Page 12 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

My strokes began fevered and rushed, but I slow them, lengthening the intense arousal.

More cum leaks, and the wet squelch of my hand raking methodically over my dick echoes through the stall.

Thud. Thud. Thud. My heart might break out of my ribcage.

Long ropes of cum shoot over my hand as I try to lengthen this orgasm for all it’s worth.

It’s never felt like this.

As I catch my breath, my surroundings come into view.

Blue metal enclosing me, toilet underneath.

Damn, I forgot where I was. Dick in my hand, I freeze—anyone could have walked in here at any time.

I wasn’t careful. Fuck, there’s a good chance a moan or two slipped free.

I don’t hear anything. Maybe I got away with it?

I creep out to wash my hands. With the high of sex waning, the gravity of what I just did hits like a puck to the helmet.

I jerked off in a public bathroom stall, at school, to the thought of my professor controlling me.

And not even in a hot and sexy way with me on my knees sucking his dick, or something.

Just him, having … I dunno … a domestic sort of dominion. My clothes, my food, my study habits.

That’s weird even for me. I can’t believe I masturbated so desperately to that shit. Other people are into leather and latex, and I’m into what? Domestic discipline?

No. No. Absolutely fucking not. What I need is porn. A couple of dudes tag-teaming a willing beach babe. I dunno why, but I have a thing for beach babes. Long dark hair, massive breasts, an ass I can squeeze. That’ll do the trick.

It will fucking do the trick.

“Look alive, McKinnon!”

Shep’s loud-ass voice hits my ears only just in time for me to dodge the puck he sent sailing toward my head.

I’m distracted, and he knows it. But I can’t stop thinking about yesterday, and it’s pissing me off.

Normally, I’d put all my fury into hockey, lord knows that’s the place for it, but I don’t feel right.

That porn adventure I was gonna go on? I found a video, alright, but the thing with porn is the wire to your brain has to be one hundred percent rerouted to your genitals for full enjoyment.

It started off kinda hot, but the guys were tossing her around so roughly, I wanted to jump through the screen and beat them off of her.

Not even so I could fuck her. I had the wild vision of putting my hockey jacket around her to cover her up.

Ugh, is that a thing of mine, too? Clearly. Me and jackets—I need help.

It’s all left me feeling broken, like my damn brain chemistry’s been changed.

Because while fucking with men isn’t new for me, a man as alpha as the professor is.

And it’s not even that I’ve never had the desire, but it’s just not something I was open to doing.

With Luke VanCourt it’s all I can think about.

Know what? A puck to the helmet’s just what I needed. I smirk Shep’s way, catching the puck where it landed with my stick, and glower like a wolf about to feast. “You’re dead.” I proceed to kick his fucking ass via hockey.

At the end of practice, I do what I always do and wait on the ice by the door to the locker room, patting the guys on the back, telling them what a good job they did or consoling them if they had a shit practice. Doing it today takes more effort; I have to forcibly push the professor from my mind.

As soon as I’m near my cubby, I shed my gloves, and I check my phone out of habit. Was kind of expecting something from the professor, to be honest. Maybe some extra last-minute instructions or something before I get to class.

Don’t ask me why. It’s not like I’m his soldier.

I don’t need him to tell me “good boy”. Wouldn’t fucking hurt, though.

I slam my helmet into my cubby harder than is necessary, and head to the shower with no clear idea as to why I’m so pissed.

But why warn me about watching my phone if he wasn’t gonna send anything to it?

Once I’ve washed the sweat off, hair dripping, towel around me, Shep barges into my space, knocking into my ass with his hip.

“What’s up with you today, man? I’ve never seen you this rattled, not even during quarter finals.”

I want to deny, blame it on poor sleep, but I’m staring down a barrel.

That barrel is what I’m about to dress myself in.

It’s not completely outlandish, but like Shep, I’m a strict sweatpants guy for class.

I switch between t-shirts, hoodies, and henleys under my hockey jacket.

People are gonna notice and comment on the change.

What the fuck am I supposed to tell them?

Professor VanCourt made it clear that I was to be presentable for classes.

Slacks or khakis on the bottom and clean shoes.

My hockey jacket’s fine—can’t figure that one out.

It eats at me a little bit. Why is the jacket okay and not the rest of it?

I got the impression he didn’t give a fuck about school or hockey pride.

But underneath it, button-up shirts and polos.

Make it make sense.

“The professor’s riding my ass,” I mutter.

Shep leans in. “But not in the way you’d like,” he whispers.

“I’m … uh … fuck, no.”

“Yeah, sure, Cap. But look, if you need help with anything, that’s what we’re here for.”

I know that. They’re great. But I’m the captain, the house president, they’re not supposed to look after me.

“I’ve solved our breakfast dilemma,” I say, changing the subject. “Chef’s gonna make us breakfast wraps. We’ll swing by after morning practices, grab a few, and head to class.”

It took some finagling, but thankfully, it was in the budget, something I had to run by Coach.

It was a weird meeting. He looked at me funny, like there was something he wanted to say, but when I explained the grief we were getting for not showing up to his brother’s class on time, he nodded and said he’d approve it.

Since he was agreeable, I let it go that the likely reason his brother was on my ass in the first place was because of him.

Didn’t even mention it. But there was an undercurrent of understanding anyway, as if he could feel the words that were drumming around in my skull.

It’s probably the first time I’ve had any real beef with Coach.

We’ve never been besties, but we’ve had an amicable business-style relationship.

His brother’s appearance seems to be shifting that.

“That’s awesome, man,” Shep says.

“Breakfast wraps are the perfect solution, Cap,” Lars, our goalie, says from the other side of the locker room.

Huh. I thought I’d get push back, but everyone’s so agreeable about it. It makes Professor VanCourt right. Not that I’ll tell him. I thought my rule was limited to on the ice, but yeah, maybe they do hang off my every word.

All that does is up the responsibility factor.

“Yeah, wish I’d thought of it sooner,” I say. It reminds me of the huge secret I hope no one ever finds out: I don’t have my shit as together as I make it appear. Someone who did would have figured that out from the beginning, and we wouldn’t have to show up late to class.

That’s settled, now for the thing that’s twisting my stomach in knots.

I didn’t think this was gonna be a big deal, it’s just clothes for fucksakes.

Taking a breath, I slide into the long-sleeved button-up I chose for today.

I started with extra-fancy, so he’d know I was serious.

If he knows I’m willing to follow orders, maybe he’ll lay off everyone else.

Next are the black slacks, the black socks, and my freshly shined-up shoes.

Bender notices first, letting out a low whistle. “Nice, Cap. You dressing up for someone?”

Yes. “Leave it.”

He shrugs, snickering. The rest of the team looks away when I glare at them. Other than that, it’s fine. So fine.

And it is, until it comes time to put my jacket on, the only thing he didn’t object to. At least, that’s how I’ve been framing it in my mind, but as I slide the first arm in, it hits me. Permission. I have his permission to continue wearing it.

No. That’s not the full picture either. He specified the jacket. Some things were options—like the choice of shirt, pants, and shoes, so long as they fit within a category of dress. The jacket was a requirement.

Just like that, its meaning’s shifted.

On the surface, it’ll still look like I’m showcasing team pride, but VanCourt and I will know what it really means.

Obedience.

Almost like a collar.

One I have to put on myself every day. One he didn’t have to give to me. This jacket doesn’t belong to me anymore; it belongs to him.

And so do I.

All signs say I’m supposed to hate that, but I don’t.

Not even a little bit.