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Chapter twenty-four

Full Circle

T he Preston University Museum looked the same as the first day I'd accidentally assaulted Jack Morrison with Victorian dental tools. It had the same imposing columns, questionable lighting, and the same sense that history was watching with vaguely medical interest. But now, standing in the entrance hall surrounded by both our families, I felt the weight of everything that had changed.

"Ready for your last official tour as student curator?" Jack asked, adjusting his tie. He'd come straight from signing his NHL contract in Boston, still wearing the suit that made him look unfairly attractive for someone who'd just spent four hours in meetings. "Try not to attack anyone with historical artifacts this time."

"That was one time," I protested, but I couldn't help smiling. "And it worked out pretty well."

"Best concussion of my life."

The museum was hosting a special exhibition - "The Evolution of Sports Medicine: From Victorian Innovation to Modern Practice" - combining my academic research with Jack's practical experience. Our families, the team, and even several Bruins' staff members had come for the opening.

"Jackie organized the surgical tools by date AND significance," his grandmother announced proudly to anyone who would listen. "Though I still think he should have included more Victorian courtship implements."

"Mother," Jack's father sighed, but he was smiling. He'd slowly come around to his son's unique combination of interests, especially after Boston's medical staff had praised Jack's understanding of injury treatment history.

The team had shown up in force, all wearing custom t-shirts that read "Team Medical History" on the front and "Don't Make Us Get the Bone Saw" on the back. Mike was earnestly explaining nineteenth-century rehabilitation techniques to a group of amused Bruins executives.

"Your boy's got interesting ideas about incorporating historical knowledge into modern training," Boston's head trainer told me, examining a display of Victorian-era athletic equipment. "Not many rookies show up with research papers on the evolution of injury treatment."

"He's full of surprises," I agreed, watching Jack demonstrate proper Victorian exercise techniques to his future teammates. His ability to quote medical texts while explaining power play strategies had apparently made quite an impression during the development camp.

My parents had finally accepted our unique relationship. However, my father still occasionally tried to steer Jack's medical history interest toward actual medical school. "Just think," he'd say hopefully, "you could combine professional hockey with surgical training..."

My heart is doing that thing again - that skip-flutter race that started the day I accidentally assaulted him with dental tools. Back then, I tried to diagnose it, catalog it, and make it fit some organizational system. Now I know better. Some feelings defy classification.

The exhibition itself was a perfect blend of our worlds. Historic medical instruments shared space with modern sports equipment, telling the story of how athletic treatment had evolved. Jack's collection of rare medical texts provided context, while his practical experience made history relevant to modern athletes.

"Remember when we used to sneak in here after hours?" Jack murmured, finding me by the Victorian surgical display. "For 'research purposes'?"

"You mean when we violated several preservation protocols while discussing medical history?"

"Very thorough historical discussions," he agreed, his hand finding mine. "Though maybe we don't mention those to my new teammates. Or your graduate advisors."

The museum had transformed for the evening. Display cases gleamed under carefully calibrated lighting, showing off both historical artifacts and modern equipment. In one corner, the Bruins' team doctor was having an animated discussion with my academic advisor about the parallels between nineteenth-century and modern rehabilitation techniques.

"Sophie!" Mike called, waving us over to where he was explaining something to my parents. "I was just telling them about that time Jack quoted Victorian surgical procedures during playoffs."

"That was never actually a strategy," I started, but Jack cut in.

"Three goals that game," he reminded me. "Turns out shouting about nineteenth-century amputation techniques really throws off the opposition."

"The Bruins' coaching staff is concerned about your historical intimidation methods," I informed him.

"They'll appreciate it when I start quoting medical texts during penalty kills."

We made our way through the crowd, stopping to greet guests and explain displays. Jack moved easily between worlds - discussing training techniques with his future teammates one moment, debating preservation protocols with museum staff the next. He'd found his balance, no longer hiding either side of himself.

"Ms. Chen," Dr. Pierce caught me by a display of early sports medicine implements. "Your young man has been quite secretive about the final piece of the exhibition. Says it's some sort of surprise?"

Before I could question this, Jack appeared at my side. "Almost time," he said, checking his watch. "Everyone's here?"

"Team's accounted for," Mike reported from nearby. "Operation Full Circle is a go."

"Why does that sound ominously like the time you tried to reenact Victorian surgical procedures with hockey equipment?"

"This is much better organized," Jack assured me. "Plus, I had professional help with the preservation protocols this time."

He led me toward the medical history section where we'd spent so many late nights "discussing historical context." Our families followed, along with the team and what appeared to be most of the museum staff.

"Jack-"

"Just trust me." His smile was soft. "Some things are worth doing properly."

The medical history section had been transformed. Display cases formed a path through Victorian medical innovations, each one telling part of our story. The dental tools that started everything. The surgical texts we'd studied together—even preserved specimens from the medicinal garden where we'd planned our future.

At the end of the path stood a new display case, still covered. Jack stopped beside it, suddenly looking nervous despite his perfect suit and NHL confidence.

"So," he said, his voice carrying in the quiet room, "I had this whole speech planned. About how some things don't fit into normal categories. About how sometimes the best stories start with dental tool assaults and end with something perfectly imperfect."

"But really," he continued, reaching for the display case cover, "it comes down to this: sometimes the best things in life don't need proper categorization." He pulled away the cloth to reveal an antique display case, perfectly lit to preservation standards.

Inside, arranged with museum-quality precision, sat a Victorian-era ring box. Open. Empty.

As I processed this, Jack reached into his jacket pocket and produced what was unmistakably a matching ring, which he'd somehow authenticated and documented to historical preservation standards.

"Found it in that weird bookshop that's only open during lunar eclipses," he explained, dropping to one knee with surprising grace for a hockey player. "Complete with original documentation about its use in medical school graduations. Apparently, Victorian doctors used to propose rings that had medical significance-"

"Jack-"

"Which I know is probably historically inaccurate, but it seemed appropriate given everything, and I had it properly authenticated and-"

"You're rambling about historical documentation while proposing."

"I had to make sure it met preservation protocols," he defended, still on one knee. "There's a whole file on its provenance. Color-coded."

A laugh bubbled up in my chest, equal parts joy and absolute certainty. Because Jack Morrison would propose with a historically significant ring, and he'd have it professionally documented. Of course, he'd choose to do this at the museum where I'd first assaulted him with dental tools.

"Is that a yes?" Mike called from the crowd. "Because we have a betting pool-"

"Of course, it's a yes," Jack's grandmother interrupted. "I have Victorian marriage customs documented right here-"

"Mother," Jack's father sighed. "Maybe let them have this moment without historical reference materials?"

"I have the preservation protocols for wedding rings ready," my father offered helpfully. "Very specific humidity requirements-"

"Yes," I said, cutting through the family chaos. "Yes to all of it. Even the historically questionable medical school ring tradition."

Looking around at our families, our friends, our perfectly imperfect blend of worlds - it feels right.

Jack's smile could have powered the entire museum's preservation system. He slid the ring onto my finger - perfectly sized because he'd had it professionally fitted to modern standards while maintaining historical integrity.

"I love you," he said softly, standing to pull me close. "Even when you assault me with dental tools."

"I love you too. Even when you quote Victorian medical texts during hockey games."

"That's still a valid strategy."

"It’s kinda not."

But I kissed him anyway, in the medical history section where everything had started. Our families cheered, and the team started chanting something suspiciously like "Team Medical History Forever." I was pretty sure Dr. Pierce was wiping away tears while pretending to adjust the display lighting.

"Just wait," Mike said later during the celebration. "We're planning the most historically accurate hockey-themed wedding ever. Tommy's already researching Victorian sports ceremonies-"

"No," Jack and I said simultaneously.

But watching our families and friends celebrate together - the team discussing preservation techniques with museum staff, our parents debating the historical significance of various traditions, Jack's grandmother sharing Victorian marriage customs with my academic advisors - I knew we'd figure it out.

Because some things - like love found between hockey rinks and medical history, like proposals that combined historical significance with future promises, like being exactly who you are with someone who loves every complicated part of you - don't need to fit perfectly into any category.

They just need to be perfectly imperfect.

Even if they involve historically questionable medical school traditions.

Especially then.

"You know," Jack said later, after the celebration had moved to the reception hall, "I had the ring authenticated by three different experts. Just to be sure it met your documentation standards."

We were back in the medical history section, stealing a quiet moment among the displays that had witnessed so much of our story.

"The Bruins' medical staff helped, actually," he continued. "Turns out their team doctor has connections in historical jewelry authentication. He's excited about incorporating some historic medical knowledge into their training programs."

"Is this your way of telling me you're going to quote Victorian surgical techniques during NHL games?"

"The development coaches are surprisingly open to innovative strategy."

"That's not going to work at a professional level."

"Watch me." His smile was confident. "I already have the Providence coaching staff interested in historical training methods. Their strength coach actually collects antique exercise equipment."

I laughed, leaning into him. "You're really going to do this, aren't you? Bring medical history into professional hockey?"

"Why not? It worked in college." He pulled me closer, careful of the nearby displays. "Plus, I have this brilliant fiancée who's going to revolutionize sports medicine research by connecting historical practices to modern techniques."

"The museum fellowship starts next month," I said, still amazed at how everything had aligned. "The Bruins' medical staff is already talking about collaborative research projects."

"See? Perfect timing." His fingers traced patterns on my arm. "Almost like someone planned it."

"Like your grandmother with her collection of Victorian relationship advice?"

"She's already planning historically accurate wedding traditions." He grinned. "Though maybe we skip the medical-themed ceremony she's suggesting."

Through the doorway, we could see our families mingling - the team showing my parents their "Team Medical History" shirts, Jack's grandmother explaining Victorian courtship customs to amused Bruins executives, and museum staff discussing preservation techniques with hockey trainers.

"Think we can make all this work?" I asked softly. "NHL career, graduate studies, museum research?"

"I think," he said, turning me to face him, "that we've already proven impossible things are possible. Bad boys can love medical history. Museum girls can understand hockey strategy. Victorian surgical techniques can actually work in playoff games-"

"Still not a real strategy."

"Still won championships."

His kiss tasted like promises and possibility and maybe a hint of that ridiculous expensive coffee he still drank during late study sessions. Around us, the museum's medical collection gleamed under preservation-appropriate lighting, silent witnesses to how far we'd come.

Because some things don't need to be properly categorized.

Some stories don't follow standard patterns.

Some love is found in unexpected places, between dental tool assaults and hockey strategies, between historical research and future dreams.

And sometimes, if you're very lucky, it comes full circle - back to where it started, but better. Stronger. More real than any carefully organized system could capture.

Even if it involves historically questionable proposal traditions.

Especially then.