Page 9

Chapter nine

Team Dynamics

T he Preston University hockey arena was a cathedral of ice and noise. The stands vibrated with chanting students, their breath visible in the cold air as they stamped their feet and waved blue and gold banners. Below, the ice gleamed under harsh lights, fresh from the Zamboni's pass.

I'd spent my entire college career avoiding sports, but now I found myself clutching Dex's extra ticket, watching Jack lead his team through warm-ups. He moved with a grace that belonged in art galleries, not sports arenas. The way he handled the puck made even my sports-ignorant eyes understand why scouts filled the VIP section.

This is a different Jack entirely, I realized. Not the bad boy who crashed parties or the secret scholar who organized books at 2 AM. This was something else - something real and electric and impossible to ignore.

"Jack's been incredible this season," said Ryan, a junior defenseman who was sitting out with a sprained ankle, dropping into the seat behind us. "Been drilling the team twice as hard this week."

"Really?" Dex asked, adjusting one of her mourning brooches. Because obviously, that's what one wears to a hockey game.

"Yeah. Had them in at 5 AM for extra practice. Said if we're gonna make it to the playoffs, we need to be perfect." Ryan leaned forward. "Been helping the freshmen too. Spent three hours yesterday working with Tommy on his defensive stance."

Of course, he did. Because Jack Morrison never does anything halfway - whether it's analyzing Victorian literature or leading a hockey team. How did I ever think he was simple enough to fit into one category?

On the ice, Jack gathered his team into a tight circle. His captain's C gleamed on his jersey as he spoke, his voice too low for us to hear, but his intensity was visible even from the stands. Each player got individual attention - a pat on the shoulder here, a quick demonstration there, words that made them stand straighter.

"Morrison's Motivationals," another injured player, Wilson, explained as he joined Ryan. "Best pre-game speeches in the league. Got me through my first rivalry game last year."

The game moved like a violent dance. Jack orchestrated his team with subtle signals and quick calls, adapting their strategy as State's defense tried to lock them down. He was everywhere at once - defending one minute, setting up plays the next, always three steps ahead of the opposition.

He reads the game like he reads Victorian literature , I thought with sudden clarity. Seeing patterns, making connections, and understanding the deeper story beneath the surface. How did I ever think he was only playing a role?

"Watch this," Mike nudged me as Jack intercepted a pass. "Cap's gonna set up Tommy. Kid's been practicing this all week."

Sure enough, Jack drew two defenders, opening a lane. His pass threaded through impossibly small space, landing perfectly on Tommy's stick. The freshman, barely visible behind State's massive defense, fired the puck into the top corner.

It's like watching someone conduct an orchestra , I realized. Every movement deliberate, every player knows exactly where to be. This is why they follow him, not because of his reputation but because he makes them better.

The crowd erupted. Tommy looked stunned until Jack reached him, saying something that made the kid beam with pride.

"That's why he's captain," Davis said. "Knows exactly what each of us needs. Tommy's been doubting himself all season. Watch how different he plays now."

The game grew more physical as State fell behind. Their checks got harder, and their tactics became more aggressive. Jack took the worst of it, absorbing hits meant for smaller teammates but always getting back up.

"They're targeting him," Dex muttered, gripping my arm as Jack picked himself up from another brutal check.

"Always do," Mike confirmed. "Cap won't let them get to the younger guys. Takes the hits himself."

It happened in the third period. Tommy had the puck again, confidence from his goal making him bold. State's captain, all six-foot-four of him, lined up for a hit that would have destroyed the freshman.

Jack saw it coming. He always did.

"No!" I was on my feet before I realized I'd moved, watching Jack throw himself between Tommy and the incoming hit. The sound of impact echoed through the arena like a gunshot.

Please get up. Please be okay. Please don't be hurt because you were trying to protect someone else. Please-

He didn't get up this time.

The crowd went silent. On the ice, Tommy looked horrified, his gloves pressed to his mouth. The team gathered around their fallen captain as medical staff rushed out.

"Jack!" The word tore from my throat, too loud in the hushed arena. Players turned to look, including most of the team. My voice had carried across the ice, betraying every pretense of academic detachment.

The medical bay hummed with tension. Jack sat on the exam table, his jersey discarded, arguing with the medic despite the impressive bruising already spreading across his ribs.

"I need to get back out there," he insisted, wincing as he tried to stand. "There's still ten minutes—"

"You need X-rays," the medic cut him off, pressing him back down. "Possible concussion, definite rib contusions. You're done for tonight, Morrison."

The team had gathered outside, pressed against the glass partition. Tommy's face was streaked with tears, his helmet clutched tight against his chest. Mike kept mouthing "I'm sorry, Cap" through the window.

They love him , I realized. Not the reputation, not the image, but him. The way he leads, the way he protects, the way he makes them believe in themselves.

"Let me at least talk to them," Jack pleaded, his captain's voice cracking slightly. "They need—"

"They need their captain alive for playoffs," the medic interrupted. "Two minutes. Then you're going to the hospital."

The team flooded in the moment the door opened. Tommy reached Jack first, practically falling over his skates.

"Cap, I'm so sorry, I should've seen him coming, I—"

"Hey." Jack's voice was firm despite his obvious pain. "You played exactly like you should have. That goal? That's what we practiced for. That's Preston hockey."

"But you—"

"Did my job. That's what captains do." Jack looked around at his team, meeting each pair of eyes. "Now you do yours. Ten minutes left. Show them what this team is made of."

Mike stepped forward, his usual joking demeanor gone. "We've got this, Cap. For you."

"For Preston," Jack corrected, but his smile was proud. "Davis, you're acting captain. Remember what we worked on about their left defense?"

"Weak on the cross-ice pass after penalty kills," Davis nodded. "Already spotted it."

"Tommy, they'll be watching for you now. Use it. Draw them out like we practiced."

The team huddled closer, listening intently as Jack laid out quick strategy adjustments. Even through his pain, his hockey mind was sharp, identifying weaknesses and opportunities.

"For Preston," they said in unison, tapping their sticks on the floor - their traditional team gesture.

Three hours and several X-rays later, Jack was officially diagnosed with bruised ribs and a mild concussion. The doctor prescribed rest and monitoring, which he accepted with poor grace.

"This is unnecessary," he grumbled as we helped him into Dex's car. "I've had worse in practice."

"Again, not reassuring," I said, sliding into the back seat with him since Dex insisted he needed "monitoring."

The ride was quiet. Jack's eyes were closed, but every bump made him tense. Without thinking, I took his hand. He squeezed back.

"That was stupid," I said softly. "Brave, but stupid."

"Mike's half my size," he murmured. "Would've been worse for him."

"Is this a captain thing or a Jack thing?"

He opened his eyes, looking at me with surprising intensity despite the painkillers. "Maybe it's a 'some things are worth protecting' thing."

The way he's looking at me, like maybe I'm one of those things worth protecting. Maybe we've both been protecting ourselves from the wrong things all along.

My phone buzzed with a text from Mike: "Tell Jack we won it for him. Tommy scored in the final minute. Exactly like Cap taught him."

I showed Jack the message, watching a proud smile replace his pained expression. "Never doubted them," he said softly.

"The team's blowing up the group chat," Dex announced, checking her phone at a red light. "They want to know if Jack's girlfriend is taking good care of him."

"I'm not—" I started.

"She's not—" Jack said simultaneously.

"Right," Dex drawled. "Because tutors always rush onto the ice screaming when their mentees get hurt."

"I did not scream," I protested. "I expressed academic concern."

I just happened to express it at a volume that could be heard over an entire hockey arena and ran toward the ice with tears streaming from my eyes. But that was purely a professional concern. Obviously.

"Pretty sure I heard you from the ice," Jack said, but he was smiling despite his split lip.

Dex dropped us at Jack's apartment despite my protests. "He needs monitoring," she said firmly. "Consider it an academic necessity."

The third-floor walk-up proved challenging with Jack's injuries. Each step earned a poorly concealed wince, though he stubbornly refused help. His apartment door bore evidence of his dual nature - a Preston Hockey schedule tacked next to a carefully preserved playbill from last semester's production of "The Importance of Being Earnest."

Inside, the space defied every expectation of a college athlete's apartment. Bookshelves lined every wall, volumes arranged with a care that contradicted his casual campus persona. A vintage medical text I'd been hunting for months sat casually among poetry collections. Hockey trophies shared space with first editions. Like their owner, nothing here fits into neat categories.

"You're staring," he murmured, easing himself onto the leather couch with visible discomfort. "Concussion monitoring," I said, taking in the carefully organized shelves. "Very scientific."

Very scientific. Science requires me to notice how soft his hair looks in this light. How vulnerable he seems without his usual defenses. How much I want to—

"Sure." He shifted, wincing. "Thanks for coming. To the game. And after."

"Well, I couldn't have my best student missing tutorials because of heroic hockey injuries."

"Best student, huh?"

"Don't let it go to your head. You're my only student."

He smiled, then grimaced as it pulled at his split lip. Without thinking, I reached out to touch the bruise forming on his jaw.

His skin was warm under my fingers. Too warm. Or maybe that was just me, suddenly aware of how close we were, how late it was, how many lines we were blurring.

We should stop this , I thought hazily. Should maintain a professional distance. Should remember all the reasons why this is complicated. But his skin is so warm, and he's looking at me like I'm a first edition he's afraid to touch, and—

"Sophie," he said softly, leaning into my touch. His voice was rough with something that wasn't just pain. "I..."

The moment stretched between us, delicate as a rare manuscript page. I should move away. Should remember all the reasons this was complicated. Should stop noticing how vulnerable he looked, how his usual carefully maintained facade had crumbled under exhaustion and painkillers.

His phone buzzed again - another team update. He reached for it but stopped halfway, the movement making him wince.

"Here," I grabbed it for him. A video from Tommy: the winning goal, exactly as Jack had designed it. The team's celebration after was deafening, even through the phone's tiny speaker.

"Go to sleep, Jack," I whispered but didn't move my hand from where it had settled back against his jaw.

"Stay?"

One word. So simple. So dangerous.

Say no , my rational mind insisted. Say you need to maintain professional boundaries. Say anything except—

I promised him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

I stayed until dawn, watching him sleep and trying to pretend this was still about academic responsibility. The team kept texting updates to each other, all of them referring to me as "Jack's girl" despite Dex's corrections.

His bookshelf revealed more about him than any campus rumor ever had. Medical texts nestled against poetry collections. Game strategy books shared space with first editions. A worn copy of "Paradise Lost" had more annotations than any of his hockey playbooks.

He was chaos and order together – leather jackets and careful book arrangements, reckless hits and gentle touches, bad boy reputation and secret bibliophile. He was contradiction embodied, and I was running out of reasons to pretend I wasn't falling for every complicated piece of him.

Around three AM, he stirred restlessly, muttering something about defensive formations that morphed into a quote from Keats. I found myself smoothing his hair back, a gesture that felt simultaneously too intimate and completely natural.

"Still here?" he murmured, eyes still closed.

"Someone has to make sure you don't die of heroics."

"Is that the clinical term?"

"Shut up and go back to sleep."

His thumb traced patterns on my wrist. "Thanks, Sophie."

"For what?"

"For seeing me."

Three words that undid months of carefully maintained distance. I was seeing him now – really seeing him. Not the campus bad boy or the team captain or the secret scholar, but all of it together. Every complicated, contradictory piece.

The first light of dawn crept through his windows, catching on his silver hockey medals and the gold leaf of his rare books. A half-finished essay about Victorian social mobility lay on his desk, next to play diagrams that looked more like poetry than sports strategy.

Dawn painted his sleeping face in soft gold, and I realized some things were worth the risk. Worth the complications. Worth the mess.

Jack Morrison was all of those things.

And I was finally ready to admit it.