Page 13 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

Luke

I t’s the stiffened way he sits. That’s how I know he gets it, what I did to his jacket.

Once a badge of pride, now a quiet form of control.

Letting Ace wear the jacket is more powerful than stripping it off him.

Instead of freedom and bro-ship, he’ll feel me, wrapping around him all day long, every thread of it whispering to him, reminding him who owns his ass.

Besides, I like the look of it on him, especially dressed so prettily for me. But I’m almost annoyed. He’s followed everything to the letter, leaving no room for me to punish him—or so he thinks. I make the rules, I never said they’d be fair. I like having control over him a bit too much.

His stare burns into the back of my skull.

He wants to challenge me, he’s probably confused as to why he hasn’t, used to being in charge.

But his instincts are overriding all conscious thought.

As uncomfortable as he must feel in his own skin, there’s got to be something very right.

Something worth exploring, or he wouldn’t still be following the breadcrumbs I leave for him.

My anvil over his head is a small one, something I’m sure he could have a workaround for if he put his mind to it—or his father and the dean. But he hasn’t done that. He’s barely protested. On some level, he wants this.

I caught him jerking off in the restroom after he left my office.

He must have been involved, because I wasn’t careful entering—I hadn’t realized he was in there—yet it didn’t stop him.

Fuck , the sounds he made. He was really going at it, too.

No way he didn’t have a little cock burn after that.

There’s only so much spit can do when you’re beating on it like he was.

Although, he was probably leaking pretty good, but there was no way to tell for sure.

I was deprived of the viewing with him behind the locked stall door.

He should be punished for that alone—depriving me of my things.

I was so close to breaking the door off its hinges to get to him, and I know he would have let me take over, or let me watch, or join—whatever the fuck I wanted.

McKinnon can barely contain himself around me, and I’m walking a tightrope between restraint and taking what I want.

If I’d seen the smallest glimpse of him pleasuring himself, I wouldn’t have held back.

So it was for the best. I can imagine McKinnon getting off, I can sink my hooks of control into him, but I—unfortunately—can’t fuck him. I might not care about my temporary job, but I care about Tate’s.

All my fun with Ace McKinnon will have to be through control via discipline. I have the willpower of a monk in a whore house, but the right candy can lure anyone, so I’ve got to be careful.

Class ends. It’s clear McKinnon was hoping I’d pat him on the back or something. Hasn’t he figured out I’m a hard-ass? I’m not giving him easy praise. If he wants a compliment, he’s going to have to work harder than shined shoes.

“Go on ahead, I’ll catch up,” he says to one of his fellow hockey hooligans.

“What do you want, McKinnon?” I say when the other students have filed out. “Our study hours aren’t enough? You need to stay after class, too?”

His jaw hardens, and his brow pushes so close together it looks like an angry caterpillar. Last time he did this, he fumbled and folded, but something tells me I’m not going to be so lucky this time. It’ll be good to know how far I can push him before he snaps.

“I did all of this for you.” He motions up and down his body, chest heaving like he’s been sprinting. A riled-up McKinnon is breathtaking. “Because of you, I feel funny about wearing my own goddamn jacket.”

“Language, McKinnon.” I continue to pack up my things as if I’m in a rush to leave him. As if I’m not waiting to see what he’ll say next. Frustrated McKinnon might be my favorite version of McKinnon so far, and there’s no way I’ll miss a chance to play.

“You did all of this because you had to. Do you need to be reminded? I can see the headline now—Would-Be Hockey Legend’s Career on Ice After Sexual Harassment Allegations,” I say, knowing full-well it’s all bogus.

Without a doubt, someone like McKinnon would be hailed for his penis cartoons. They’d frame them and put them up in the locker room for all future Scorpions to gawk at. They’d laud their hero and now NHL god McKinnon for being brazen enough to draw them, every time they walked by.

McKinnon crosses his arms, smirking. Wait, that’s not right.

“You think I’m a legend, sir?”

He’s doing that thing—the thing he does that I’ve seen him do around campus a few times. It’s a sinfully deadly look. His pretty eyes get bluer, sucking you in, two hypnotic pools of smoke curling from a forbidden flame.

I harden my jaw and my stance. Unfortunately, my cock hardens, too.

“You have two seconds to come up with an important reason for wasting my time.”

“Or else, what? You’ll punish me, sir?”

Fucking brat. He wants to be punished, and oh how I’d like to punish him, my way—my real way—but I can’t.

“I can take permission away as easily as I’ve given it. If you want to attend that season opener, you need to remain on your best behavior.”

His mouth opens and closes. He didn’t think of that. “You didn’t give permission very easily, sir.”

“Stop pouting, McKinnon.” His lip plumps out when he pouts.

Can’t have that. It’s too tempting. I might lean in for a taste.

I could change it all, give him the verbal gold star he’s looking for, but I’d rather dangle it just out of his reach.

I lower my voice to a dangerous octave. “Keep showing me what a good boy you can be, and I’ll reward you without the need for a tantrum. ”

But even as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. His poutiness has already grown on me.

McKinnon blinks. Speechless. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was having a heart attack.

“You should get to your next class. Don’t be late for office hours tomorrow.”

Then I walk away before I do something I’ll enjoy too much to regret.

Rain pelts the windows like it’s trying to start its own metal band as the gloom tries to fight its way inside, but joke’s on the gloom—I’ve always preferred days like these. I don’t mind sunny days, but they’re unsettling.

Untrustworthy.

You expect good things to happen on sunny days, so when something goes horribly wrong while the joyous sun beats down on you, it’s hard not to call the sun a liar.

I don’t want to seem eager, but the office hours are the only reason I’m using this office, because I’m not staying.

This will be my first and final year at Shadowridge University, so there’s no point in getting too comfortable, but I should make it look like I am.

I dust the shelves and finally unpack my meager box of knick-knacks.

I have one picture—the only picture—of me and Tate with Uncle Jasper.

His child-rearing methods were questionable, that’s for damn sure, but he took us in, fed us, kept a roof over our heads.

He paid for school, good-quality clothing, and taught us that life will throw you lemons and you might not have sugar to make lemonade, so learn to fucking drink sour juice.

Saying I’m fond of him is too generous, but maybe healthy respect is more appropriate.

A loud rap jolts me from my dusting. “Come in.”

It’s McKinnon, here for his office hours, but he’s a much different McKinnon than I was bordering the edge of flirting with yesterday. This McKinnon’s lost all humor. The flare of anger that’s usually got some playfulness simmering under the heat is all steam today, and he’s … is that blood?

I drop my dusting rag and storm over, gripping him under his chin, at the top of his throat, inspecting his bloodied nose.

“I didn’t want to be late,” he says, guessing at my line of questioning, which would have definitely involved wanting to know why he didn’t take care of this before he arrived.

Still holding him by the throat, my eyes scan everything—the rest of his face, his neck, his attire. I didn’t say he had to dress up for office hours, so he’s wearing what he probably wore to training—sweatpants and a t-shirt, but he’s got the letter jacket on.

Did he wear it for me? I want to find out, but there’s blood all over his white t-shirt, muddy scuffs across his cheek and along his collarbone, and his hair’s dripping, soaked to the bone. Fuck, can’t think. Is that his blood or someone else’s?

And you’re touching him, VanCourt. Got him by the throat.

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing under my palm, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he breathes carefully, eyes locked on mine.

Slowly, I remove my hand. “Who did this to you?”

“That’s new,” he says, voice low and tight. “Usually, you’re asking what I did wrong.”

He’s right. My instinct was to check on him, not challenge him. I didn’t ask what he did, I only wanted to know who touched him.

It might be new between us, but not out of character. Claiming what I feel is mine is as natural as breathing to me. Something inside of me has decided Ace is mine, and that’s just the way it is. Like gravity or the sky being blue. That’s not good news for me or him. Especially not for him.

The little shit. It’s like he knows. But at least his expression’s gone from pissed off to amused.

“Didn’t know you cared, sir.”

“Sit, McKinnon. Stay.” Maybe if I speak to him like he’s a dog, a brute like him will understand.

He shrugs, a simmering smile spreading across his face as he sinks into the chair in front of my desk while I dig the first aid kit from my meager box of supplies.

I never leave home without one. Even before my life as a wild recluse, it was crucial that I had an extensive first-aid kit on me at all times.

Uncle would have had my hide if I hadn’t been prepared.

After my brief career as a paramedic, I began stocking my personal kits with specialty items.