best."

Something in my chest ached. "Is that why you've been skipping assignments? Setting yourself up to fail so it hurts less?"

Like how you maintain the bad boy image. Like how you hide your intelligence. Like how you're still running from expectations even now.

"Sounds stupid when you say it out loud."

"Sounds human." I moved closer, pulling his literature notes from his hands. "But you're not failing. Not while I'm here."

"Even though I'm ruining your perfect mentoring record?"

"Please. You ruined my perfect everything the day you got hit with dental tools."

He laughed, soft and real. "Best assault of my life."

We worked through sunrise, piecing together his paper between coffee runs and increasingly ridiculous literary analyses. At some point, I stopped watching the clock and started watching him – the way his forehead creased when he concentrated, how he muttered Victorian quotes under his breath, and the precise way he wrote despite his exhaustion.

Stop noticing things. Stop cataloging every expression. Stop falling for the way he makes even Victorian literature sound like poetry when he's half asleep.

I don't remember falling asleep. But I woke up to early morning sunshine and Jack's jacket draped over me like a blanket. He was asleep, head pillowed on Victorian literature notes, looking younger without his usual carefully maintained edge.

He looks different like this. No masks. No pretenses. Just Jack – the one who quotes poetry, takes hockey hits for teammates and tries so hard to be what everyone expects.

"Jack," I whispered, poking him with a pen. "Wake up. We fell asleep in the library."

"Five more minutes," he mumbled. "Dreaming about dental tools."

"That's mildly concerning."

He opened one eye. "You're still here."

"Where else would I be?"

"Most people would've given up around the third coffee run."

"Most people don't know you're worth the effort."

The words were too honest for early morning. Jack sat up slowly, his hair a disaster, his eyes soft from sleep, and something else.

I didn't mean to say that. I meant to stay professional.

"Sophie," he said quietly. "I need to tell you—"

The library door opened with a bang. We jumped apart as the morning staff arrived, looking unsurprised to find students asleep among the books.

"Paper's done," Jack said quickly, gathering his things. "I should... shower. Before class."

"Right. Yes. Very hygienic."

Very hygienic? What is wrong with me? Why can't I just say what I mean? That I'm proud of him. That I believe in him. That I—

We parted awkwardly at the library steps, both pretending we couldn't feel something shifting between us.

Later that day, Jack's paper arrived in my inbox. Ninety-six percent. Along with a note:

"Couldn't have done it without you. And not just the academic part. Your favorite Victorian hockey player."

What he's saying is that we're recognizing this connection between us, right?

I started typing a response about appropriate mentor-mentee communication, then deleted it. Instead, I wrote:

"Keep surprising people. It's what you're best at. Your favorite dental tool-wielding tutor."

Sitting in my room that evening, I couldn't stop thinking about how he'd looked in the early morning light, all defenses down, finally showing me the real Jack Morrison. The one who understood Heathcliff because he knew what it meant to fight against expectations. The one who quoted Victorian literature in his sleep and wrote brilliant papers when he stopped pretending to be less than he was.

He's going to make it. The playoff. The scouts. Everything. Because he's finally letting himself be both – the hockey star and the scholar. The bad boy and the boy who reads poetry at dawn.

My phone buzzed with a text from Jack:

"Dean approved the paper. I'm still eligible."

Then another:

"Thank you. For seeing me. The real me."

The real you. The one who hides behind smirks but writes like he's painting with words. The one who takes hits for teammates but treats books like treasures. The one I'm absolutely, completely—

"That's what partners do," I texted back.

"Partners?"

"Well, I did help you commit academic redemption at 4 AM. I think that makes us partners in crime."

"Speaking of crime... meet me at the museum tonight? I have a theory about Victorian medical practices you'll want to hear."

He's using academic references as an excuse to see me. This ridiculous, brilliant boy is using VICTORIAN MEDICAL PRACTICES as a pick-up line.

"This theory better be worth breaking into the museum for."

"Trust me. Some theories are worth the risk."

And sitting there, surrounded by Victorian literature notes and the lingering scent of his cologne, I realized something: Jack Morrison wasn't just worth the effort.

He was worth everything.

The academic risks.

The broken boundaries.

The early morning confessions.

The late-night study sessions.

The way he made my carefully organized world feel bigger, brighter, and more alive.

But watching the dawn paint gold across his sleeping face, listening to him quote Victorian literature in his dreams, feeling how perfectly his jacket fit around my shoulders – I knew.

Some things were worth complicating.

Some people were worth the risk. And Jack Morrison, with his hidden depths and midnight confessions, was both.

I texted back:

"Museum. Midnight. Bring coffee and your Victorian medical theories."

His response came instantly:

"It's a date, museum girl."

A date. With the boy who quotes Heathcliff and plays hockey. Who breaks rules and writes essays at dawn. Who's finally, finally letting himself be everything he is.

And I couldn't wait.

The week that followed felt like living in two worlds. During the day, we maintained our careful mentoring facade – though Jack's smirks held new meaning, and our study sessions crackled with unspoken possibilities. At night, we met in the museum or the bookstore, building something new in the spaces between academic and personal.

Tuesday night found us in the medical history section, Jack perched on a ladder while I cataloged new acquisitions below.

"You know what's interesting about Victorian medical practices?" he asked, passing down a leather-bound volume.

"Besides everything?"

"They were all about maintaining appearances. Perfect facades hiding messy realities." He glanced down at me, eyes serious. "Like someone else I know."

Like you, pretending to be less. Like me, hiding behind professionalism. Like us, dancing around what's really happening here.

"The playoffs are this weekend," I said instead of all the things I wanted to say. "Are you ready?"

"For hockey? Yes. For the scouts? Maybe. For my father's expectations?" He climbed down, standing closer than strictly necessary. "That's more complicated."

"Like everything else?"

"Like us?"

The question hung in the air between shelves of medical history. A week ago, I would have deflected by citing professional boundaries. I would have pretended we were still just mentor and mentee.

Instead, I reached up and straightened his collar. "You know what else they believed in Victorian times?"

"That leeches cured everything?"

"That some things were worth the scandal."

His hand caught mine, still resting on his collar. "Sophie Chen, are you suggesting we cause a scandal?"

"I'm suggesting that maybe some facades aren't worth maintaining. Some expectations aren't worth meeting. Some rules—"

He kissed me then, right there between the medical texts and anatomical diagrams. It wasn't our first kiss since the party, but it felt different. More deliberate. Like choosing something instead of falling into it.

When we broke apart, he rested his forehead against mine. "The dean would not approve."

"The dean doesn't know you can quote entire passages of Victorian literature while half asleep."

"Or that you secretly love hockey now."

"I do not love hockey. I love—" I stopped, catching myself.

Love watching you play. Love how you light up on the ice. Love how you're finally letting yourself be brilliant in every arena. Love...

"You love...?" His smile was teasing, but his eyes were serious.

"Medical history. Obviously."

"Obviously." But he was still smiling, and his hand was still holding mine, and maybe some things didn't need to be said yet.

They could just be lived.

In quiet bookstores and empty museums.

In early morning study sessions and midnight confessions.

In all the spaces between who we were supposed to be and who we actually were.

Together.

The playoff game was three days away.

The scouts would be watching.

The dean was still monitoring our mentorship. But somehow, none of that seemed as important as this:

The way Jack Morrison looked at me like I was more interesting than any first edition.

The way he made Victorian literature sound like love songs.

The way we'd both stopped pretending to be less than we were.

And maybe that was the real achievement – not the grades, games, or perfectly maintained facades.

Just this.

Just us.