Page 20

Chapter twenty

Public Display

T here are exactly seven ways to get caught kissing in a museum. I know because we managed to hit every single one in the span of three minutes when Dr. Pierce from the Academic Board walked in on what was supposed to be a "private curatorial consultation" about Victorian medical implements.

It started innocently enough. The new surgical display needed organizing before tomorrow's medical school tour, and Jack had offered to help. Late afternoon sun slanted through the museum's Victorian windows, catching dust motes and making the brass instruments gleam like treasure.

I was actually being professional, explaining proper cataloging procedures, until Jack started demonstrating his knowledge of the collection.

"This bone saw," he said, lifting the instrument with the kind of care that made my curatorial heart race, "you can date it to exactly 1863. See how the handle's been modified?" His fingers traced the alterations with practiced precision. "They changed the grip angle after Gettysburg when they realized the original design caused surgeon fatigue during extended operations."

The way he cradled the artifact, his fingers moved over historical modifications with genuine understanding, and his voice held real passion for the subject, which was all terribly unfair to my professional demeanor.

"The modifications improved survival rates by thirteen percent," he continued, carefully returning the saw to its velvet backing. His hands were steady, sure, like they were on the ice. "Though they didn't document the change officially until late 1864. Most people overlook this detail, but if you compare it to earlier models—"

I kissed him. Because how could I not? He was speaking my language, handling history with reverence, being utterly himself without pretense or performance. One moment, I was watching him explain surgical modifications; the next, I had my hands in his hair, his surprised laugh warming my lips.

"Sophie," he murmured against my mouth, backing me carefully around the display case that definitely wouldn't survive contact with multiple NCAA championships' worth of hockey muscle. His hands found my waist, gentle despite their strength. "Someone could—"

"Don't care," I breathed, pulling him closer by his shirt. The responsible curator part of my brain noted we were violating at least seven preservation protocols. The rest of my brain was too busy short-circuiting at the way he smiled against my lips. "Too busy being impressed by your surgical tool identification skills."

His laugh vibrated through my chest. "That's definitely the hottest thing anyone's ever said to me." “I never thought I’d end up in a place like this with someone like you.”

"What about when I explained proper humidity control for first editions?"

"God, don't remind me. That was—"

"Ahem."

We froze. Slowly, horrifyingly, we turned to find Dr. Pierce in the doorway, looking like she'd just discovered a particularly fascinating specimen under a microscope. Her eyes tracked from Jack's hands on my waist to my fingers still tangled in his hair to the precariously shifted display case behind us.

"I believe," she said in a voice that could have preserved specimens better than formaldehyde, "this falls outside standard museum protocol."

An artifact cart chose that moment to roll slightly, the wheels squeaking in the silence like a Victorian patient awaiting surgery.

"Dr. Pierce," I started, though I had no idea how that sentence was going to end. My face felt hot enough to damage the humidity-sensitive displays. "We were just—"

"Conducting a private curatorial consultation?" Her eyebrow could have cut a diamond. "Yes, I can see that. Though I don't recall physical contact being part of proper artifact handling procedures."

Jack stepped slightly in front of me, protective even now. "Dr. Pierce, I can explain—"

"The improper proximity to historical artifacts? The violation of museum conduct guidelines? Or perhaps your surprisingly extensive knowledge of Civil War-era surgical modifications?"

That last part had a strange note - almost like a reluctant impression beneath the disapproval. But before either of us could respond, the sound of multiple phones buzzing filled the air.

The campus gossip network had already begun its work: "HOCKEY CAPTAIN AND TUTOR SCANDAL!" "BAD BOY CAUGHT WITH BOOKWORM!" "MUSEUM MAKEOUT MAYHEM!"

And beneath the sensational headlines, worse messages started appearing: "Athletic Department Calls Emergency Meeting," "Academic Board Reviews Mentorship Program," "Questions Raised About Recent Grade Improvements."

The initial fallout was swift and merciless. Within hours, the carefully constructed balance of our two worlds began to crumble.

"An emergency meeting of the Academic Integrity Board," I read from my phone, pacing Jack's room while he sat on his bed, shoulders tense. "Tomorrow at eight. They've been reviewing all your grades since we started working together."

"Let them." His voice was tight. "I did the work. I earned those grades."

"They're suggesting—" I couldn't finish. The implications in the emails made me sick.

"That you helped me cheat?" Now, there was anger in his tone. "That I couldn't possibly have actually learned anything? That the dumb hockey player must have gotten his good grades through 'inappropriate assistance'?"

Another buzz. This time his phone.

"Athletic Department," he said, reading. "Coach wants to meet. Something about 'maintaining proper focus' and 'avoiding distractions during crucial development periods.'"

"Jack—"

"They're reviewing game footage," he continued, voice hollow. "Looking for signs that my 'academic pursuits' affected my performance. Like actually using my brain somehow makes me a worse player."

I moved to sit beside him, our shoulders touching. His copy of "Victorian Medical Innovations" sat on the nightstand, pages marked with his careful notes. Real notes. Real interest. Real knowledge they were all questioning.

A knock at the door made us jump apart.

"Just me," Mike called through the door.

I grabbed my bag, but Jack caught my hand. "This is ridiculous. We're not doing anything wrong."

"Tell that to the Academic Board. And the Athletic Department. And—"

"And everyone who thinks they get to decide who we are? What we feel? What we're capable of?"

His thumb traced patterns on my palm, the same way he traced important passages in books.

Another knock, more urgent. "Seriously, guys, they're coming down the hall."

I pulled away reluctantly. "We need to be smart about this."

"Smart?" His laugh was bitter. "Like how I was finally smart enough to understand medical history? To care about books? To be more than what everyone expected?"

"Jack—"

"Ms. Chen?" A sharp voice called from the hallway. Dr. Pierce. "I believe we need to discuss appropriate academic boundaries."

Mike's voice again: "I'll stall them. You've got thirty seconds."

I moved to the window - the classic escape route we'd used so many times before. But Jack's voice stopped me.

"What if we didn't hide?"

"What?"

"What if we just... stopped pretending? Stopped playing their games? Stopped acting like this is something shameful?"

Through the window, I could see students gathering on the quad, phones out, probably adding to the growing storm of gossip. In a few hours, the Academic Board would question every grade, every paper, every achievement he'd worked for. The Athletic Department would scrutinize every game, every play, looking for signs that caring about more than hockey had somehow tainted their star player.

"Your hockey career," I started.

"Means nothing if I have to pretend to be less than I am." He stood, moving closer. "I'm done hiding my books. Done pretending I don't care about medical history. Done acting like loving you somehow makes me less of an athlete."

"Jack—"

"Ms. Chen!" Dr. Pierce again, closer now.

"Twenty seconds," Mike warned.

The next morning, separate meetings were held because apparently, even our damage control needed appropriate academic distance.

I sat in Dean Williams' office, surrounded by documentation of Jack's academic progress. Every paper, every test, and every project carefully organized and annotated. Evidence of real work, real learning, real passion for the subjects.

"This is a serious matter, Ms. Chen," Dean Williams said, her office feeling colder than the hockey rink. "The mentorship program's integrity must be maintained."

"The mentorship ended after playoffs," I pointed out, gripping my folder. "Everything after that was—"

"Was what? A romantic entanglement that just happened to coincide with remarkable academic improvement?"

Through her window, I could see the hockey rink where the team practiced without their captain. Jack was across campus in his own interrogation with the Athletic Department.

My phone buzzed silently: "Coach says I'm 'compromising team dynamics.' Apparently, being interested in both hockey and academics is suspicious. How's your meeting?"

Before I could respond, Dean Williams cleared her throat.

"There are concerns," she continued, "about the nature of Mr. Morrison's sudden interest in medical history. Some suggest it might be performative."

The word hit like a body check. "Performative?"

"It wouldn't be the first time a student showed temporary interest in a subject to impress someone." She shuffled papers. "His previous pattern of behavior suggests—"

"His previous pattern of behavior," I interrupted, surprising us both, "includes leading his team to playoffs while maintaining a 3.8 GPA. It includes spending hours researching Victorian medical practices because he genuinely finds them fascinating. It includes—"

"It includes a rather public display of unprofessional conduct in the museum."

My phone buzzed again: "They're questioning everything. Every grade. Every game. Like I can't possibly be good at both."

"The board meets tomorrow," Dean Williams said. "To discuss appropriate actions regarding both the mentorship program and your position at the museum."

Through the window, I watched the hockey team run drills without Jack. Watched the museum staff reorganize exhibits without me. Watched our carefully built world start to separate back into its proper pieces.

But then another text: "Whatever they say, whatever they think - I know who I am now. Because of you. With you. And I'm not going back to pretending."

A knock at the door interrupted my response. Dr. Pierce entered, followed by several board members.

"Dean Williams," she said. "We've completed our review of Mr. Morrison's academic record."

My heart stopped.

"And?" Dean Williams prompted.

"His work is exceptional." Dr. Pierce's voice held that same note from the museum - a reluctant impression beneath disapproval. "His analysis of Civil War medical practices, in particular, shows genuine understanding and original research. If anything, his grades may be lower than deserved due to his initial attempts to hide his academic interests."

I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

"However," she continued, "the question of appropriate boundaries remains. The board must consider the precedent this sets. The impact on institutional integrity. The—"

My phone lit up one more time: "They can question everything except how I feel about you. That's the one thing I know is real. That's the one thing worth fighting for."

And maybe that was the real test - not what they believed, but what we knew to be true. What we were willing to fight for.

I stood, gathering my documentation. "Dr. Pierce? Dean Williams? With respect, I'd like to address the full board. Tomorrow. With Jack."

"Ms. Chen—"

"Because if you're going to question our integrity, our achievements, our relationship - you should do it to our faces. Together. Since that's how we earned everything they're trying to take away."

The library was quiet that night, most students avoiding the epicenter of an academic scandal. Jack found me in our usual study room, surrounded by every piece of evidence we'd gathered.

"Hey," he said softly, closing the door. His shoulders held the tension of hours of Athletic Department interrogation. "How'd the review board go?"

"Dr. Pierce actually defended your work." I looked up from the papers spread across the table. "Though she still disapproves of our 'inappropriate display of affection' in her museum."

"Our museum," he corrected, moving closer. "And I'm not apologizing for being excited about correct surgical tool identification."

Despite everything, I smiled. "That's really not helping our case about maintaining professional boundaries."

"Good." He sat beside me, picking up one of his early papers on Victorian medical practices. "Because I'm done pretending I don't care about this stuff. Done acting like I can't be both a hockey player and someone who gets excited about medical history."

"Even if it costs you?"

"Even if it costs me everything." He turned to face me fully. "Look, they're going to make us defend ourselves tomorrow. Try to make us doubt everything we've built. Try to make it seem impossible that someone like me could genuinely care about academics or that someone like you could see past my reputation."

"Jack—"

"But they're wrong." His hand found mine across the papers. "Because you didn't just teach me about medical history, proper book handling, or color-coding systems that actually make sense. You taught me it's okay to be everything I am. The hockey player who loves literature. The bad boy who handles rare books with care. The guy who falls in love with the museum girl and doesn't care who knows it."

"Even if they try to take it all away?"

"Let them try." His smile held that same confidence he showed on the ice. "We've got documentation of every assignment, every grade, every legitimate achievement. We've got Dr. Pierce's reluctant support. We've got the whole hockey team ready to testify about how much better I play when I'm allowed to be myself."

"And we've got inappropriate museum behavior on our record."

"Worth it." He lifted our joined hands and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. "Every scandal. Every review board. Every raised eyebrow at the hockey player quoting Victorian medical texts."

Tomorrow would bring more questions, more doubt, more attempts to separate our worlds back into their proper boxes. But sitting there, surrounded by evidence of everything we'd built together, I made my choice.

Some things were worth fighting for. Some loves were worth any risk. Some truths had to be defended, even if they didn't fit neatly into anyone's categories.

"Okay," I said, squeezing his hand. "Let's show them exactly who we are."

His smile was worth every whisper, every doubt, every carefully constructed wall we'd have to break down.

Together. For real. No more hiding.