Page 15

Chapter fifteen

Forced Cooperation

T here are exactly twenty-four steps in the Preston University Museum's emergency protocols. I know because I've read them forty-two times in the past hour, trying to find a loophole that would get me out of what Dean Williams just called "a wonderful opportunity for academic collaboration."

The email sat open on my laptop, its words more terrifying than any Victorian surgical manual:

"Dear Ms. Chen and Mr. Morrison,

Given your combined expertise in medical history and your successful mentorship partnership, you will jointly host tomorrow's Victorian Medical Innovation exhibition for the Board of Trustees. This is a crucial fundraising event for both the museum and the athletic department.

Attendance is mandatory.

Regards, Dean Williams"

Mandatory. Like plague in Victorian London. Like death and taxes and working with Jack Morrison three days after our spectacular implosion.

I was still staring at the email, wondering if I could fake a dental emergency, when the first boxes of artifacts arrived from storage. The delivery person needed signatures from both assigned curators – because, apparently, the universe wasn't done torturing me yet.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered to the empty museum, surrounded by crates of Victorian medical history that needed organizing. "We can't—"

"Work together?" Jack's voice came from the doorway, making me jump. He looked exhausted, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that came from too many late-night practices and not enough sleep. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't been sleeping any better than I had. "Trust me, I tried to get out of it. Dean Williams threatened my playoff eligibility."

He moved into the room as if he owned it and as if we hadn't shattered everything between us just days ago. His familiar scent – cedar and ice and something uniquely him – made my chest ache. He was carrying a stack of books I recognized from the library's rare collection.

"Research materials," he said, noticing my look. "The trustees will want to know about Lister's influence on modern sterilization techniques. Thought we could highlight the parallel between nineteenth-century surgical innovation and contemporary sports medicine protocols."

"We just need to get through one night," I said, not looking at him. "Professional distance. Academic focus. No personal discussions."

"Right." His laugh was bitter. "Because that worked so well before."

The first crate contained a collection of early surgical implements that needed careful cataloging and arrangement. Jack reached for a particularly delicate bone saw at the same time I did. Our hands brushed, sending electricity through my skin that had nothing to do with academic cooperation.

"Sorry," we said simultaneously, then fell into awkward silence.

"The Trustees arrive at seven," I finally managed, retreating behind professionalism like armor. "We need to create a cohesive narrative that links medical innovation to athletic development."

"While maintaining proper humidity levels for the artifacts and appropriate lighting for dramatic effect?" His voice held a hint of the teasing tone that used to make my heart skip. "I did pay attention during your museum protocols lectures. Even if you think it was just—"

"Don't." The word came out sharper than intended. "Just... help me unpack these chronologically."

We worked in tense silence, arranging implements by date and significance. Jack handled each piece with careful precision, and his knowledge of their history and purpose was frustratingly evident. He paused over a set of nineteenth-century surgical tools, his expression thoughtful.

"These predate anesthesia," he said quietly. "Surgeons had to work fast, be precise, and understand exactly how the human body responded to trauma. Just like modern sports medicine – quick decisions, skilled hands, intimate knowledge of recovery processes."

I looked up from my cataloging, caught off guard by the genuine insight. "How did you—"

"Know that?" His smile was sad. "Contrary to popular belief, I did some research. Not just for..." He trailed off, then focused back on the display. "The mortality rate dropped significantly after chloroform was introduced in 1847. Changed everything about surgical possibilities."

Stop it. Stop showing me you know this. Stop making me question whether I was wrong about—

"Sophie?" His voice was gentle. "We should probably arrange these by procedural type rather than just chronologically. Show the evolution of techniques."

"Right." My voice was too tight. "Good thinking."

"I do have those occasionally. When I'm not busy pretending to be interested in things."

The next crate contained a rare collection of early anesthesia devices. Jack lifted out a chloroform mask with surprising gentleness, his hands steady as he examined the delicate apparatus.

"You know what's fascinating?" he said, almost to himself. "Before standardized anesthesia, a surgeon's skill was measured by speed.

The faster you could amputate, the better the patient's chances. But after chloroform? Suddenly, precision became more important than speed. The whole paradigm of what made a good surgeon changed."

Why does he have to sound so passionate about this? Why does he have to know exactly the kind of details that make my academic heart race? Why can't he just be the shallow player I accused him of being?

"The parallel to sports medicine is remarkable," he continued, arranging the display with careful attention to historical context. "The shift from treating injuries as quickly as possible to focusing on proper healing time, rehabilitation protocols—"

"Stop."

He looked up, surprised. "What?"

"Just... stop being so..."

"Knowledgeable? Interested? Real?" The last word hung between us like a diagnosis we were both avoiding.

Before I could respond, the lights flickered ominously. Thunder cracked outside, and suddenly, we were plunged into darkness.

Perfect. Just perfect. Trapped in the dark (again) with Jack Morrison and several hundred years of medical implements. This is definitely not how Victorian horror novels start.

"Power's out in the whole building," Jack said, his phone's flashlight casting strange shadows across antique displays. "Storm must have hit the main line. These old buildings have terrible electrical infrastructure."

"The trustees will be here in an hour!" Panic clawed at my throat. "We need lights, climate control, basic electrical function—these artifacts require specific environmental conditions. The humidity alone could—"

"Hey." His hand found my shoulder in the dark, steady and warm. "Breathe. We'll figure it out. The backup generator should—"

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't be..." Kind. Caring. Real. "We need to focus on the problem."

His hand dropped. "Right. Professional distance."

The backup generator hummed weakly to life, casting everything in dim emergency lighting. Jack looked otherworldly in the strange illumination, all sharp edges and shadows, nothing like the boy who used to read poetry by museum display lights.

"The electrical panel's in the basement," he said, already moving toward the stairs. "I can check the circuits and see if we can reroute power from the secondary systems to maintain climate control. The artifacts have to be the priority."

"How do you know about the electrical panel?"

His smile was sad. "Contrary to popular belief, I did pay attention when you talked about museum infrastructure. Even if you think it was just part of the act."

Oh.

The basement was something out of a Gothic novel – all exposed pipes and ancient stonework, illuminated only by our phone lights. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness, and the storm's fury was muffled but constant above us. The air was thick with the kind of dampness that made museum curators have nightmares about artifact degradation.

"Here." Jack found the panel, his hands moving confidently over switches. "Main power's cut, but we can reroute through the secondary system. The problem is, we don't have enough juice to run everything. We'll have to prioritize."

I stared at him. "Since when do you know about electrical systems?"

"Since I spent a summer helping my uncle's maintenance company." He didn't look up from the panel. "He specializes in historic buildings. The wiring in these old places is like a time capsule of electrical evolution. But I guess that doesn't fit the narrative of the fake intellectual bad boy, does it?"

"Jack—"

"No, you're right." His voice was carefully neutral as he worked. "Professional distance. No personal discussions. Just get through tonight."

"We need climate control for the artifacts," I said, focusing on practicalities. "And enough light for the displays, but not so much it causes deterioration."

"We can redirect power from the offices and storage areas," he suggested. "Run everything through the main exhibition space. It won't be perfect, but it should maintain basic preservation standards."

The way he casually threw out museum terminology made my chest hurt.

He worked quickly, rewiring connections with surprising skill. "Hand me that voltage meter? Should be in the maintenance kit on the shelf."

I reached for it at the same time he turned, bringing us face to face in the dim light. We were too close for a moment, sharing breath in the basement's musty air. His eyes caught mine, and something electric that had nothing to do with the power crisis passed between us.

"Sophie—"

A crash of thunder made us both jump. The emergency lights flickered ominously.

"We should hurry," I said, stepping back. "The trustees—"

"Will be here soon. Yeah." He took the voltage meter, our fingers brushing. "Professional distance."

The lights above us hummed to life, weak but steady. Jack's face was illuminated in the soft glow, and for a moment, he looked younger, more vulnerable, like the boy I'd glimpsed in quiet moments between acts.

"The humidity controls should be stabilizing," he said, checking readings on his phone. "Temperature might fluctuate a bit, but nothing that should damage the artifacts. We'll need to monitor the more sensitive pieces throughout the evening."

The fact that he knew which pieces needed extra monitoring and that he understood the preservation protocols without being told made everything more complicated.

"We should head back up," he said finally. "I can hear cars arriving. Trustees must be early."

The exhibition itself was a bizarre dance of forced cooperation and carefully maintained distance. The trustees arrived in waves, all pearls and power suits and potential funding. Each interaction required a delicate balance of historical expertise and modern relevance – exactly the kind of performance Jack and I had perfected before everything fell apart.

"The evolution of anesthesia," Jack explained to a particularly distinguished-looking trustee, "revolutionized medical practice and athletic recovery. This chloroform mask from 1847 represents a fundamental shift in how pain management and surgical intervention were approached."

I watched him handle the artifact with precise care, his knowledge evident in every gesture. A small group had gathered, drawn in by his natural charisma and surprisingly detailed expertise.

"Fascinating," said Dr. Eleanor Pierce, head of the medical school board. "And you see parallels in modern sports medicine?"

"Absolutely." Jack's eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "Take concussion protocols, for example. Just like Victorian surgeons had to relearn their approach after anesthesia, modern teams had to completely restructure their response to head injuries. It's not about getting players back in the game quickly anymore – it's about proper recovery time, careful monitoring, long-term health considerations."

"You seem quite knowledgeable about medical history," another trustee observed. "For a hockey player."

I tensed, waiting for Jack's practiced charm to surface. Instead, he smiled genuinely.

"I had an excellent teacher," he said, not looking at me. "Someone who showed me how medical innovation isn't just about tools and techniques – it's about changing how we understand human vulnerability and resilience."

Don't. Don't make it sound real. Don't remind me of late nights discussing medical philosophy. Don't—

"Ms. Chen," Dr. Pierce turned to me. "Your mentorship program seems remarkably successful. Not many students grasp both the historical significance and modern applications so thoroughly."

"Jack did most of the research himself," I heard myself say. "He has a natural aptitude for understanding historical context."

Across the room, Jack's hands stilled on the display he was adjusting.

"Quite the partnership," Dr. Pierce smiled knowingly. "Historical expertise and athletic insight, working in perfect harmony."

If she only knew.

The evening continued in this vein – Jack and I moving around each other like binary stars, close enough to maintain a professional appearance but never quite touching. His knowledge of Victorian medicine kept surprising me. Each casual reference to surgical innovation or medical philosophy another crack in my certainty about his motives.

"The progression of surgical techniques during the Civil War," he was saying to a cluster of trustees, "mirrors the evolution of modern sports medicine. This bone saw, for instance – surgeons had to adapt their methods based on battlefield conditions, just like team doctors adjust treatments depending on game situations."

"Remarkable comparison," said a trustee who'd been introduced as the head of hospital administration. "You've clearly done extensive research."

"The history of medicine is fascinating," Jack replied, handling the bone saw with familiar care. "How we learn to heal, to adapt, to trust new methods..." His eyes met mine across the room. "Sometimes the hardest part isn't the technical knowledge – it's having faith in the process."

I turned away, busying myself with adjusting display lighting that didn't need adjusting.

"Quite knowledgeable, your hockey player," one of the trustees commented beside me. "And so passionate about medical history. How long did it take you to teach him all this?"

"I didn't," I said softly, watching Jack demonstrate the proper Victorian surgical technique to a fascinated audience. "He learned it on his own."

The trustee smiled knowingly. "Love makes excellent scholars of us all."

Love.

The word echoed through the museum like a diagnosis, bouncing off display cases and centuries-old implements. Jack looked up at that moment, catching my eye across the room, and for a second, everything else fell away.

Then someone asked about sports medicine funding, and the moment shattered like dropped surgical tools.

As the evening wound down, the trustees gathered for a final toast to "the remarkable integration of historical preservation and modern athletics." Jack and I stood at opposite ends of the room, maintaining our careful orbit.

"Well," he said later, as the last trustee left, "we survived."

"Yeah." I busied myself reorganizing displays, trying not to remember how he used to help with this, how his hands would brush mine, how everything felt possible in late-night museum light.

"Sophie—"

"Don't." My voice cracked. "Please. We got through it. Let's just..."

"What? Go back to pretending we don't know each other? Ignore everything that happened? Forget how real this was?"

"Was it?" I turned to face him, finally. "Real?"

He looked at me for a long moment, the emergency lights casting shadows across his face. "You know what your problem is? You're so scared of being wrong about me that you won't risk being right."

"And you're so used to playing roles that maybe you don't know what's real anymore."

"Maybe." He moved closer, close enough that I could smell cedar and ice and heartbreak. "Or maybe you're just looking for reasons not to trust this. Not to trust me."

"Jack—"

"You want to know something real?" His voice was rough. "I learned about Victorian medicine because watching you talk about it was like seeing poetry in motion. I memorized surgical techniques because your eyes light up when you explain them. I spent hours researching medical history not because it was another role to play but because it was part of you."

Don't cry. Don't believe him. Don't remember how it felt when this was simple, when trust wasn't broken, when love wasn't a diagnosis we were both trying to deny.

"Every statistic about Victorian mortality rates," he continued, voice low and intense, "every detail about surgical innovation, every connection between historical medicine and modern sports – I learned it all because I wanted to understand your world. I wanted to be part of it. Not for some game, not for some role, but because seeing you light up when we discussed medical history made everything else fade away."

The worst part was how genuine he sounded, how his voice held the same passion when discussing Victorian surgery as it did when talking about hockey. How he handled century-old medical tools with the same care he showed on the ice.

"I have to go," I whispered.

"I know."

But neither of us moved. The emergency lights hummed softly, casting everything in that strange, liminal glow that made reality feel fluid and uncertain.

"The humidity controls," I said weakly. "We should check—"

"Already set." He didn't step back. "Adjusted them during the final trustee presentation. The artifacts will be safe."

Of course, he remembered. Of course, he cared about preservation protocols. Of course, he made everything harder by being exactly what I accused him of pretending to be.

I made it halfway to the door before his voice stopped me.

"Sophie?"

"Yeah?"

"For what it's worth... every word was real. Every moment. Every late-night conversation about medical history and literature and all the things we were supposed to be instead of who we are." He laughed softly. "Even if you never believe anything else about me, believe that."

His words followed me down the hallway, echoing like footsteps in an empty hospital. By the time I reached my car, the storm had passed, leaving behind that peculiar clarity that comes after electrical disturbances – when the air feels charged with possibility and regret in equal measure.

The next morning, I found a note tucked into the surgical catalog:

***

"Some wounds need more than professional distance to heal. Some truths can't be caught in careful categories. Some hearts don't follow protocols.

I learned about Victorian medicine because it mattered to you. I memorized preservation procedures because you cared about them. I fell in love with medical history because I was falling in love with you.

I'm sorry I made you doubt what was real. I'm sorry I couldn't make you believe. I'm sorry we broke more than rules.”

J

***

Below the note was a detailed set of humidity readings from throughout the night, carefully documented in his precise handwriting. He'd monitored the artifacts hourly, maintaining perfect preservation conditions even after I'd left.

I filed it all under "Things That Can't Be Categorized," right next to "Ways Love Doesn't Follow Museum Protocol" and "How to Heal a Heart with Victorian Medical Tools."

None of these categories existed in any proper organizational system.

Maybe that was the point.

Because some things – like trust and doubt, love and fear, like historical knowledge earned through genuine interest rather than calculated pretense – couldn't be contained in careful classifications.

Some things had to be felt.

Even if they hurt.

Even if they healed.

Even if they left scars that no amount of Victorian medical knowledge could treat.

And maybe that was the hardest lesson of all: that some forms of trust, like some forms of healing, required more than just professional distance and careful protocols.

They required courage.

They required risk.

They required believing that something could be real, even when believing meant risking being wrong.

And even when being wrong meant breaking more than just museum rules and mentorship boundaries.

Even when being right meant admitting that some people were worth shattering your carefully constructed world for.

The Victorian medical displays gleamed in their cases, silent witnesses to a different kind of medical history – one where hearts were broken and maybe, just maybe, could be healed.

If we were brave enough to try.

If we were strong enough to trust and believe some things were worth risks taken.