Page 15 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

Ace

N ow I’ve done it. Freshman Andy’s allegations have nothing on the bear I’ve poked.

More like werewolf. Yeah. I’ve provoked a dangerous werewolf into a game of cat and mouse, and I’ve never felt more alive and terrified at the same time.

I want more of it. I want deeper. I want it in a way I’ve never wanted anything.

Office hours were a bust. We didn’t do a lick of schoolwork. He fucking fussed over me in the sexiest way imaginable, even though he denied it. I wanted him to admit it. He’s trying to break me, but I’m doing the same. Who’s gonna win this battle of wills?

Me. The answer’s me. Calling him Daddy cost me more than I expected.

I cracked, shattered into a million pieces, and then had to quickly pick them up and put them back together.

But the damaged glass wall’s not going to hold together much longer.

The thing that broke free was always there, waiting, starving for the one person bold enough to take on all of me.

I called him Daddy, trying to drag a confession out of him, instead I got one from the darkest recesses of myself.

I liked it.

No, loved it.

When he called me princess? Holy fuck. Never thought in a million years I’d like that, not that I’ll ever admit that to his face. But my heart beat all funny, stuttering, almost stopping in its tracks. I want to hear it at least a thousand more times in that sexy fucking voice of his.

Sure, he did a decent job of trying to infuse a mocking tone into the word, but not only was he too damn horny to mask the genuine hunger, there was something deeper, something possessive in the word that made me shiver.

Plus, I noticed the monster tenting the crotch of his sweatpants—yeah, I fucking clocked that shit.

He made me sit, icing my face until he was satisfied I didn’t require further intervention from the student clinic.

I could have told him that—I’ve been injured enough to know when I need more help—but he wasn’t interested in my opinion on the matter.

Would have complained about it too, but then he tossed out another “good boy”, like he was just giving that shit away now, and I was done.

Finished. There’s a pretty solid chance I’ll do just about anything to hear those two little words from his sinful lips in that gravel-worn voice that barely seems to scrape its way to the surface sometimes.

Because, dear god, I want to be his good boy.

Eventually, he rudely kicked me the fuck out, writing his cellphone number on a slip of paper like it was the nineties or something and told me to contact him if anything worsens.

I was surprised that he had a cellphone, to be honest. He seems like the kind of guy who communicates strictly through walkie-talkies, Morse code, and carrier pigeon.

But I was too fucking shocked that he was stupid enough to give me his personal number.

I entered it into my phone immediately, and if he doesn’t think I’m using that shit to my advantage, he hasn’t been paying attention.

I was given strict instructions to let him know I was okay before I went to bed.

But other than a quick “I’m all good,” he’s safe for now.

I was too busy last night, scrubbing paint off the inside of the house and icing my face like I was told to.

My compliance wasn’t even fear-motivated unless you count fear of missing out on being called a good boy.

Currently, the chill of the arena’s seeping into my bones as we gather around Coach on the ice, on one knee, sticks in hand, paying rapt attention as he talks about shit like team fundraisers and our competition for this year.

Coach is a sportier version of the professor.

It’s pretty clear they’re brothers from their size alone, but there’s also some jarring facial similarities.

Coach is less wild, though. He’s the civilized, tame version of my professor.

I mean, the professor.

“Expect your calendars to be packed this year, boys, starting this weekend. I’ll need you to show up dressed to impress and schmooze with donors. We need money, and you’re going to help me get it.”

There’s a collective groan, and my head explodes with anxiety. How the fuck can I add another thing? I might actually have to give up my social calendar if this keeps up, but our social events are our house fundraisers, so that’s kind of impossible. I hold up a hand.

“What, McKinnon?”

“We’ve never had to do stuff like this before.”

“Yeah, well, now we are. Anymore stupid questions?”

I have one— are all members of the VanCourt family pissy assholes this year?

—but I’m not foolish enough to say it out loud.

Coach has been a grouchy fuckhead this season, it’s not like him.

I mean, he can get tetchy, but during the regular season, that’s understandable.

We haven’t even played our first game yet and he’s so far up our asses, I wanna tell him to buy me dinner first.

Coach surveys us before he barks commands for us and the assistant coaches to follow.

He’s decided it’s drill day. We’re taken through every drill under the sun, including some lateral crossover drills from hell.

My quads ache and my lungs burn by the time we’re done, and all I want to do is take advantage of our team’s hot tub room with some of the guys to soothe my poor muscles. But Coach snarls my name.

“McKinnon, change and get your ass to my office.”

Fucking joy.

I shower and toss on my shorts and a t-shirt—because I’m heading straight for the hot tub after this—and take a seat in front of Coach’s desk.

“You wanted to see me, Coach?”

Coach has never been friendly, but he’s at least approachable.

Today, he’s even less than that. It’s more than business-like coolness.

It’s the same kind of vibe I’d expect if I were walking into Al Capone’s office for the first time.

He’s not even wearing the suit he wears for game days, just a team-issued Scorpions tracksuit, but you feel the presence of a man wearing full Gucci.

Not gonna lie, it’s kinda hot— yes, I have issues —but it’s also terrifying.

What the fuck is up with him this season?

He doesn’t say anything for a full minute, letting uncomfortable silence rise between us, staring into my soul, a hand cupped around one impenetrable fist.

“What the fuck was that attitude on the ice about?” he says.

“I just wanted to know why?—”

“You’re the captain of this team. You know that I expect a certain level of leadership from you. I shouldn’t have to tell you every fucking season.”

My breath catches. God, he’s downright sinister today.

I nod. “Yes, Coach.” The only two words Coach likes to hear when he gives you feedback.

“This isn’t just about selling damn raffle tickets, it’s about reputation. Every parent, alumni donor, and scout will be watching us this year—we’re under a microscope. And like it or not, you’re the face of the program. When people talk about Scorpions hockey, they’re talking about you.”

Okay, I get the “responsibilities of a team captain” part, but why does the face of the team boil down to me? I thought there was no I in team.

But I guess there is a “me”.

“Yes, Coach.”

“Those guys idolize you, would follow you into battle. If you’re beaking off about fundraising—right to my fucking face—what kind of impression does that leave with them?”

I almost can’t form words. He’s kinda scary. “A shitty one, Coach.”

“Mhm. I can see it in your eyes, McKinnon. You still think I give you more than your fair share of responsibility.”

Sometimes, but I don’t really know, and even if I did, I wouldn’t say it out loud. I’ve been following his lead. There isn’t a rulebook for being a team captain.

“You wanna keep wearing that ‘C’?”

“I do, Coach.”

“Then I want to see more maturity from you. Don’t create problems I’m gonna have to deal with. You show up, you keep the other guys in line, and you don’t give me fucking crap in front of the team about it. Am I understood?”

My cheeks heat. “Yes, Coach. I’m sorry.”

The strange chill that had the room in a chokehold dissipates. Coach warms up, and the near-friendly countenance I’m used to reappears.

“You’re leaving the team, McKinnon. Don’t you want to leave a legacy behind?”

I do. He knows I do.

“Definitely,” I say. “I was outta line, Coach. I’ll do better going forward.”

The two large hot tubs are housed in the recovery room. At the back is a sauna, and on the far wall is a row of massage tables. We can book massages for after practice, and it looks like a few guys have done that.

The hot tub is where Shep, Bend, Lars, and I bitch about this new fundraiser bullshit. Um, quietly, so that Coach can’t hear us.

“Guess the season-opener’s cancelled,” Bender says.

“Not cancelled, postponed,” I say.

“Coach has been on easy street with your dad’s mega donations,” Shep says. “He’s stressed to the tits tryna figure out how to do it without you.”

No shit, I wanna say, but I keep my mouth shut. That’s all I need, it getting back to Coach that I told the team what he said to me privately. He’ll rip me a new one right next to the one he just ripped me.

“He’ll get it,” I shoot back. I need to keep a positive attitude, pump the guys up. “We’re the top team in the league. People come from far and wide to see us.”

“The people come for you, Ace,” Bend says. The others nod. “Once you’re gone, those donations will be too.”

I shake my head. “You can’t believe that. There’s no way to prove it.”

“Well, not until you’re gone. Coach probably expects a drop.”

Coach didn’t put it that way, but it’s an echo of what he said. Sigh. I guess everyone is counting on Captain Ace to pull through.

I don’t want to think about it. I know just the change in topic. “Hey, so, do you think Professor VanCourt gives Daddy vibes?”

They raise their brows in sync.

“Did you just figure that out?” Bender says.

“I just?—”

“Cap’s usually the Daddy,” Shep supplies.