Page 10 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

Luke

H e gets the damn A. The smug fucker beams from his seat way up in the back of the classroom. But I’ve learned something about him, all he has to do is apply himself. All he needs is the right motivation.

I don’t keep him after class, hoping that if I say nothing, he’ll stay away from the party out of fear.

Okay, yeah, that’s a long shot.

But … fine. It’s the dark blooms shadowing his pretty eye. He’s a hockey player, there’ll be no shortage of artwork like that on him all season. It shouldn’t bother me, especially not for the reason it’s definitely bothering me. Someone left a mark on him, and it wasn’t me.

I’d never mark up his beautiful face like that, though. But his neck, that’s another story.

McKinnon tells his hockey gang that he’ll meet up with them and hangs back, waiting until everyone’s left before addressing me.

“So?” he says with that infuriating smile on his face, thinking he’s got one up on me. “I nailed that quiz, didn’t I?”

Instead of addressing him, I make myself busy, closing up my laptop and collapsing my retractable cane, er, pointer.

“Professor,” he whines.

“Sir,” I correct him.

“It’s all good for this weekend, yeah?” he says as if it’s a foregone conclusion.

“How are your grades in your other classes?” I know what they are. I’ve already had Tatum inquire, with the excuse that we should take proactive measures. I’m stalling. But why? If his grades are good enough to keep him on the team, why should I care about what he does with his private life?

McKinnon frowns. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“The deal’s whatever I make it, McKinnon.”

Finally realizing he’s not getting the upper hand here and that pissing me off is a bad idea, he sighs.

“Not like I did on that quiz, but not bad either.”

“Have you been showing up on time?”

His mouth falls open. I can hear what he’s thinking— you didn’t say I had to be on time for all my classes, sir.

I like it when he calls me sir a bit too much.

“I’ll … make it happen, sir.”

I tsk. “I’d think you’d be working some extra credit angles, McKinnon.”

Defeat sets in. Perfect. That’s what I needed to see. He needs to understand what no feels like.

“You may attend the event.” His chest lifts. “But I want to see more from you. Simply following my rules won’t be good enough next time.”

McKinnon’s lips twist with the protests he wants to voice, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut. Then he smiles, but it’s a smile I don’t trust.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. No drinking—not a single fucking drop,” I add. I hadn’t planned on adding that. The reason why is something I don’t want to admit to myself yet.

“Sir!” he complains.

“Hmmm, maybe you don’t need to go after all…”

“Wait, wait . Okay, fine. I won’t touch the booze, sir.”

“Great. Get out of my face, McKinnon.”

He shifts from one foot to the other, adjusting the hockey duffle slung over his shoulder.

Not getting out of my face like he should.

I can’t help but notice the way his chest rises and falls as he stands there, almost as if whatever I say next will settle something in him.

Like he’s waiting for permission to breathe.

My goal was to have him under my command, but I didn’t think I’d have him this desperate for my approval so quickly.

That’s fine. It makes my job easier. But I’m not going to make it easy for him. He wants approval? He can fucking earn it.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I got a hundred percent on that quiz. I just thought…”

“Thought what?”

He scowls. “Nothing, you’re a real dou?—”

“Do not finish that sentence, McKinnon. Get out of here before I revoke the permission I gave you.”

He leaves after that. Storms right out. Do I watch his tight ass in those jeans as he stalks off, probably to take out his frustrations with me on a punching bag? Yes, I fucking do. I’m not the purest of souls, but looking at the asses of my students isn’t something I do.

McKinnon is the exception.

It’s always right there. So big and round, begging me to pry it apart and shove my cock inside. Maybe that’s the way to keep him out of trouble, fuck him into submission.

No. Bad Luke. You can’t fuck a student, even if this is a fake job, and he looks older than the average twenty-four-year-old. That would be reckless, even for me. Looking at his ass is depraved enough.

I head across campus, toward my brother’s office, thinking about the way McKinnon hovered, practically begging for praise without saying a word.

I liked the expectant way he looked at me.

The way he sucked his bottom lip as he waited.

Was that a little shyness creeping in? Do I make the big, strong hockey man bashful?

That’s dangerously fucking delightful.

Perhaps it was a tad cruel to hold out on him, but it makes me feel like I’ve got a piece of him, like I’m holding him captive.

Besides.

Ace is competitive—all pro athlete types are. He’ll get a thrill if he has to work for my praise. Win it. And I’ll get to bathe in his desperation.

So, I won’t give it to him, yet. Not until he’s starving for it.

A loud thud echoes through the ice rink. Then again. Another one. Again. Someone’s pissed off at a hockey puck. I took my time walking here. I don’t have any classes until the afternoon, but Tatum will be in his office.

Peering through the doors to the rink, the form on the ice is unmistakable. Ace McKinnon. He’s not in full gear, only wearing a tracksuit, helmet, skates, and gloves, hurtling pucks toward an empty net, most of them hitting the boards.

Tatum said he was good—better than good.

If that many pucks are hitting the boards, it’s on purpose.

Bet he’s picturing me, wishing the boards were my face.

He’s fucking mesmerizing, the way he pulls his stick back, the dip, and then the follow-through as his body slashes through the air.

The determination on his face. His body is a conduit for power, all the force in the world his to harness.

It bends to his will.

That’s probably what makes him such a sex magnet. His sex partners probably want to be controlled by all that wild power.

Not me. I want to restrain it. Keep it under my thumb. Keep him under my thumb.

I know a little too much about his schedule, which means I know he’s supposed to be at the gym with his team right now. I don’t doubt I’m one of his frustrations, but missing lifting time with his friends? He wanted to be alone for a reason.

It’s a struggle to tear my eyes away from him. What does the permanent crease between his eyes mean?

I rap on Tatum’s door before I enter. He’s on the phone talking animatedly to someone.

“I’ll call you back,” he says. “Hey, bro.”

“We need to talk,” I say, getting to business. VanCourts aren’t built for small talk, and thankfully, neither of us expects it.

“Please don’t give me bad news right now. Everything’s going my way for the first time in history.”

“What goes on at these frat house parties?”

I wasn’t allowed near a fraternity when I was in college, and neither was Tate. If Uncle had caught either one of us, he would have hided us both regardless of whether it was me or Tate that attended.

Tate raises a curious brow— why do you want to know that —but he doesn’t pry.

“They’re nothing compared to pledge week, which is a nightmare, by the way, but it’s not unusual for someone to end up at the campus hospital after a party; they’re loud, annoying, and messy,” he lists off on his fingers.

“But they’re part of a legacy of bullshit brother and sisterhood that the school refuses to crack down on. ”

I don’t know if hearing this is better or worse. Parties have dancing, drinking, and sex. All of them are things I don’t want McKinnon doing. I’ve stalled the drinking part for now.

Pledge week sounds exhausting.

“Your hockey team participates in this idiocy, and you wanted me to babysit them. Is it something I need to monitor closely?” In other words, should I lock McKinnon in a basement somewhere?

He shrugs. “Meh. Don’t think so.”

We shoot the shit after that. I’ve missed Tatum. He moved to Seattle to take this job while I remained behind in California. We’re not the best at phone calls. Sure, we did them, but they were short. We paid each other an odd visit, but it wasn’t the same.

“I’ve made headway,” he says. “Thanks to you, I’ve been able to put my focus into organizing events where there’ll be big donors with fat pocketbooks. I’ve got a few lined up.”

I tilt my head. “Any marriage material hang around these events?”

“You promised I had until the end of the season. I don’t have time to worry about that right now.”

And that’s my worry, that he’ll never have the time. “Nothing wrong with killing two birds with one stone.”

“I told you I’d do it, and I will.” His voice is hard. I’m pushing him too far. He doesn’t get like this about any other topic. He’s the easy-going brother if there is such a thing in the VanCourt family, although I’m probably the only person alive who sees him that way.

We agree to do dinner, and I leave before I wear out my welcome.

The rink’s quiet. No more pucks brutalizing the boards.

Maybe McKinnon left. I should leave too, but my feet barrel a clear path toward the arena.

Ace is still there, but instead of whacking at pucks, he’s skating with one nestled in the cradle of his stick, pulling off wild maneuvers at speeds I didn’t think were possible.

The little showboat. Not even a soul here—that he knows about—and he’s making a spectacle for an imaginary crowd.

Of course.

A guy like McKinnon can’t help himself. Someone needs to teach him a lesson. Humble his ego.

What I wouldn’t give to be the man to do it.

First, I’d take him over my knee.

No. First, I’d peel his pants and boxer shorts down, then he’d go over my knee. I’d turn that round ass of his a bright cherry red. Smack it until he was crying and begging for me to stop.

That would teach him. It’s what I’m itching to do, aching to do. That much of it wouldn’t even be sexual. Purely discipline and to show him who’s in charge.

But then I’d bend him over, shove my cock inside, and show him why I’m his new king.

Captain of the hockey team? Sure, when he’s on the ice, but off the ice he’d be nothing but my needy little bitch. He’d look so pretty writhing on my cock, pleading until his throat was hoarse.

That would humble him. That would take some of the cockiness from his pretty blue eyes. Because then he’d know. Know that he was always made to be broken by me.

Digging my fingers into my hair, tugging into the roots, I pull— hard —to rip myself away from thoughts like that. I can’t think like that, but he makes my mind go there.

McKinnon gets full blame.

But I’ve got to be the one to shove these thoughts into the darkness where they belong. It’s a bit late, though. My dick’s at full mast, ready to take. To claim.

Fuck.

Tate said there was a punching bag around here somewhere. No one gets to use the gym designated for hockey players, but he gave me a key fob with full access to everything. I need to find it now.

I know myself too well, though. I won’t be able to get rid of this dangerous little obsession I have over McKinnon.

The best that can be done now is a better plan, one that keeps McKinnon firmly under my thumb, firmly mine, without diving into the desire.

Beating the shit out of a punching bag has always cleared my mind, helped me think, even when it was forced.

In my uncle’s house, if I didn’t win, I didn’t sleep.

He said I needed more discipline—a body learning to submit.

I hated him for it, throwing punch after punch at a bag, sometimes injured, until there was less than nothing left of me.

Until I collapsed on the floor in a puddle of my own puke and self-loathing.

But I’d wake up the next day a new man. A harder one. Sharper. I don’t plan on driving myself to near death, but confidence settles over me. Uncle’s methods were harsh, but they guarantee something I need right now.

Control.