Page 18

Chapter eighteen

The Playoffs

T here are exactly sixty minutes in a regulation hockey game. But during playoffs, time becomes fluid - stretching like taffy during crucial power plays, compressing into heartbeats during penalty kills, freezing entirely when the puck hangs suspended in playoff-deciding moments.

Preston University's playoff run started in late March, when the ice still held winter's edge, and every game could be their last. I watched as the team practiced increasingly brutal hours, Jack pushing himself harder than anyone.

"Regional bracket looks tough," Dex said, bringing me coffee one morning as I pretended not to watch practice. "Michigan, Minnesota, Boston College... all the powerhouses."

"I'm sure they'll—" I stopped as Jack took a particularly hard hit during drills, bouncing back up like it was nothing. "They're ready."

The first round against Michigan set the tone. Jack scored in triple overtime, a beautiful shot that sent the Preston section into chaos. He didn't celebrate - just helped his exhausted teammates off the ice and started preparing for the next game.

That night, I found him in the rare book room, still in his workout clothes, reading about Victorian surgical techniques.

"Light reading?" I asked.

"Research." His voice was tight. "Sports medicine during wartime. How they kept soldiers - athletes - functioning through impossible conditions."

Don't worry about the dark circles under his eyes. Don't notice how his hands shake slightly from exhaustion. Don't think about—

"Jack—"

"I'm fine." He didn't look up. "Just need to be prepared. For whatever comes."

The quarterfinals brought Boston College and a different kind of tension. Their defense targeted Jack mercilessly, trying to take Preston's captain out of play. He absorbed hit after hit, setting up teammates for goals instead of taking glory shots.

"He's playing smart," Mike told me after they advanced. "Never seen him like this - it's like he's seeing the whole game three moves ahead."

But I saw the ice packs. The careful way he moved after games. The growing collection of medical texts about injury recovery and pain management in his locker.

The fight happened before the semifinals. I found him reviewing game tape at 3 AM, surrounded by empty coffee cups and playbook diagrams.

"You need rest," I said, moving to turn off the screen.

"What I need is to figure out Minnesota's penalty kill patterns." His voice had an edge I hadn't heard before. "What I need is to be ready. What I need is—"

"To sleep? To take care of yourself? To remember you're human?"

"What I need," he said carefully, dangerously, "is to focus on hockey right now. Not... this." He gestured between us. "Not complications. No distractions."

The words hit like body checks. "Distractions?"

"Sophie—"

"No, you're right." My voice was ice. "Focus on hockey. That's what you're really good at, isn't it? Focusing on exactly what you need at the moment? Whether it's hockey or literature or medical history or—"

"Don't." He stood, all athlete's grace turned to tension. "Don't make this about that. This isn't about us, or trust, or any of it. This is about my team. My responsibility. My last chance to prove—"

"Prove what? That you're more than the bad boy with a reading habit? That you're worth your father's expectations? That you can play through anything, even if it breaks you?"

"Get out."

"Jack—"

"Please." His voice cracked. "Just... I can't right now. I can't be what you need. I can't be anything except Preston's captain until this is over."

I left. He didn't stop me.

The semifinals against Minnesota were brutal. Jack took a hit in the first period, which would have benched most players. But he got up, blood on his jersey, and orchestrated a masterclass in strategic hockey. Preston won 3-2.

I didn't go to the locker room after. Didn't text congratulations. I didn't leave Victorian medical texts about injury recovery in his locker like I wanted to.

The playoff game loomed, carrying the weight of everything unspoken between us.

The morning of the playoff finals dawned cold and clear. North Dakota, the defending champions, waited on home ice. Despite our fight, despite everything, I found myself in the stands next to Dex, clutching the worn leather strap of a lucky dental tool case.

"He's been watching film all week," Dex said quietly. "Up until 4 AM every night. Mom's worried."

On the ice, both teams warmed up. Jack moved differently - a subtle hesitation in his left side that most people wouldn't notice. But I'd spent too many hours watching him practice to miss the signs.

"That hit from Minnesota—" I started.

"Is worse than he's letting on." Dex nodded. "But you try telling him that."

The game started fast. North Dakota's defense was legendary, but Preston had Jack Morrison playing like a man possessed. Every shift was calculated, every pass precise, every hit absorbed and turned into opportunity.

"He's protecting Tommy's line," Mike's girlfriend explained from behind us. "Taking the hardest matchups so the younger guys don't have to."

I watched Jack set up play after play, putting his teammates in position to score while taking brutal hits himself. His left side was definitely compromised - he favored it on turns, compensated with his right, and pushed through the pain with pure determination.

Halfway through the second period, with Preston up 2-1, it happened. North Dakota's largest defenseman caught Jack with his head down. The hit was legal but devastating. The crowd's collective gasp echoed through the arena as Preston's captain went down hard.

Get up. Please get up. Please be okay. Please—

He got up. Because he was Jack Morrison, and this was playoffs, and there was blood on his jersey, but his team needed him.

"He shouldn't be playing," I whispered.

"Try stopping him," Dex replied, but her knuckles were white on the railing.

The third period was war on ice. North Dakota tied it with ten minutes left. Jack's line came out, and even from the stands, I could see the cost of each stride, each turn, each hit. But his eyes were clear, focused, seeing patterns in the chaos like he did in Victorian medical texts.

He intercepted a pass at Preston's blue line with two minutes left. What happened next would be talked about for years - how he split their defense, barely stayed upright, and the puck left his stick just as another hit came.

The goal horn sounded. Preston 3, North Dakota 2.

The final seconds ticked down like heartbeats.

When the buzzer sounded, the Preston section erupted. Players poured onto the ice, sticks and gloves flying. Jack stood apart for a moment, watching his team celebrate, something unreadable in his expression.

Then his legs folded, and he fell to the ice.

I was moving before I realized it, pushing through crowds, past security, and onto the ice. By the time I reached him, the team doctor was already there.

"Probable broken ribs," the doctor was saying. "Been playing through it since Minnesota—"

"You idiot," I said, and everyone turned. Jack looked up from where he sat on the ice, still in full gear, pain finally visible on his face. "You absolute Victorian-era-medical-practices level of idiot."

His smile was tired but real. "That's quite the diagnosis, Dr. Chen."

"Three broken ribs," the doctor interjected. "Maybe four. Been playing through it since that Minnesota hit. It could have punctured a lung. Could have—"

"Could have lost," Jack finished quietly. "Wasn't an option."

The celebration swirled around us - teammates hugging, photographers shoving cameras, reporters calling questions. But on our small patch of ice, time slowed to heartbeats and held breath.

"The team needed their captain," he said like that explained everything as if he thought it justified the risk, the pain, and the weeks of hiding an injury between games.

"And what about what you needed?" My voice cracked. "What about taking care of yourself? What about—"

"What about the girl who reorganizes dental tools when she's worried?" His eyes held mine. "The one who's been watching practice from the museum window? Who left nineteenth-century medical texts about injury recovery in my locker when she thought I wouldn't notice?"

Oh.

"You're still an idiot."

"Probably." He winced as the doctor helped him up. "But I'm an idiot who won playoffs."

"An idiot who could have seriously injured himself."

"An idiot who missed you."

The words hung between us like visible breaths in cold air. Around us, the celebration continued - the team receiving their trophy, cameras flashing, fans screaming. But we might as well have been alone in the museum at midnight.

"I can't be just hockey," he said quietly. "Even during playoffs. I tried. Tried to focus only on the game, on what everyone needed from me. But I kept thinking about Victorian medical practices and rare books and the way you color-code everything, including feelings."

"Jack—"

"I love you." He said it simply, a fact, a diagnosis, something too true to need elaborate presentation. "I love how you organize history by date and significance. I love how you protect old medical tools like they're precious. I love that you came to the playoffs even when you were mad at me. I love—"

I kissed him. Right there on playoff ice, in front of cameras, teammates, and what felt like the entire hockey world. His lips were cold from ice, warm from exertion, and perfect against mine. His hands - the same hands that just won playoffs, that handled rare books with such care - came up to cup my face.

Someone (probably Mike) wolf-whistled. Cameras clicked. The team erupted in cheers that had nothing to do with hockey.

"Finally!" Dex's voice carried across the ice. "Do you know how long I've had to watch you two pine over medical history?"

Jack laughed against my lips, then winced. "Ribs."

"Hospital," I said firmly. "Now."

"Worth it." He kissed me again, softer. "Every hit. Every game. Everything."

"You're still an idiot."

"Your idiot. If you want."

"I want." The words felt like a victory, like playoffs and first editions and perfectly preserved history. "Even if you have questionable self-preservation instincts."

"Says the girl who attacks people with dental tools."

"That was one time!"

His smile was brighter than playoff lights, more genuine than any role he'd ever played. "Best concussion of my life."

The doctor finally insisted on getting Jack to the hospital. As they helped him off the ice, he looked back at me.

"Meet me in the rare book room when they release me? I found a first edition about Victorian sports medicine. Very relevant to current events."

"You're supposed to be resting."

"Reading is resting."

And there, watching him being led away still in hockey gear, quoting medical texts with broken ribs and a playoff trophy waiting, I realized something:

Some victories aren't measured in goals. Some saves happen off the ice. And some games are worth every hit taken. Some love stories start with dental tools and end with playoff kisses.

And some idiots who play hockey with broken ribs while collecting Victorian medical texts are worth every moment of worry.

Even if they need to learn about proper injury protocols, they have questionable decision-making skills, and even if they make you fall in love between rare books and playoff games.

Especially then.

Something broke open in my chest – all the careful rules, all the protective distance, all the reasons this couldn't work, shattering like dropped surgical tools. I moved without thinking, closing the space between us, my hands finding his jersey.

He kissed like he played hockey – all controlled power and perfect timing, holding back just enough to make you want more. He tasted like victory and possibility and something uniquely him that made my heart forget how to beat properly.

One of his hands slid into my hair, tilting my head just so, deepening the kiss until I made a sound that definitely wasn't professional. His other hand stayed on my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone like I was something precious, something worth protecting, something real.

This is happening. This is really happening. I'm kissing Jack Morrison on playoff ice, and he loves how I organize history, and his lips are perfect and—

Cameras clicked. The team erupted in cheers that had nothing to do with hockey. But I barely registered any of it, too lost in the way Jack's fingers traced patterns on my skin, the way he smiled against my lips, the way everything finally felt right in a way that no organizational system could capture.

"Hospital," I said firmly, though I made no move to step back. "Before you do any more damage to those ribs."

"Come with me?"

"Obviously." I smoothed his jersey where I'd gripped it. "Someone needs to make sure you actually follow medical advice this time."

His smile was soft, real, just for me, though I could see the pain starting to show through his adrenaline. "I love you."

"I love you too." The words felt like victory, like perfectly preserved history, like everything falling into place. "Even if you have questionable self-preservation instincts."

"Even if I play hockey with broken ribs?"

"Even then."

The team doctor was insistent now, and trainers appeared with a wheelchair that Jack eyed with obvious disdain. But as the adrenaline faded, even he couldn't hide the grimace of pain. They helped him into the chair, careful of his injured side.

"Stay?" he asked quietly, reaching for my hand.

I laced my fingers through his. "Not going anywhere."

As they wheeled him toward the waiting ambulance, surrounded by medical staff and concerned teammates, he kept hold of my hand as long as he could. And I knew, with a certainty that would have impressed Victorian doctors, that some victories weren't measured in goals or points or playoff trophies.

Sometimes, they were measured in the space between heartbeats, in the press of lips, when everything finally made sense, even if those moments ended in an ambulance ride to the emergency room.

Especially then.