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Chapter twenty-five

Epilogue

" Y ou cannot quote Victorian medical texts during NHL games," I said, watching Jack gear up in the Bruins' locker room. He'd just been called up from Providence after an impressive start to his professional career. "This isn't college anymore."

"Watch me," he grinned, adjusting his jersey. His first NHL game loomed ahead, and somehow, he was managing to both review game strategy and debate nineteenth-century surgical techniques. "The scouting report says Montreal's power play is weak to unexpected disruptions."

"Shouting about historical amputation methods is not a valid disruption strategy."

"Tell that to my AHL stats. I set a rookie scoring record."

"Because you're a good hockey player, not because you traumatized opposing teams with medical history."

But he wasn't entirely wrong. His unique approach to the game caught attention throughout the organization. The Bruins' development staff had even started incorporating some of his historically-inspired training methods into their programs.

"Did you bring it?" he asked, eyes bright with that mix of professional athlete focus and secret history nerd excitement that still made my heart forget basic anatomy.

I sighed but reached into my bag, producing a carefully preserved nineteenth-century medical text. "For research purposes only. No reenactments in the locker room."

"That was one time," he protested. "And Providence's training staff found it very educational."

The past year had been a whirlwind of achievements and adjustments. Jack excelled in Providence, and his combination of hockey skills and medical history knowledge made him a unique presence in professional hockey. Meanwhile, my graduate research at Harvard started gaining attention, especially after the Bruins' medical staff began collaborating on projects connecting historical practices to modern sports medicine.

"Your boy's something else," Boston's head trainer had told me recently, watching Jack explain Victorian rehabilitation techniques to rookie prospects. "Never had a player who could discuss both power play strategy and the evolution of sports medicine with equal enthusiasm."

The Garden was packed for Jack's NHL debut. Our families had prime seats - his grandmother was wearing what appeared to be historically accurate Victorian sportswear, and my father was clutching a detailed analysis of nineteenth-century athletic injury treatments he'd prepared "just in case."

The Providence team had shown up in force, all wearing their "Team Medical History" shirts under their suits. Mike, now team captain down there, had organized what he called "historically accurate cheering sections."

"We've been practicing Victorian sports chants," he informed me proudly. "Very intimidating. Also possibly medically traumatic."

My graduate advisor sat nearby, ready to document what she called "the practical application of historical medical knowledge in modern professional sports." She'd become surprisingly invested in Jack's unique approach to the game.

"His methods are unorthodox," she'd admitted during my last academic review. "But there's something fascinating about how he's integrating historical knowledge into contemporary athletics. Though perhaps with less emphasis on surgical procedures during actual gameplay."

In the medical museum where I now worked part-time, we'd created a special exhibition tracking the evolution of hockey training and treatment methods. Jack's collection of rare medical texts provided the historical foundation, while his practical experience helped connect the past to the present.

"Your fiancé explained nineteenth-century rehabilitation techniques to our entire medical staff," one of the Bruins' doctors had told me, clearly impressed. "Made some interesting connections to modern recovery protocols. Though maybe don't let him demonstrate historical treatment methods on actual players."

The NHL had taken some adjustments. Jack's unique blend of hockey skills and medical history enthusiasm initially confused his teammates. Still, they'd quickly come to appreciate having someone who understood both athletic training and its historical context.

"He's teaching us about proper injury prevention through historical examples," his linemate explained to reporters. "Though some of us could do with fewer detailed descriptions of Victorian surgical practices during pregame warm-ups."

The game itself was everything we'd hoped. Jack played with the same passion he brought to preserving rare books, scoring his first NHL goal while possibly traumatizing Montreal's defense with historically accurate medical terminology.

"Did he just shout something about nineteenth-century bone-setting techniques during that breakaway?" a confused commentator asked.

"Traditional intimidation strategy," his partner replied, apparently unfazed. "Very effective in college. Though possibly violating several medical ethics guidelines."

After the game (a 4-2 Bruins win, with Jack earning first-star honors), we found ourselves back in the Garden's medical room. Jack was excitedly explaining to the team doctor how Victorian physicians had approached athletic recovery while I pretended not to notice him violating several preservation protocols with the antique medical text he'd somehow smuggled into the locker room.

"You're not supposed to handle rare books right after NHL games," I pointed out, watching him demonstrate proper Victorian rehabilitation methods to fascinated teammates.

"Professional research," he defended, carefully turning pages with hands still warm from scoring goals. "The medical staff is very interested in historical treatment techniques."

"The medical staff is worried you're going to reenact nineteenth-century surgery in the locker room."

"That was one time in Providence-"

"Three times. I have documentation."

His smile was bright enough to power the Garden's preservation-appropriate lighting system. "You color-coded my hockey infractions?"

"Someone has to maintain proper records."

"Speaking of records," Jack said later, after post-game interviews and medical staff discussions about the merits of historical training methods, "I have something to show you."

We ended up in his new apartment overlooking the Charles River, where he'd somehow managed to combine professional athlete aesthetics with museum-quality preservation standards. His growing collection of medical texts shared space with hockey gear, each rare book carefully stored in climate-controlled cases.

"The team actually helped design this," he explained, showing me his latest preservation system. "Their equipment staff is surprisingly knowledgeable about proper storage techniques. Plus, the medical team keeps borrowing my historical references."

"Is this why the rookie trainers are quoting Victorian surgery manuals?"

"They find it professionally relevant." He grinned. "Also terrifying to opposing teams."

His first NHL game puck sat in a display case that surely met archival standards alongside the dental tool I'd first assaulted him with. He'd had both professionally mounted, complete with preservation-appropriate lighting and humidity controls.

"Our own little museum to show our future children," he said softly, watching me examine his careful organization. "Though maybe with less improper behavior in the rare books section."

"That was one time."

Wait! Did he say children?

"I have documented evidence of at least seven incidents-"

"You're keeping records of improper preservation protocols?"

"With color-coding." He pulled me closer, careful not to disturb nearby displays. "I learned from the best."

The city lights sparkled through windows, catching on glass cases and carefully preserved history. Somewhere in the distance, the Garden's lights still glowed.

Tomorrow would bring more challenges - NHL games and graduate seminars, professional hockey and historical research, finding ways to balance everything we loved.

"The team doctor wants to expand our historical training program," Jack said, his fingers tracing familiar patterns on my skin. "Says understanding where techniques came from helps develop better modern methods. Though maybe with less emphasis on surgical procedures during actual gameplay."

"You're never going to convince the NHL that Victorian medical practices are valid hockey strategy."

"Watch me." His confidence was infectious. "I'm thinking of writing a paper comparing nineteenth-century rehabilitation approaches to modern recovery protocols. The medical staff is actually interested."

"Professional hockey player publishing academic research?"

"Why not? You're revolutionizing sports medicine history while teaching hockey trainers about proper preservation techniques."

He wasn't wrong. My graduate work gained attention throughout professional sports, with several teams now consulting our museum about historical training methods. The Bruins' medical staff had become regular collaborators, bridging past and present in ways that actually improved modern treatment.

"Think we can keep making impossible things work?" I asked softly, watching him carefully return a first edition to its temperature-controlled case.

"I think," he said, turning to pull me close, "that we're pretty good at breaking rules while maintaining proper documentation."

His kiss tasted like victory and possibility, and still that ridiculous expensive coffee. Around us, history shared space with future plans, each piece carefully preserved but ready for whatever came next.

Because some things don't need proper categorization.

Some love stories don't follow expected patterns.

Some futures are built on broken rules and careful preservation, Victorian medical texts, and NHL game pucks and involve traumatizing professional hockey players with historical surgical techniques.

Especially then.

"Hey," Jack said softly, pulling me away from the window and the city lights. "Come here."

His hands were gentle as he drew me close; all the game's adrenaline faded into something quieter, something just for us. In the dim light of his apartment, with Boston spread out below like scattered stars, everything else fell away.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

"You," I said honestly. "Us. How far we've come."

His smile was soft, private - the one that still made my heart skip, that belonged to quiet moments like this. "Any regrets?"

"Never." I reached up to trace his cheek, feeling his pulse steady under my fingers. "Not a single one."

"Even when everyone said we were impossible?"

"Especially then."

He kissed me as if we had all the time in the world, and we were still those two college students figuring out who we were, and as if every goal we'd pursued had led us exactly here. His hands caressed my face with incredible care. I tucked my fingers into his shirt to bring him closer, cutting off any separation between us.

"I love you," he murmured against my lips. "More every day."

"I love you too." The words felt like coming home. Like everything falling into place. Like the simplest truth I'd ever known.

Outside, the city hummed with life and possibility. But here, at this moment, with his heart beating steady against mine and his arms holding me close, nothing else mattered.

Just us.

Just this.

Just love, pure and simple and honest.

And that was everything.

The End.