Page 23

Chapter twenty-three

Future Plans

S pring brought more than just warmer weather to Preston University - it brought decisions. Big, life-altering, possibly relationship-threatening decisions that couldn't be organized with any of my usual color-coding systems. Jack's agent had delivered Boston's official entry-level contract offer. After holding his draft rights through college, they were ready to sign him. Meanwhile, my graduate school acceptance letters formed a similarly daunting pile in my museum office.

"Boston's serious," Jack said one evening, sprawled across my office couch with the contract details his agent had sent over. "Two-way deal for the first year, but they're planning to give me a real shot at the roster. Assistant GM called personally to walk through their development plan."

I looked up from my own pile of graduate school brochures. "They've been patient, letting you develop here."

"Four years of holding my draft rights without pushing me to sign early." He nodded, flipping through more pages of contract details. "Most teams would have pressured for an early signing, maybe tried to get me into their AHL system sooner. Boston played it long - let me finish my degree, develop my game at the college level."

"Like they had an actual plan for your development," I said, watching him review the paperwork with the same careful attention he gave to examining rare books.

"Exactly. Their development coach has been at most of our home games this season. Not just watching but actually tracking specific elements of my game they want to work with. Plus..." His smile turned soft. "That medical history program you're looking at. The one with the Victorian surgical instrument collection."

"The timing does work out well," I agreed, though the thought of such big changes still made my carefully organized world feel shaky. "Almost suspiciously perfect."

"You mean like how my grandmother suddenly has 'connections' at every medical history program in Massachusetts? And keeps sending us historical documents about Victorian couples who managed long-distance relationships, with helpful notes about how 'modern transportation makes courtship so much simpler'?"

The pressure of decisions hung between us, heavy with possibility and fear. Everyone had opinions - the team thought Boston was perfect, combining hockey opportunities with academic excellence. My parents pushed for Harvard's History of Medicine program. Jack's father had strong views about Boston's development system and how they'd utilized their young centers in recent years.

Mike had taken to wearing a Bruins hat around campus, claiming he was "manifesting the perfect future" for us. The team had started a betting pool on whether Jack would score his first NHL goal before or after I organized my first museum exhibition. Even Dr. Pierce had opinions, though hers mostly involved proper preservation techniques for maintaining long-distance relationships.

"Let's get out of here," Jack said suddenly, standing and holding out his hand. "I want to show you something."

"I have acceptance letters to organize," I protested weakly, but I was already reaching for his hand. "And your agent wants those contract responses-"

"Some things are more important than proper documentation." He pulled me up, then paused. "Though we should probably file these chronologically before we leave. I'm not completely uncivilized."

Twenty minutes later (after properly organizing both our decision-related paperwork), Jack's motorcycle carried us through darkening streets. The familiar weight of his leather jacket around my shoulders and the warmth of his body against mine made everything feel simultaneously more natural and less terrifying.

He surprised me by pulling up to the Longfellow Museum of Medical History - a small but respected institution just outside Boston that I'd been following obsessively since discovering their Victorian surgical collection.

"How did you-" I started, but he was already producing a key.

"Remember that curator I mentioned? The one who's been helping evaluate some of my medical text finds? Turns out she's retiring soon. They're looking for someone to help manage their sports medicine collection while pursuing graduate work."

"Jack-"

"Just look," he said, leading me into the hushed space. Evening light filtered through Victorian windows, catching on glass cases filled with carefully preserved instruments. The surgical tools gleamed like treasures, their brass fittings reflecting what little illumination remained.

"The graduate fellowship includes curatorial duties," he continued, watching my face as I took in the historical treasure trove. "Twenty hours a week during the academic year, full-time in summer. They're especially interested in someone who can help develop their new sports medicine wing - tracking the evolution of athletic treatment and rehabilitation techniques."

"Someone who understands both medical history and sports medicine," I said slowly, realization dawning. "Who can bridge both worlds."

"Someone who organizes dental tools by date and significance while learning hockey statistics." His hand found mine in the dim light. "Who makes both worlds make sense when brought together."

He led me through the quiet halls, past displays I'd only seen in research papers. His hand was warm in mine as he pointed out specific pieces he remembered me mentioning - the rare amputation kit I'd written about, the experimental Victorian rehabilitation devices I'd been tracking.

My heart feels like a caught breath, like that moment before discovery, like finding something precious in forgotten archives. This boy who once sent my carefully organized world into chaos is now planning our future with the same attention to detail I give to preservation protocols.

"The Bruins' medical staff actually consults their archives sometimes," he explained, pausing at a display of early sports medicine implements. "Their head trainer is fascinated by how treatment methods evolved. Says understanding the history helps develop better modern techniques."

"That's why they're expanding the sports medicine collection?"

"Partially. They're also partnering with the team on some research initiatives. Looking at how athletic treatment has developed, especially in hockey. Apparently, my peculiar combination of interests caught their attention."

"Your agent mentioned this to them?"

"Actually," he looked slightly embarrassed, "the team doctor found my thesis on Victorian-era rehabilitation techniques and their influence on modern sports medicine. He's been helping me track down some rare texts for my collection."

Of course, he had. Because Jack Morrison, a future NHL player, had somehow managed to impress Boston's medical staff with his knowledge of nineteenth-century medical practices.

"Is there anyone you haven't charmed with your secret medical history obsession?"

"The equipment manager is still suspicious of my requests to organize the training room based on historical significance."

He led me up to the museum's rooftop garden, a hidden gem designed to replicate a Victorian medical garden. Herbs and medicinal plants grew in careful patterns, their scents mixing in the cool evening air. Jack had clearly planned ahead - a blanket waited in a secluded corner, surrounded by softly glowing lanterns.

"You're getting worryingly good at proper preservation-appropriate romantic setups," I noted, examining how he'd positioned everything safely away from the historic plantings.

"I may have consulted the conservation department about appropriate distances from period vegetation," he admitted, looking slightly embarrassed. "Your influence is becoming concerning."

The city spread out before us, lights twinkling like stars. From this height, you could just make out both Harvard's campus and the Bruins' practice facility - our future laid out in illuminated possibility.

Six hours apart. I should be terrified. I should be making contingency plans and risk assessments. Instead, all I can think about is how his eyes light up talking about our future, like it's the most fascinating historical discovery he's ever made.

"I know it won't be easy," Jack said softly, pulling me down beside him on the blanket. "NHL schedule is brutal, especially for rookies. Lots of travel, weird hours. And graduate work is intense - late nights, research deadlines."

"We're kind of experts at weird hours and late nights," I pointed out. "All those improper preservation protocols in the rare books section."

His laugh was warm in the cool air. "True. Though maybe we should keep those stories away from my future teammates. And your future academic advisors."

"What, you don't think the Bruins want to know about that time in the Victorian medical section?"

"I think my contract might have clauses about proper behavior in historical archives."

From his jacket (which he was still terrible at properly storing), he produced a book I didn't recognize. "First edition," he said, handling it with perfect preservation technique. "1842 treatise on medical practices in professional sports. The Bruins' team doctor collects historical medical texts - he's been helping me track down rare finds."

"You're already networking with the medical staff?"

"Know your audience," he grinned. "Though they're genuinely interested in building a historical collection tracking the evolution of sports medicine. The team doctor thinks understanding historical treatment methods gives insights into modern techniques. He's even offered to help sponsor some museum programming connecting past and present approaches."

"That's... fascinating." My academic heart was racing at the research possibilities.

"Plus," he added, "having someone who speaks both languages - sports and medical history - would be valuable. Someone who can explain historical context to athletes and translate modern practices back to academic research."

The lantern light caught his eyes, turning them to warm gold. His reading glasses sat perched on his nose because, apparently, he'd planned to actually show me specific passages. The combination of a future NHL player and secret medical history nerd was still cosmically unfair.

"Boston's program is one of the best," I said quietly, leaning into him. "And the museum fellowship would give me practical experience while studying."

"Plus, you'd have access to their entire Victorian surgical collection," he added because he knew exactly how to convince me. "Including those dental tools you've been stalking online."

"I have not been stalking dental tools."

"I've seen your browser history."

"That was professional research."

"You color-coded their acquisition dates."

He wasn't wrong. But more importantly, he understood. Understood both sides of who I was - the serious academic and the girl who got excited about antique medical implements. I understood both sides of him, too - the focused athlete and the secret history nerd.

"Tell me more about Boston's plans," I said, watching his face light up as he explained their development system, their style of play, and how they saw him fitting into their future.

"They're doing things right," he said, his enthusiasm evident in the way he gestured. "Strong development staff, good veteran leadership. The assistant GM talked about their three-year plan - how they want to bring young players up through their system and give them real opportunities to grow."

"Like quoting Victorian medical texts during plays?"

"That strategy worked in college."

"That was never actually a strategy."

"Tell that to our playoff record."

The moon had risen fully, casting everything in silver light that made the medicinal garden look almost magical. Jack's fingers traced patterns on my palm as he talked about Boston's coaching staff, their training facilities, and the opportunities they offered for young players to really develop their game.

"The AHL team's right there, too," he explained. "Providence is only an hour away. So even if I start in the minors, we wouldn't be that far apart. Plus, their development coaches work with both teams - same systems, same expectations."

"You’ve seriously thought all this through, haven't you?"

"Some things are worth planning for." His thumb traced my knuckles. "Worth finding ways to make them work, even if they don't fit anyone's normal categories."

I turned to face him fully, noticing how the lantern light softened his features. "And you really think we can make it work? NHL schedule, graduate studies, museum fellowship?"

"I think," he said slowly, "that if anyone can figure out how to balance professional hockey with Victorian medical history, it's us. We've got practice at making impossible things make sense together."

"Like bad boys who collect rare medical texts?"

"Like museum girls who learn hockey statistics." His smile was soft. "Like finding ways to make both worlds better by bringing them together."

He shifted to pull something else from his jacket - a folder I didn't recognize. "The team doctor and I have been talking about a project," he said, suddenly looking nervous.

"A series of presentations comparing historical and modern sports medicine practices. Educational programs for players, training staff, maybe even public outreach through the museum."

"Jack-"

"Think about it - who better to explain the evolution of sports medicine than someone who understands both the history and the practical application? Someone who can make nineteenth-century techniques relevant to modern athletes?"

"You really want to do this?" I asked softly. "Balance NHL career with academic projects?"

"I want to be who I am," he said simply. "The hockey player who loves medical history. The athlete who gets excited about rare books. The guy who fell in love with a museum girl and found ways to make impossible things possible."

When he kissed me, it felt like futures were aligning, like worlds merging in ways that somehow made perfect sense. His lips were soft against mine, tasting of promises and that ridiculous expensive coffee he'd started drinking during our study sessions.

"I love you," I said because some things were worth saying, even if they couldn't be properly categorized. "Even when you try to incorporate medical history into hockey strategy."

"That absolutely works, and I will defend my methods."

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

And I did. Loved how he could talk about both power plays and preservation techniques with equal passion. Loved how he planned futures that made space for both our dreams. Loved how he made impossible things feel possible.

"So," he said after a while, his fingers still tracing patterns on my skin. "Want to revolutionize sports medicine while maintaining questionable preservation protocols?"

"Want to play professional hockey while quoting Victorian medical texts?"

"Want to build a future that doesn't make sense to anyone except us?"

We made plans under stars and lantern light, surrounded by Victorian medicinal herbs and possibilities. Real plans, with color coding, proper documentation, and maybe a few questionable preservation techniques.

Because some futures are worth any challenge. Worth finding ways to make them work. Worth building something unique together.

Even if it involves long-distance romance, weird schedules, and learning to balance NHL games with graduate seminars.

Because some things - like love found between hockey rinks and medical history, like futures built on shared passions and careful planning, don't need to fit into careful categories.