Page 17

Chapter seventeen

Hidden Talents

T here are precisely twenty-three ways to organize a personal library. I know because I wrote my sophomore thesis on Victorian cataloging systems. But none of them prepared me for finding Jack Morrison in the rare book room at midnight, surrounded by first editions and looking entirely too comfortable among the leather-bound volumes.

"Before you say anything," he said without looking up from what appeared to be an original Dickens, "I have permission to be here. And yes, I'm handling it correctly. And no, this isn't part of some elaborate act."

He sat cross-legged on the floor, books spread around him in careful semicircles. His reading glasses perched on his nose, and his hair was messy like he'd been running his hands through it while reading. The whole scene was cosmically unfair.

"I wasn't going to say anything," I lied, trying not to notice how right he looked there, among centuries of literature. "Just... wondering why the star hockey player is fondling Victorian novels at midnight."

"Fondling?" His smile was dangerous. "Is that the technical term for book handling? I must have missed that in your preservation lectures."

"You know what I mean."

"I do." He carefully marked his place with an actual bookmark (not a folded page - another cosmically unfair detail). "I'm building a collection. Thought you might help evaluate some finds."

He gestured to a stack of books beside him. First editions. Early printings. The kind of volumes that made bibliophiles weep and museum curators swoon.

"Where did you—"

"Estate sales. Online auctions. That weird bookshop downtown that's only open during lunar eclipses." He shrugged, but I could see the pride beneath the casual gesture. "Turns out hockey players can be book collectors, too. Who knew?"

I moved closer, drawn by the siren song of rare books. "Is that—"

"First edition Darwin? Maybe. That's why I need your expertise. The binding looks right, but the title page has some inconsistencies with the reference guides."

He handed me the book carefully, his fingers brushing mine in a way that wasn't deliberate and wasn't reminding me of motorcycle rides and rain-soaked confessions.

"The paper quality is consistent with the period," I said, focusing on facts rather than feelings. "The foxing patterns here and here suggest authentic aging. And this watermark—"

"Matches the publisher's records from 1859," he finished. "I checked against the library's reference materials. But look at the typesetting on page 47."

I looked. He was right - there was a subtle irregularity in the spacing that needed investigation.

"You've been researching this."

"Don't sound so surprised." But his voice was warm, teasing. "Some of us paid attention during your lectures on book authentication. Even if we were pretending not to."

"I thought you were sleeping through those."

"I was admiring how passionate you got about paper grain analysis. There's a difference."

Don't blush. Don't remember how he looked in those late-night study sessions, glasses slipping down his nose as he took notes about book preservation.

"What else have you found?" I asked, moving to safer territory.

He showed me his collection - each book carefully chosen, thoroughly researched, and properly preserved. He knew the history of each volume, the significance of each edition, and the proper handling techniques for different bindings.

"This one's my favorite," he said, lifting a weathered volume with gentle hands. "Early medical text. Pre-germ theory, so the treatments are basically medieval torture meets wishful thinking. But look at the illustrations."

The anatomical drawings were beautiful in their inaccuracy - all artistic interpretation and educated guesswork. Jack handled the pages with practiced care, his fingers barely touching the paper as he turned them.

"The author thought diseases were caused by bad air and unbalanced humors," he said, enthusiasm making him forget to maintain his casual facade. "But the surgical technique descriptions are surprisingly advanced for the period. The detail in these amputation diagrams—"

He stopped, catching himself. "Sorry. You probably know all this already."

"No, it's... keep going."

Watching Jack Morrison geek out about historical medical texts while handling rare books with perfect preservation techniques was doing something to my carefully maintained defenses.

Something dangerous.

"Really?" His eyes lit up behind those ridiculous glasses. "Because there's this fascinating section on battlefield medicine that reminds me of early sports medicine protocols. The emphasis on quick intervention, the focus on mobility restoration—"

"Jack."

"Yeah?"

"How long have you been collecting medical texts?"

He ducked his head, suddenly fascinated by the book's marbled endpapers. "Since... since the first time you showed me the museum's medical collection. The way you talked about how these books weren't just records, but windows into how we learned to heal each other..."

Oh.

"That was months ago."

"Yeah."

"Before everything with Sarah and the trustees and—"

"Yeah."

The silence stretched between us, heavy with implications. Finally, I had to ask:

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Would you have believed me?" His voice was soft. "Or would you have thought it was just another role I was playing? The hockey player pretending to care about old books to impress the museum girl?"

Before I could answer, voices echoed from the hallway - his teammates, by the sound of it. Jack tensed but didn't move to hide the books or his glasses or this whole hidden side of himself.

Mike's head appeared around the door. "Cap? Practice started ten min—oh." His eyes widened, taking in the scene. "Oh. OH."

"Mike—"

"No, no, this is perfect!" Mike grinned, already pulling out his phone. "Coach was just saying how we needed proof you were actually studying and not just claiming academic stuff as an excuse to spend time with Sophie. But this is, like, next level commitment to the bit. Even got the glasses and everything."

"It's not a bit," Jack said quietly.

Mike's phone lowered slightly. "What?"

"The books. The research. The..." Jack gestured vaguely at himself at the careful arrangement of valuable volumes. "It's not an act. This is just me."

The silence that followed was deafening. Mike looked from Jack to the books to me and back again, his entire worldview visibly reshuffling.

"Huh," he finally said. "So all those times you corrected my essays..."

"Actually knew what I was talking about, yes."

"And when you helped Tommy with his literature midterm..."

"Actually understood the material."

"And when you quoted that fancy poem during playoffs..."

"Actually read poetry."

Mike considered this. "Does this mean you understand all that Victorian medical stuff Sophie talks about?"

"Most of it."

"Dude." Mike's grin returned, wider than ever. "Our captain's a secret nerd. This is amazing. Wait till the team hears—"

"Mike." Jack's voice held a warning.

"No, seriously, this is great! Do you know how Coach keeps saying we need to improve our image with the academic board? What better way than having our captain be an actual book-loving, poetry-reading, medical history guy?"

I watched Jack carefully, saw the moment he made his decision. The careful masks he'd worn for so long were cracking, showing glimpses of something real underneath.

"There's this collection of early sports medicine texts," he said slowly. "Nineteenth-century studies on athletic recovery and injury treatment. Been thinking the team might benefit from understanding the history behind modern training methods."

Mike's eyes lit up. "Does it have those creepy old surgical diagrams? Because those would look awesome in the locker room."

"I'll talk to the museum about a display," I found myself offering. "Maybe a series on the evolution of sports medicine?"

Jack looked at me like I'd just handed him something precious. Something real.

"Team meeting in ten," Mike said, backing toward the door. "But this conversation isn't over, Cap. We'll definitely discuss your secret library life later."

After he left, Jack turned to me. "A museum display?"

"Well, these books shouldn't stay hidden in the rare book room at midnight. Some things deserve to be seen. To be real."

His smile was soft. "Some things are worth taking the risk of finding out if it’s real?"

"Maybe. If you're ready for the team to know the truth about their captain's hidden talents."

"Maybe I'm tired of hiding."

The next week brought changes no one could have predicted. Jack's locker sprouted medical texts alongside playbooks. His signature motorcycle now had custom saddlebags designed specifically for transporting rare books. The team's study room gained a section dedicated to sports medicine history, complete with those creepy surgical diagrams Mike had requested.

I was cataloging new acquisitions when Dex found me, her expression somewhere between amused and accusatory.

"So," she said, perching on my desk. "My brother just spent thirty minutes explaining Victorian medical practices to his entire team. Using diagrams. And proper terminology. And historical references."

"Did he?"

"Don't play innocent. I recognize your organizational influence. Those charts were color-coded."

I didn’t want to think about how he may have appeared while explaining amputation techniques to fascinated hockey players, including Mike’s “creepy” diagrams.

"The team seems interested," I said carefully.

"Interested? They're obsessed! Mike is writing a history paper on nineteenth-century sports injuries. Tommy's started collecting antique medical equipment. Even Coach is talking about incorporating historical perspectives into training sessions."

Through the window, I could see the team gathered around Jack as he demonstrated something from an old surgical manual. His reading glasses were on, his hands moving animatedly as he explained, all pretense of the disinterested bad boy forgotten.

"He's different with you," Dex said softly.

"He's just being himself."

"Finally." She smiled. "You know, he used to hide his books under the bed when teammates came over. Now he's got first editions displayed in his locker like trophies."

"The team's accepting it well?"

"Are you kidding? They think it's amazing. 'Our captain's not just a hockey god. He's a secret genius!' Direct quote from Mike, by the way. Though I think they're mostly excited about using Victorian medical diagrams as intimidation tactics against other teams."

I laughed despite myself. "Of course they are."

"Sophie." Dex's voice turned serious. "I've never seen him like this. So, comfortable being himself. Even Mom says he's different. Happier."

"I'm not—"

"The one who made him feel safe enough to be real? Pretty sure you are."

Before I could respond, Jack appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath like he'd rushed over.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I need expert opinion." His eyes were bright with excitement. "Found this medical text at that weird bookshop. The binding suggests the 1840s, but the publication date—" He stopped, noticing Dex. "Oh. Hi."

"Don't let me interrupt your book nerd moment," Dex grinned, sliding off my desk. "Just remember practice is in twenty minutes. Try not to get too distracted by Victorian medicine."

After she left, Jack moved closer, carefully placing the book on my desk. "The watermarks are consistent with the period, but look at this illustration style..."

I watched him explain his findings, all careful research and genuine enthusiasm. No masks, no pretense, no roles to play. Just Jack, who was passionate about books and history and sharing discoveries.

"What?" he asked, catching my look.

"Nothing. Just that you're good at this. The research, the preservation techniques, and the historical context. It's not just memorization. You truly understand it."

"Almost like I genuinely care about these things," he teased. Then, softer: "Almost like I'm not pretending."

The moment stretched between us, full of possibilities and unspoken truths.

The team found us like that, surrounded by books and shared understanding. They piled into my office with their usual lack of grace, but their questions were surprisingly thoughtful.

"Is it true doctors used to taste their patients' urine to diagnose diabetes?" Mike asked, somehow making it sound like a serious academic inquiry.

"Can we include that battlefield amputation manual in our playoff strategy presentation?" Tommy added.

"These diagrams would make sick tattoos," someone in the back contributed.

Jack, their captain, and leader, just smiled and started explaining the historical significance of early diagnostic techniques. His reading glasses caught the light, his hands moved confidently over ancient pages, and every pretense of being anything other than himself fell away.

Later that evening, after the team had dispersed to practice and the medical texts were carefully returned to their places, I found Jack still in the office, carefully wrapping a particularly delicate volume for transport.

"Heading out?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"Actually..." He adjusted his glasses, a gesture I was starting to recognize as nervousness rather than scholarly affectation. "I found another first edition that needs evaluating. If you're free tonight? Say, midnight in the rare book room?"

I looked at him - really looked at him. At the boy who'd stopped pretending to be anything other than himself. The hockey captain who now proudly displayed medical texts in his locker. The supposed bad boy who handled rare books with more care than his own heart.

"For scholarly purposes?" I asked, fighting a smile.

"Obviously." His answering grin was real - no masks, no roles, no pretense. "Very serious academic research. Might even need color-coding."

"Well, in that case..." I found myself returning his smile. "How could I refuse?"

Because some talents aren't meant to stay hidden, some truths need to be seen. Some people make you brave enough to be the person you are inside.

Even if who you are is a medical historian who's falling for a book-collecting hockey player. Especially then.