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Chapter twenty-one

Taking a Stand

T he thing about academic hearings is that they're remarkably similar to Victorian medical procedures - everyone gathers in an imposing room to observe your potential demise, the people in charge maintain expressions of grave concern, and no matter how much you prepare, there's a good chance you'll end up bleeding anyway. At least metaphorically.

I'd spent the night before our Academic Standards Board hearing, organizing evidence like a particularly obsessive Victorian surgeon preparing for a complicated operation. Every paper, every grade, and every tutoring log was meticulously cataloged and color-coded. By 3 AM, my disaster preparation system had evolved into something that would have impressed even the most compulsive nineteenth-century medical archivists.

"You made a flowchart of possible expulsion scenarios?" Jack asked, finding me in the library at dawn. He wore his reading glasses and a Preston Hockey sweatshirt that definitely violated several of my rules about maintaining professional distance. "Complete with probability statistics and color-coding?"

"The pink tabs are for professional misconduct," I muttered, trying not to notice how unfairly attractive he looked for someone facing potential academic ruin. "Yellow for academic integrity violations. Purple for-"

"Let me guess - improper handling of historical artifacts?"

"Moral turpitude," I corrected, though, given our history with the rare books section, the categories weren't mutually exclusive.

He picked up my careful documentation, lips twitching as he read. "'Scenario 47: Board questions sudden interest in Victorian medical practices and proper preservation techniques.' Sophie, I don't think they can expel us for my genuine fascination with nineteenth-century bone saws."

"No, but they can question everything. Every grade since we started working together. Every paper about medical history. Every time we were caught 'discussing preservation protocols' in questionably appropriate locations."

"You mean like that time in the museum when Dr. Pierce-"

"We don't talk about that," I interrupted, though my face heated at the memory. "We need to focus on our defense."

"Our defense is the truth." He moved closer, making it harder to concentrate on potential academic disaster scenarios. "That I actually love learning about medical history. I can quote Victorian literature and score winning goals. That somewhere between dental tool assaults and late-night study sessions, I fell in love with the girl who color-codes everything, including ways we might get expelled."

"The board meets in two hours," I said instead of all the things I wanted to say. "We need to be prepared."

"We are prepared." He lifted a particularly detailed timeline of our relationship. "Though I notice you left out some of our more... thorough study sessions in the rare books section."

"Those fall under multiple categories of misconduct."

"Very thoroughly documented misconduct," he agreed, grinning. "With excellent attention to proper handling techniques."

The library door burst open before I could defend my organizational choices or possibly create new categories of academic impropriety. Mike entered, followed by what appeared to be half the hockey team and several museum volunteers. They all wore handmade buttons featuring crossed dental tools and hockey sticks, with "Team Sophie & Jack" written in questionable artistic style.

"Operation Save the Nerds is go!" Mike announced proudly.

"We voted to call it Operation Academic Freedom," Tommy corrected, adjusting his slightly crooked button. "Though personally I supported Operation Let Them Make Out In The Museum."

"Why are you all here?" I asked, noting with growing horror that some of them carried signs with terrible puns about love and medical history.

"Because," Mike said, producing a stack of papers that rivaled my own documentation, "we've got evidence. Every tutoring session when Jack helped us understand our assignments instead of pretending to be dumb. Every game where he quoted Victorian literature during plays. Every time he organized the team library by historical period and significance."

"Also," Tommy added, "we started a petition. Turns out people really support the bad boy hockey captain who secretly loves medical history and the museum girl who made him brave enough to show it. Even if they sometimes violate proper preservation protocols in inappropriate locations."

"That was one time," I protested weakly.

"The security footage suggests otherwise," Mike said helpfully.

"There's footage?"

"So many videos," Tommy confirmed. "Though we're focusing on the academic achievements for the board meeting. Mostly."

Jack's hand found mine under the table, warm and steady despite everything. "See? We're not alone in this."

The Academic Standards Board room looked exactly like a Victorian operating theater, complete with rows of seats arranged for maximum psychological discomfort. Dean Williams presided from the center like a particularly stern chief surgeon, flanked by department heads who had probably never experienced moral turpitude in their lives.

"Mr. Morrison, Ms. Chen," Dean Williams began, her voice carrying the same warmth as a nineteenth-century surgical instrument. "We're here to address serious allegations of academic misconduct and inappropriate relationship dynamics within the mentorship program."

I started to reach for my carefully prepared defense, but Jack spoke first.

"With respect," he said, standing with the kind of quiet confidence that made him team captain, "the only misconduct here was pretending to be less than I am to fit everyone's expectations."

A murmur went through the assembled board members. Dr. Pierce, surprisingly, looked almost approving.

"Mr. Morrison," another administrator started, "your sudden academic improvement coinciding with this... relationship... raises concerns about-"

"About what?" Jack's voice filled the room. "About the fact that I enjoy learning and I can explain surgical innovations and score winning goals? That I fell in love with someone who made me believe I didn't have to choose between being smart and being an athlete?"

He's really doing this. He's really standing in front of the entire academic board declaring-

"Ms. Chen," Dean Williams cut in, "perhaps you'd like to address the issue of maintaining appropriate professional boundaries?"

I looked at my color-coded notes, at the careful documentation of every way this could go wrong. Then I looked at Jack, who had just risked everything to be exactly who he was.

"Actually," I said, standing to join him, "I would. I'd like to discuss the Victorian practice of forcing people into rigid social categories and how well that worked out for everyone."

A snort of laughter came from Dr. Pierce, quickly disguised as a cough.

"The mentorship program," I continued, gaining confidence, "is supposed to help students reach their full potential. Well, Jack's potential includes both hockey championships and an impressive knowledge of nineteenth-century surgical innovations. He can explain proper preservation techniques while maintaining a 3.8 GPA and leading his team to playoffs. And yes, somewhere between discussions of medical history and actual academic achievement, we fell in love. If that violates your professional boundaries, maybe your boundaries need updating."

The doors burst open with dramatic timing that would have impressed Victorian theater directors. The hockey team filed in, led by Mike and his questionable graphic design choices, followed by museum volunteers and what appeared to be half the student body.

"We have witness statements," Mike announced, holding up a stack of papers that had actually been organized by date and significance. "About Jack's real academic improvements. And yes - they're color-coded. Some of us have learned proper documentation techniques."

"And we have game footage," Tommy added, "showing how much better he plays when he's allowed to be himself. It turns out that quoting Victorian literature during plays really confuses the opposition. Also, we have several videos of them studying in the rare books section-"

"The academic evidence will suffice," Dean Williams interrupted hastily.

"But we made a highlights reel-"

"Mr. Sullivan," Dr. Pierce cut in. However, she definitely fought a smile, "Perhaps we should focus on the academic achievements?"

Dean Williams looked at the growing crowd, then at her fellow board members. "The board needs to consider-"

"Consider this," Jack interrupted, his hand finding mine. "Every grade, every paper, every achievement is documented and legitimate. I worked for this - for my academic success, for my team's respect, for the right to be more than what people expected. The only thing I didn't work for was falling in love with Sophie. That just happened somewhere between dental tool assaults and late-night discussions about proper book-handling techniques."

"Very proper techniques, I assume?" Dr. Pierce asked dryly.

"The most proper," I assured her, ignoring the knowing looks from everyone who had ever caught us in the rare books section. "We maintained all appropriate preservation protocols."

"Except that time in the medical history display," Jack added helpfully.

"And the Victorian literature section," Mike contributed.

"And the"

"Thank you," Dean Williams interrupted firmly. "I believe we have sufficient evidence of their... academic dedication."

The board members exchanged glances. Dean Williams shuffled papers importantly. The crowd held its breath, though someone (definitely Mike) started humming what sounded suspiciously like "Can You Feel The Love Tonight."

Finally, Dr. Pierce spoke. "Speaking as someone who witnessed their... dedication to medical history firsthand, I move to dismiss all academic misconduct allegations. Mr. Morrison's work is clearly his own, Ms. Chen's mentorship was obviously effective if occasionally unorthodox, and their unprecedented relationship has arguably improved both academic and athletic performance."

"Seconded," called another board member, who I recognized as a regular at hockey games. "Though perhaps we could institute some guidelines about appropriate locations for... historical discussions?"

"All in favor?" Dean Williams asked, looking resigned to being part of what would undoubtedly become a campus legend.

The vote was unanimous, though I suspected some board members just wanted to end the invasion of hockey players wearing badly designed supportive buttons and carrying signs with medical puns that would have made Victorian doctors cringe.

"However," Dean Williams added as cheers erupted, "perhaps future mentorship pairs should maintain slightly more... professional distance?"

"Of course," I agreed solemnly. "No more Victorian medical practice discussions in inappropriate locations."

"Purely academic interactions from now on," Jack added, his thumb tracing patterns on my palm that suggested otherwise.

"And maybe," Dr. Pierce suggested with a poorly hidden smile, "we could install better security cameras in the rare books section? For preservation purposes, of course."

The celebration spilled out into the hallway, a mix of hockey players and museum volunteers united in victory. Mike had somehow produced champagne, though I decided not to question where he'd hidden it during the hearing. Tommy was teaching the team a chant that seemed to involve both hockey scores and proper preservation techniques.

Jack pulled me aside into a quiet corner that definitely violated several newly established guidelines about appropriate academic distance.

"So," he said, that real smile making my heart forget basic anatomy, "want to go study some medical history?"

"That depends," I replied, trying to maintain dignity despite wanting to kiss him in highly inappropriate locations. "Are we maintaining proper preservation protocols?"

"Always." His eyes held that dangerous mix of charm and genuine passion that had gotten us into this mess in the first place. "Though I might need some private tutoring on proper handling techniques."

"You're terrible."

"You love it."

"I love you," I corrected because some things were worth saying, even in semi-public spaces. "Even when you risk our academic careers with inappropriate historical discussions."

"Even when you assault me with dental tools and color-code potential disasters?"

"Especially then."

He kissed me right there in the hallway, ignoring the cheers and whistles from our assembled supporters. His hands were gentle on my face, like handling rare books or precious artifacts or something worth protecting despite all risks.

"Get a more appropriate location!" Mike called, but he was grinning.

"Very improper preservation protocols," Tommy added.

But we didn't care because some things - like love found between Victorian medical texts and hockey practices, like bad boys who quoted literature and museum girls who broke rules, like being the real you, even when it didn't fit anyone's categories - were worth any risk.

Later that night, in our usual spot in the rare books section (now with notably improved security cameras), Jack traced patterns on my skin while I reorganized his study notes by date and significance.

"You know what's funny?" he said, watching me color-code his surprisingly detailed analysis of nineteenth-century surgical techniques. "I used to think I had to choose - be the hockey star or be the guy who gets excited about medical history. Be the bad boy or be the secret nerd who organizes books by historical period."

"And now?"

"Now I know some things can't be categorized." He smiled, soft and real in the library's quiet. "Like how you organize everything except your feelings. Like how you make medical history sound like poetry. Like how falling in love with you made me brave enough to be everything I am."

I found a note in my museum locker the next morning:

***

"Some things can't be categorized. Some rules need breaking. Some love stories start with dental tools and end with moral turpitude.

Meet me in the rare books section? For purely academic purposes, of course. I found a fascinating text about Victorian medical practices that requires immediate scholarly attention.

Though perhaps we should check for security cameras first.

Love, Your favorite inappropriate study partner

P.S. - I may have organized the medical texts by date AND subject. Your influence is clearly corrupting my carefully cultivated chaos."

***

I filed it under green - for things worth risking everything for.

And went to find my bad boy with a reading habit, ready for whatever historical discussions might arise.

Even if they violated proper preservation protocols.

Especially then.

Because some victories aren't measured by board votes or hockey scores, some wins come in quiet moments between bookshelves, in the way someone looks at you like you're worth every risk, in finally being brave enough to be exactly who you are.

Even if who you are is a medical historian who falls for hockey players with hidden depths. Even if who you are is a bad boy who secretly color-codes his notes and quotes Victorian literature during plays.

Even if who you are doesn't fit into anyone's careful categories.