Page 16 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

“Yeah,” I agree, forcing a laugh, but it hits a little too close to home. To the thoughts I’ve been turning over since Professor VanCourt showed up in my life. I’ve always been the top, the jacket giver.

But the professor is so damn alpha, he didn’t have to bother with finding a new one—he used my own jacket to collar me.

My phone buzzes on the side table near the hot tub, and my heart stops. Can he hear us talking about him? I mentally snicker at the name I gave him in my phone.

Wolf Daddy

I don’t recall giving you permission to get into a hot tub with other men.

Me

Why? Jealous?

Wolf Daddy

Get out of the hot tub, McKinnon.

Fuuuuck that. He won’t admit to being jealous, and then he’s a bossy asshole? I mean, I guess that’s his charm, but still. I won’t make it easy for him.

Me

Nah. Don’t think I will. My muscles might seize, and then who will we have to score the winning goal against North Point next weekend?

And I actually press send on that shit, too, immediately regretting it. That’s not gonna get me good boy points, but I’m so fucking reactive sometimes. To be fair, he pulls the brat from me as easily as dropping gloves on the ice.

I make a show of putting my phone back on the ledge, hoping he can see me from whatever dark corner he’s spying from.

It buzzes a couple more times before it goes quiet, but I ignore it in favor of complaining about Coach with the guys for another half hour.

When I do finally check my phone much later, there’s a string of tummy-swooping threats.

Wolf Daddy

Hmmm, thought you’d want to be a good boy for Daddy?

You’ll pay for your disobedience, princess.

Perfect.

Also, noted.

If good behavior isn’t getting his attention, maybe I just have to be a fucking brat instead.

Saturday comes too soon. I’ve taunted the fuck out of Professor VanCourt all week.

He hasn’t made good on any of his threats—and believe me, there were a lot of them—but it doesn’t matter.

I’m high on the feel of those threats. It’s almost just as good, somehow, as reaping the comeuppance, and I’ve never felt this amount of electricity in my life.

But mixed into mildly terrorizing the professor, I’ve been to class on time—every class—I’ve dressed how he’s demanded I dress, I’ve been to every Daddy-mandated study session.

The boys have followed suit, and honestly?

It’s kinda nice to know they have my back like that.

Guess I shouldn’t have expected any less.

The professor and I’ve had one office-hour session since that first day. I thought for sure he was gonna lay the smack down on me—more specifically, my ass—but he didn’t. It was like we’d both lost our nerve.

He was dressed as before, a loose gray scoop-neck t-shirt, damp with sweat, and loose gray workout pants.

His dark hair was dripping and messy, like he’d run his hand through it too many times.

He looked me over, asked a few questions about the swelling, then told me to sit my ass in a chair.

Once I had the essay prompt in front of me, I was expected to work while he put some finishing touches on the unpacking of his office.

It looked like he’d finally decided to stay awhile. On the shelf was a framed picture of him, Coach, and a man they both vaguely shared some features with. He even hung a certification on the wall that was from fucking Stanford University.

Luke C. VanCourt, PhD, Philosophy.

There went my theory that the professor had only gotten in via his brotherly connection. Luke was seriously educated, but the jury was out on whether he was a real professor.

By the time I was finished writing my impromptu essay, the office could pass as a real professor’s office. The only thing that seemed out of place was the extra-large First-Aid kit, hanging on the wall. A bigger one than he had with him the last time.

“If you’re going to be around me all year, I’m going to need it,” his gravelly voice said when I’d stared at it for too long.

Then he dismissed me. Did I leave a brand-new penis cartoon for him on page three of my essay?

Yes, yes, I did. One of the penises was in the sexy workout gear he keeps wearing.

The other, leering from nearby, was a penis in a hockey jersey that happened to have my number—twelve—on the sleeve.

But that was it. Mostly companionable silence. No teasing, no taunting. Both of us on our best behavior. I wasn’t even halfway down the hallway from his office when I texted him with a note to make sure he checked out the special art I left for him.

I smile, thinking about our last volley of banter that sprouted from those new drawings as I involuntarily choke myself with the collar of my dress shirt and secure my lucky blue tie in place.

If I’m gonna be forced to schmooze with rich people, I’m gonna bring in as much money as possible by looking sharp as hell.

The fundraising event’s held in the Chamberlain building on campus, just one of the fancy buildings at this school, hosting these kinds of events. It’s large and old, with a tall fountain of a scorpion dead center. Kind of outlandish, but also pretty sick.

Everyone takes notice of the hockey team filing in. Coach instructed us to dress to impress—we delivered on that—and chat the fuck out of everyone here. He gave me his Al Capone eyes, wordlessly letting me know he’d be watching me.

Scanning the room, my eyes don’t find who I hoped would show. He’s such a monster; I’d see him immediately. That guy’s not gonna be able to hide, even in a room this packed with people, which means he’s not here.

“Why do you look so sour all of a sudden?” Bend leans to whisper. We’re supposed to be giving “upstanding citizens”, not whispering to each other. This whole thing feels so militant. Is this what it’s like to go to North Point Military Academy? I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be them.

“No reason.” I haven’t told anyone about my liaisons with the professor yet. I’ll probably tell Bend and Shep first. Soon. But I’d rather wait until I know it’s more than just flirting.

Because what we’ve been doing is our version of flirting. Maybe not to some, but definitely us.

For four long-ass hours, the team does its part, chatting up the potential donors and entertaining the crowd with stories of our past achievements. Coach gives a presentation, which is damn impressive. Didn’t know he had it in him, not with the way he barks orders like a grouchy dog on the ice.

After that, we break again, and it’s more polite drinking and conversation.

“May I steal you for a moment, son?”

The voice halts me mid-step. Familiar. Polished. Distant enough to stiffen my shoulders before I turn.

“Dad?”

Yep, it’s Dad alright. Effortless confidence wrapped in a navy-blue suit, looking like he’s just stepped off a magazine spread titled Successful Men Who Never Falter.

I falter.

His scent hits first—cedarwood, lavender, and whatever incense his assistant swears helps with “emotional clarity”. We hug, but it lacks the ease we used to have. Dad was the air in the flowers, the spark of the sun, but I barely know the impostor walking around in his skin these days.

“Thought I’d surprise you,” Dad says, lifting a brow.

“Yeah,” I say, voice tight. “You surprised me.”

I swirl the wine in my glass. Anything to avoid looking at the places he’s changed—the ones I miss the most, the ones that vanished after Mom.

We don’t talk about her. Not anymore. He has his way of dealing with it, and I have mine.

“So, Coach invited you?”

“Yeah. No doubt he’s concerned about funding for next year.”

I sweep my hand toward the crowd. “Yep, that’s why we’re stuck doing this.

” And why my essay for Professor VanCourt’s class is a bust. We have practice early tomorrow, and I’ll have just enough time to spit something out—anything out—before the season opener, which we decided to squeeze in after this.

There won’t be a float, and I won’t be gliding into the house dressed as King of the Spartans, but dammit, we’ll have a good time.

Standing tall, I project the same “I have all my shit together” aura that I always do as soon as Dad arrives on scene. The only thing worse than not having my shit together is Dad knowing I don’t have my shit together.

“It’s not like I’m gonna leave them without a parachute,” he says. “But it’s a good idea for Coach VanCourt to get used to holding these kinds of fundraisers. My presence here will help, and I’ll do some schmoozing of my own to set the right tone. You need to do the same, Ace.”

“Um, what do you mean?”

“You’re closing a chapter, you need to show people you’re building the next one. You need to leave on a high note, give the impression that being a Scorpion is what shaped you as a hockey player.”

It’s Dad’s way. When Mom died, he needed to create, raise something from the ashes. He took on project after project, his way of proving to everyone he was okay. Hell, maybe he believes he’s okay, but I know better. I see what others can’t, because they don’t know him like I do.

Okay, so we’re adding “if I don’t say the right things at these fundraiser events, it could cost the team” to my list of shit.

Pressure.

Frustrating.

Awesome.

Guess he totally agrees with Coach.

But also, will Dad ever get it through his thick skull that I don’t deal with things the same way he does?

I don’t know what I want next, because moving on to the next chapter feels like leaving her behind.

Ugh, but if I tell him that, he’ll look at me like I’m broken, the exact thing I’ve been working so hard to avoid.

“Got it, sir,” I say, tight-lipped. I’m not having that argument here; it’ll be a joy I can look forward to for another time.

Before he leaves, he fixes my tie. “You’re still wearing this old thing? I’ll have my assistant send you some new ones.”

Is that who got him the pink one he’s wearing?

“Mom gave me this tie.” The words come out harsher than I mean them.