Page 19

Chapter nineteen

The Not -So- Secret Relationship

T here are exactly twenty-seven ceiling tiles in room 304 of Preston Memorial Hospital. I know because I counted them repeatedly during the endless hours of visiting Jack, trying not to look too interested when nurses came in, attempting to maintain what the team doctor called "appropriate visitor dynamics."

"Your heart rate spikes every time she comes in," the night nurse observed, checking Jack's vitals. "Should I be noting that in your chart?"

"Just excitement about Victorian medical practices," Jack said smoothly, though his hand found mine under the blanket when she turned away. "Sophie was explaining nineteenth-century treatment protocols for thoracic injuries."

I was, in fact, doing no such thing. I was actually trying not to stare at how unfairly attractive he looked, even in a hospital gown, with three broken ribs and enough painkillers to sedate a Victorian surgery ward.

"Mhmm." The nurse adjusted something on his IV. "And that's why you're both blushing?"

"Medical history is very stimulating," I managed.

Jack's thumb traced patterns on my palm, sending electricity up my arm. Two days since the playoff kiss, and every touch still felt like lightning. She could feel the warmth radiating from him. And he looked at her so intensely that she almost forgot to breathe.

"Just keep the 'stimulation' minimal," she warned. "Those ribs need rest."

After she left, Jack turned to me with that real smile that still made my heart forget basic anatomy. "So, about those Victorian treatment protocols..."

"Absolutely not. You heard the nurse. Rest."

"I am resting." His fingers kept moving against my skin. "Very restfully learning about medical history."

"Jack."

"Sophie."

She leaned in closer, and all that mattered was their shared connection; it was as if it could heal his wounds.

A commotion in the hallway made us spring apart - nearly knocking over a tray of medical supplies and him wincing at the sudden movement. The hockey team burst in, carrying what appeared to be half the campus bookstore.

"Cap!" Mike led the charge, arms full of books. "We raided the medical history section. If you're stuck here, you might as well study stuff you like instead of pretending to read playbooks."

"Also brought contraband coffee," Tommy added, producing a cup of what was definitely not hospital cafeteria quality. "Don't tell the nurses."

I started to pull my hand away, but Jack held on. The team noticed - of course they noticed - but their grins were conspiratorial rather than teasing.

"Don't mind us," Mike said, arranging books on the bedside table. "Just dropping off brain fuel for our secretly nerdy captain and his definitely-not-girlfriend."

"We're not—" I started.

"Secret?" Tommy suggested. "Because the playoff kiss was pretty public, Coach has it on his phone—"

"Here for a Victorian medical history discussion," Jack finished smoothly, but his hand tightened on mine.

The team exchanged knowing looks but played along, launching into a detailed analysis of their playoff victory that somehow incorporated both hockey strategy and nineteenth-century surgical techniques.

After three days, the hospital released Jack with strict instructions about rest and recovery. His room became our new sanctuary, though sneaking in past his teammates required timing worthy of playoff strategy.

"Coast is clear," Dex texted one evening. "Mike's at practice, and Tommy's at a study group. But hurry - team meeting in an hour."

I found Jack propped up in bed, surrounded by books and looking frustrated with his limited mobility. His face lit up when I entered, then immediately shifted to concern.

"You're out of breath."

"Had to take the back stairs," I explained, dropping my bag. "Coach Williams was in the lobby."

"Very covert." He reached for me, then winced. "Though maybe not worth a stealth mission just to watch me be useless."

"You're not useless." I sat carefully on the edge of his bed, mindful of his ribs. "You're healing. There's a difference." "Tell that to the team. The playoffs celebration is this weekend, and I can barely move."

"Good thing you have someone well-versed in Victorian medical practices to keep you company instead."

His smile turned soft. "Is that what we're calling this? Medical observation?"

"Purely professional."

"Obviously." His hand found mine. "That's why you're blushing."

"I'm not—"

A knock at the door sent me diving behind his bed, knocking over a stack of medical texts in the process.

"Jack?" It was Coach. "Need to discuss recovery timeline."

"Just a minute!" Jack called, then whispered to me, "Under the bed."

I army-crawled into the dusty space, trying not to sneeze as Jack awkwardly adjusted his position to look casual.

"Come in!"

Coach entered, and I had a ground-level view of his Preston Hockey sneakers. "How's the pain level today?"

"Manageable," Jack said, though I knew he'd been wincing all afternoon.

"Good, good. And the... academic support? Keeping up with studies despite everything?"

There was something knowing in his tone that made me hold my breath.

"Yes, sir. Lots of independent study."

"I'm sure." Coach's shoes moved closer to the bed. "Interesting choice of reading material."

I realized with horror that my Victorian Medical Practices notes were still visible on his desk, my distinctively color-coded handwriting obvious to anyone who looked.

"Research," Jack said quickly. "For history class."

"Mhmm." Coach shifted, and I saw him bend down. My heart stopped. But he just picked up one of the fallen books. "Well, keep up the... studying. And Jack?"

"Yes, Coach?"

"Tell Miss Chen that medical historians typically study anatomy from above the bed, not below it.

I closed my eyes in mortification. When Coach's footsteps faded, I crawled out, face burning.

"So much for secrecy," Jack laughed, then immediately regretted it. "Ow."

"Serves you right." But I was fighting a smile. "Think he'll tell anyone?"

"Nah. Coach is cool. Though he might make me do extra laps when I'm cleared, just for the drama of it all."

The next few weeks settled into a pattern of secret visits and near-misses. My museum office became our safest meeting spot - nobody questioned the hockey captain getting "academic support" during his recovery. But other places required more creativity.

The library proved particularly challenging. Every creaking floorboard sent us jumping apart, my hands reluctantly leaving his hair, his lips still warm against my neck. Once, Dean Williams walked past our study room right as Jack was teaching me about "proper book handling techniques" that had nothing to do with preservation protocols.

"Quick question about the Victorian medical exhibit," I said loudly, practically leaping to the other side of the table.

"Yes, very fascinating historical significance," Jack added, somehow managing to look scholarly despite his flushed face and messed-up hair.

The dean paused, peering through the glass. Jack held up a medical text like a shield while I pretended to take extremely detailed notes.

"Excellent dedication to academic pursuits," she said finally. However, her raised eyebrow suggested she wasn't entirely convinced by our study session charade.

After she left, Jack dropped his head to the table with a groan. "We're terrible at this."

"Speak for yourself. My 'taking notes' performance was Oscar-worthy."

"Sophie, you were writing the same word over and over. And it was 'kissing.'"

"That's... historically relevant."

His laugh was worth every near-discovery, every rushed hiding spot, every elaborate excuse. Even with broken ribs limiting his movement, he found ways to drive me crazy - trailing fingers along my arm while discussing surgical techniques, whispering Victorian poetry in my ear during study sessions, looking at me like I was rarer than first editions.

The team, despite their show of discretion, took every opportunity to play lookout.

"Five minutes!" Mike would text when he saw faculty approaching the study room. "Straighten your clothes and open some books!"

Tommy started carrying spare medical texts just to toss into rooms before administrators entered. "Historical research materials!" he'd announce loudly. "Very educational!"

But it was the quiet moments that undid me - Jack falling asleep during our study sessions, face peaceful despite his healing ribs. The way he still color-coded his notes to match my system. How he'd absently reach for my hand while reading like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Your Victorian medicine midterm grade posted," he said one evening, scrolling through his phone in bed while I organized the mountain of books surrounding him.

"And?"

"98%." His smile was proud. "Turns out all those 'independent study sessions' paid off."

"Funny, my academic performance seems to have declined since starting these sessions."

"That's because you spend more time studying anatomy than medical history."

"Says the guy who keeps requesting detailed lessons about Victorian healing techniques."

"Can you blame me?" He pulled me closer, careful of his ribs. "My tutor's very thorough."

A knock at the door sent me diving behind his desk, adding another bruise to my growing collection.

"Just me!" Dex called. "But Coach is doing room checks in ten."

I emerged, rubbing my elbow. "We need a better system."

"I don't know," Jack grinned. "I kind of like having the museum girl sneak around for me. Very Victorian romance novel."

"Except for the broken ribs and terrible hiding spots."

"Details." He caught my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm. "Worth every bruise."

As Jack's ribs healed, our stolen moments became less about hiding and more about discovering. Late nights in the rare book room turned into quiet conversations between shelves, his fingers tracing the spines of first editions while mine traced the veins in his wrist. Sometimes, we'd sit for hours, my back against his chest, reading Victorian medical texts and making completely unprofessional notes in the margins.

"Listen to this," he'd murmur, his breath warm against my ear. "'The surgeon must maintain absolute precision despite circumstances.' Reminds me of someone else who likes control."

"Says the guy who color-codes his research notes now."

"Your influence is corrupting my carefully crafted chaos."

But it was the midnight ice sessions that changed everything. Jack was finally cleared for light skating six weeks post-injury, and somehow, I found myself there after hours, supposedly "monitoring his form."

The rink was different at night. Empty bleachers created strange echoes, and the ice seemed to glow under emergency lights. I sat on the bench, watching Jack glide across the surface with the kind of grace that made my heart forget basic anatomy.

"Your technique needs work," I called from the bench, watching him glide across the empty ice.

"Really?" He turned sharply, spraying ice as he stopped in front of me. Even after weeks off, his movements held that fluid confidence that had first caught my attention. "Care to demonstrate proper form, Professor Chen?"

"I don't skate."

"Everyone skates." He held out his hand, eyes soft behind his practice visor. "Come on. For academic purposes."

"I don't even have skates."

His grin turned mischievous. "That's why I borrowed these from the equipment room." He reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of women's skates. "They might be a little big, but..."

"You planned this."

"Maybe." He knelt in front of the bench, skates in hand. "Trust me?"

And that was the problem, wasn't it? I did trust him. Trusted him enough to let him help me into the skates, his fingers gentle as he laced them up, and I trusted him enough to let him guide me onto the ice, his hands steady on my waist as I wobbled like a Victorian lady in her first corset.

"Easy," he murmured, skating backward while guiding me forward. "Keep your knees soft. Let me lead."

"Pretty sure this isn't regulation hockey instruction."

His laugh echoed across empty seats. "No, this is something better. Step, glide... there you go. Just like Victorian dance lessons. Though with more potential for embarrassing falls."

"Pretty sure Victorian dance lessons didn't involve ice and possible concussions."

"No, but they did involve a lot of close supervision." His hands tightened slightly on my waist as I slipped. "Very strict protocols about proper form."

We moved slowly across the ice, my hands gripping his forearms, his body warming mine despite the chill. Each glide brought us closer until I could feel his heartbeat through his practice jersey.

"See?" His voice was low, intimate in the empty rink. "You're a natural."

"I'm a disaster waiting to happen."

"You're perfect." He said it simply, like a fact, like something too true to need elaboration. "Even when you're threatening my life with dental tools or hiding from faculty in questionable places or making me fall in love with you more every time you color-code something."

My breath caught. Or maybe I just forgot how to breathe entirely.

"Is that what we're calling this?" I managed. "Falling?"

"Well," his smile turned wicked, "we are on ice."

He kissed me then, soft and slow and perfect. His hands slid from my waist to my back, pulling me closer despite the awkwardness of skates and ice. I wound my fingers in his practice jersey, tasting mint and possibility and something uniquely him that made my knees weak (though that might have been the skating).

The lights flickered on with cruel timing.

"Really?" Mike's voice echoed across the rink. "The one time I don't text a warning..."

We startled apart, which was a terrible idea on ice. I went down hard, pulling Jack with me despite his attempt to stay upright. He managed to twist, so I landed on top of him instead of the other way around, protecting me even in an ungraceful fall.

"Ribs!" I gasped, hands fluttering over his chest in panic.

“Are they feeling any better?”

“Better because you’re here,” he laughed, looking up at me with a softness that made me blush. One hand came up to brush hair from my face, lingering against my cheek. "Though my dignity might need medical attention."

"Your dignity needed attention way before this," Mike said, skating over to help us up. "But maybe keep the romance off the ice? Coach will kill me if you reinjure yourself making out with the museum girl."

"Academic pursuit of proper skating technique," Jack corrected with dignity, but his hand stayed tangled with mine.

"Right." Mike's grin was evil. "That's why Sophie's wearing your practice jersey?"

I looked down, realizing I had indeed grabbed Jack's jersey instead of my sweater when we rushed out earlier. It was too big, smelling of ice and cedar and him, and I'd been wearing it more than I'd care to admit.

"Historical research," I tried.

"Into what? The evolution of hockey-related wardrobe malfunctions?"

We were saved from further embarrassment by the arrival of the maintenance crew, sending us all running like guilty Victorian teenagers caught in the conservatory.

Later, tangled together on Jack's tiny bed (ribs finally healed enough for careful proximity), he traced constellations on my skin. We'd been reading about nineteenth-century astronomical medicine - the belief that stars affected healing - but his fingers had wandered from academic demonstration to something more intimate. “If I’m your medicine, we need to up the dosage,” I said.

"We're terrible at secret relationships," he murmured into my hair. His other hand played with my fingers, examining them like rare artifacts. Their closeness ignited a spark of hope and love.

"Terrible," I agreed, watching his hands - the same hands that scored playoff goals and handled first editions with equal care. "Though your team's surprisingly good at keeping quiet."

"They like you. Say you make me less..." He gestured vaguely.

"Less what?"

"Less carefully constructed. More real." His fingers stilled on my wrist, finding my pulse. "Like I don't have to pretend to be anything except exactly who I am."

I propped myself up to look at him. In the dim light, with his guard down and his hands gentle on my skin, he looked nothing like the bad boy of Preston University. Just like Jack - my Jack - who quoted Victorian poetry, handled rare books like treasures, and looked at me like I was something precious.

"I've never..." he started, then stopped, his thumb tracing patterns on my palm. "With anyone else... it was always roles, you know? Being what they wanted. But with you..."

"With me?"

"With you, I'm just... me. The guy who gets excited about medical history and organizes books by date and significance and falls more in love with you every time you explain proper preservation techniques."

My heart did complicated things in my chest. "Even when I hide under beds?"

"Especially then." He smiled, soft and real. "You're adorable when you're being covert. Terrible at it, but adorable."

"I love you," I said, because it was true and because I could and because some things needed to be said even if they made you vulnerable. "Even with terrible hiding skills."

His kiss was gentle, unhurried like we had all the time in the world. Like some things were worth any risk of discovery. Love could be as simple as borrowed jerseys and midnight skating lessons and how his hands felt mapping constellations on my skin, memorizing every curve, and making a map to my heart.

Another knock sent me rolling off the bed with practiced ease.

"Clear!" Dex called. "Though you might want to stop letting Sophie borrow your clothes. People are starting to talk."

I looked down at my - his - Preston Hockey sweatshirt and felt myself blush.

"Let them talk," Jack said softly, pulling me back to him. His hands found my waist, warm and steady like they'd been on the ice. "Some things are worth the risk of discovery." The world faded away until it was just the two of them suspended in a bubble.

And there, in his too-small bed, wearing his clothes, breaking visitation rules, and falling more in love by the moment, I had to agree, and my heart swelled.

Some things - like boys who taught you to skate at midnight and traced stars on your skin and loved you exactly as you were - were worth any risk at all.