Page 11 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

Ace

“ Y ou wanted to see me, sir?” I say, entering Professor VanCourt’s office. Either he hasn’t had time to unpack, or he doesn’t plan on staying long. There’s nothing on the shelves, and I know that Kiss poster was here from the last professor, because I spent some time under that desk.

I smile at the memory.

A growly throat clears. “I’ll be with you in just a minute, McKinnon. Have a seat.”

He’s at the desk with his laptop, the window’s open behind him, a cool September breeze drifting in, natural light waning.

He’s too big for this room. That desk and chair were made for humans of a standard size; he’s squished into them and can’t be comfortable.

There’s one lonely box set next to one of the empty— dusty —shelves.

Bet it doesn’t even have any professor stuff in it.

I’m tempted to ask to see his degree because it’s doubtful he’s a real professor.

More and more, I think he’s been sent here just to tame me.

At this point, it could be wishful thinking. Not that I want to be tamed, it’s about the journey and shit.

The professor does the whole “sit and make me wait” thing. Honestly, that move’s a bit stale, but he’s older so he probably thinks it’s still “the cat’s meow” or whatever the fuck they said in his day.

I wait, and I wait, and I wait. Is it just me, or is the clicking of his fingers on that keyboard annoying as fuck? My fingers itch to reach for the phone in my pocket to pass the time, but it goes without saying that scrolling Benduovr while I’m in this “meeting” with him’s out of the question.

Touché, Professor. He’s banking on my generation’s inability to live without our faces in a phone for more than five minutes.

I can just hear him droning on and on about how our phone addictions will be the death of us, and the ways of his generation are tried, tested, and true.

Something, something, something about riding their bikes outside until the streetlights came on.

I won’t give in.

Since I’m here by his request, I’m gonna allow myself to gawk at him without shame.

I deserve something for my time, and getting a private Luke VanCourt showing is fine with me.

Now that I’m looking closely, shit , he’s sweaty.

Bro’s hair is soaked, and it’s not raining, so the only explanation is activity.

He was probably working out. With a physique like that, he’s got to do something to keep it from heading into Dad bod territory.

Which, nothing wrong with a hot Dad bod, but he doesn’t have it. He’s fit, trim, a solid wall of muscles. Come to think of it, he’s as fit as any athlete. What are you hiding, Professor VanCourt?

He hasn’t changed out of his gym attire either, and I swear I can smell the man coming off him.

His loose gray shirt is worn with dark, damp patches over the chest, sleeves bunched to the crest of his round biceps.

Dark hair deranged, none of it able to decide which way it should go, resulting in the sexiest mother fucking tumble.

And there he is, just typing away like he’s not a mammoth of a man.

I don’t know how he types with fingers that large, but man, everything about them sends tingling sensations zinging up and down my body. What would those hands feel like on me?

He shuts his laptop abruptly, and I jump.

“Thank you for arriving on time, McKinnon,” he says. Yeah, I was on time, but then he made me wait for at least fifteen fucking minutes. There’s no damn clock in this room, but fifteen minutes have to have passed. I have so much shit to do, and now all that time’s wasted.

“Your email made it clear that I should arrive or else. I didn’t have much of a choice.” It wasn’t worded that way. He’s too clever to tip off a third-party reader in something written and binding, but I know better.

“True. You don’t have a choice, and you’re going to obey me to the letter, McKinnon. Lose the cocky attitude.”

Obey. That word will never be the same to me again.

“I did what you said, sir.” Sigh. “Why am I here?”

His lips slowly curl into a devious smile, dark eyes gleaming. Fuck. He was waiting for me to ask that question. He slips a hand into his laptop bag and slaps a neatly stapled stack of papers onto the desk, sliding it across to me. “This is your new schedule.”

What the fuck?

After-hours tutoring with him.

Scheduled library study time.

I look up from the pages. “You know I play hockey, right?”

“None of that interferes with hockey or training. I checked with Coach.”

“I have other duties,” I complain. “When am I supposed to get those things done?”

He shrugs. “A good leader delegates, McKinnon. How else will you maintain a B average?”

“B average? I don’t need a B average.” I haven’t pulled off something like that since I was in high school, and Mom and Dad were in charge of my schedule.

Because I was a fucking kid.

I don’t need someone doing it now, and I don’t need a B average to stay on the team.

“If I say you need a B average, then you need a B average, McKinnon.”

I lean back in the chair, stretching my legs out and groaning with pure frustration. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I take everything back. He’s just a thorn in my side. I was— momentarily —distracted by his home-wrecking good looks, but I’m all better now.

Sitting back up, I challenge him with the same stare I give to whatever poor sap’s trying to take the puck from me. “I don’t need tutoring, sir.”

VanCourt taps his chin. “Hmmm. Your grades last term say otherwise.”

Of course. He looked into me like a creepy stalker.

He waits to see if I’ll admit that I simply wasn’t applying myself, to which I’m sure he’ll have some other “solution” to my academic failings.

I don’t want to give him the opportunity to get even more creative than “office hours”.

I should go easy on the old man, it probably hurt his brain to come up with that farce in the first place.

“You got me, sir. I’m dumb as a bag of rocks. Hopefully, you’ll be able to get through to me.” I knock on my skull, implying it’s thick.

His eyes flick toward the paper. “Keep reading.”

The second page has special instructions for the team. “I’ve already told you, I don’t have this kind of influence over the team off the ice. There’s no way I can promise to drag all their asses to the library study sessions.”

“You drag their asses to practice and training, I don’t see why you can’t get them to comply off the ice as well. You’ll do it, McKinnon. Next page.”

This better be the last goddamn page. On the third is a special diet and dress code requirement. The dress code’s for the whole team, but the diet’s just for me.

“What the fuck is this? This is crazy and unnecessary.”

“Language, McKinnon. It’s about ritual. Doesn’t the team wear suits before every game, even though they change into hockey gear?”

“You just want to look at us and see proof you’ve got the upper hand.”

“Both things can be true at the same time.” Fucker’s not even denying it.

I scrub a hand over my face. Maybe I can get the team to show up for class on time, and maybe even adjust their study habits to meet in the library once a day instead of the house, but pry Shep out of his sweatpants for English class? That’s a step too far.

“I’ll tell you what, McKinnon. Since I can see this is about to make you cry—and I do want to see you cry, but I didn’t think it would be this easy—I’ll make an amendment. Obey that last page to the letter, and I’ll leave the team out of it.”

Obey. That word again from his filthy lips. What’s wrong with me? I don’t know, but I can’t deny my dick’s interest as it perks up like a damn dog for its owner. It’s an apt metaphor; this man has me by the balls.

“Fine,” I bite out, scarcely able to breathe. After this, I’m stopping by the student clinic. There’s got to be something wrong with my lungs.

And my dick.

“No. That’s not how you talk to me.”

Heart pounding. Blood pooling in my nuts. I suck whatever’s left of the oxygen out of the air. “Yes, sir.”

“I know you can follow orders,” he says. “I expect no less than perfection. Can you do that? Be perfect for me?”

My muscles melt like butter. Is that allowed? Him saying stuff like that to me so fucking casually? Apparently. And I’m not mad about it. I might like it a little bit too much. A shiver runs directly to my cock.

“Y-Yes. Yes, sir.”

“Good. Behave and I’ll reward you, McKinnon. Disobey me, and I’ll punish you.”

I want to fight him. I want to mouth off, yell, argue, and tell him what I really think of his rules. But there’s no fucking blood going to my brain right now. It’s all down south. I need to get out of here before he notices.

“Got it, sir,” I say, going for respectful, but I’m giving, “I still think you’re a fucking pigeon”.

His eyes rake over me. I can’t tell what they’re saying, but they’re saying something.

“Get out of my sight, McKinnon. I expect to see you in class on time and well dressed.”

I can’t even wait till I’m home. I race to the closest restroom, lock myself in a stall, and pull out my cock.

Resting one hand against the wall and spitting on the other, I wrap my hand around my cock.

A low moan leaves my throat against my fucking will.

That’s what the man does, makes me crave him against my fucking will.

A bead of cum pools like fire at the tip of my cock. I fist over the head, spreading the white-hot bead of lava down the shaft.

“Fuck,” I breathe.

Can you do that? Be perfect for me?

God.

All that control, all that authority over me.

He’ll punish me if I don’t obey him. But he also said reward.

Will he reward me if I’m a good boy? I imagine myself showing up to class, dressed as he’s dictated, his eyes on me.

I’ll be fully clothed, but I’ll be writhing in my seat, the embarrassed thrill of knowing I’m dressed the way he told me to dress.