Page 2 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

Final Year Shadowridge University

Ace

“ H ow have they still not announced the English prof, yet?” Such fucking bullshit. I only signed up for this course on Conflict and Resolution in Literature because it was the only English course left with space, and okay, I’ve had weirdly good luck with English profs in the past.

Not saying they’re all like this, but the ones I’ve crossed paths with? Same vibe. Open-minded, slightly tragic—like they’ve wandered out of the novels they teach—sex-deprived. Maybe it’s a coincidence, or maybe I happen to fall into the orbit of broody academics.

I dunno. I don’t judge. But I figure, fourth time’s a charm, right?

But that TBA beside the prof’s name? It’s got the odd aura of karma attached to it, come to bite me in the ass.

Bender slides into his team jacket with a big scorpion on the back and a large letter “A” on the front.

We play for the Shadowridge Scorpions, baby!

He’s my right winger, my best friend, the only guy I’d trust with all my secrets. We’ve got opposite looks. Bender’s got standard pretty boy features on a thick hockey frame. I look like I’m about to rob a liquor store and then hop onto the back of my Harley.

I don’t have a Harley, for the record. Dad would raise hell.

Bender and I are twenty-four now. He hung back before starting college, like I did, and we shared a small dorm room during freshman year, so when we moved to the Alpha Kappa Epsilon Frat House, we claimed a room together.

We’ve also been friends since we were little, so we’re like one person by this point.

I toss him his bag from my bed, and he throws my jacket, which sports the brilliant white letter “C”, across to me.

We’ll be late for breakfast, which means we’ll be late for class, but we’re on the hockey team, and that comes with all kinds of special privileges.

Unfair? Um, no. We deserve it. We’re only late to breakfast because we had a hellishly early practice.

Coach beat our bodies into submission with hockey drills right out of Satan’s laboratory, and we risk our lives every time we step onto the ice for a game.

College hockey is cutthroat, with everyone wanting to get noticed and vying for a spot in a professional league.

And let’s not forget the most important aspect of hockey, we make the average Jane and Joe forget their monotonous lives for a while. We fill them with hope and pride.

We’re goddamn fucking heroes.

“Meh, doesn’t matter,” he says. “Whoever it is will love yah, Ace. Everyone loves yah.”

And that’s why he’s my bestie—best hype man a guy could have.

As we walk across campus, we’re joined by a few others on the team, flanking me like we’re a gang. I guess we kinda are.

Lunch is provided for us, but we’re on our own for breakfast, dinner, and snacks, so I have the cafeteria chef prep and save breakfast for us.

We’re big, hungry guys. We need a lot to keep us going, and I make sure we get it.

I didn’t mean for the team to look to me for this kind of shit—I’m in no way shape or form a role model—but for some reason they do.

“Alright, hit me, boys. What are we thinking for the conditioning schedule this year?” Usually, that’s decided by the coach, but we’re a motivated bunch of guys and from my first year, I suggested that we bring a specific kind of strength and conditioning to the team.

Coach liked the results. It bumped us from last place to the top of the league.

Now, I consult with the guys, confer with the company we use, and Coach makes sure they get hired.

“I vote for afternoon sessions when we have morning practice and morning sessions when we have afternoon practice. I need time between practices like that,” Brady says.

Last year, we did them back-to-back. It was fucking rough, but doable.

“Anyone disagree?” I ask. I give the illusion of a democracy, but there’s no democracy. If I think the idea is shit, I sway them my way.

They shake their heads.

I always think about the sight we make, several large dudes in black and silver team jackets, straddling a cafeteria bench that wasn’t made to hold this many guys, each weighing at least one hundred and seventy pounds apiece. It’s a wonder this thing hasn’t toppled over.

The bell rings. We ignore it. When we’re done, we go our separate ways, but I already know, this is gonna be a great fucking season.

Bender was wrong earlier. It’s not that I’m worried the prof won’t like me, I’m worried as to whether they’re a morally upstanding citizen or not. I need someone morally gray.

You could just get your coursework done like a good boy, Ace.

I could. It’s not from lack of brains—I had a 4.0 when I got into this place—but I’ve got a lot of shit on my plate.

We’re post-workout, in the back of the library at our table.

It doesn’t fit the whole team, so we’re not usually here all at once, but currently, the six of us are enough to be intimidating to onlookers.

It’s a large-ass campus, but everyone knows not to fucking sit here.

Other members of the team have joined Bender and me.

This sector of our team is known for party planning.

Jonah and Shep are responsible for booze, Danny orders the pizza, and Jones is in charge of the guest list. We like to keep a healthy roster of the up-and-coming people on campus, especially if they’d be good candidates for our frat.

Oh, yeah, I’m in charge of that, too.

Let’s see … captain of the hockey team, President of Alpha Kappa Epsilon, full-time course load at a prestigious university, and look after said hockey team and frat members around the fucking clock.

Is it any wonder that I have to persuade a few professors to help me with my grades?

But it’s just school, a grade, a hoop to jump through.

None of it will matter when I’m playing in the NHL.

“Hooked us up with a few kegs,” Jonah says. “And for some of the flashier drinks, I’ve got a shit ton of tequila, vodka, gin, and sugary stuff to mix it with.”

This isn’t just the first-weekend-back-at-school opener, but the hockey-season opener.

Our first game, which is an exhibition game against North Point Military Academy—as per tradition—won’t be until the first week of October, but we’re back to practice, and that’s enough to count.

It’s also the last year for some of us, so it’s got to be epic.

“Let’s get a float. The hockey team’ll come out dressed as Spartans.”

“Uh, think we need a permit for that?”

“No problem. I’ll have it by tomorrow.” Somehow, between all the other shit I need to do.

“The ladies over at Delta Gamma wanna know if the team’s dropping by for their wine and cheese event tomorrow, Cap. What should I tell them?”

Delta Gamma was my mom’s sorority when she went here. I don’t have the time to attend, but I’ve got to find a way to support them. Every frat event is a house and or charity fundraiser in some way. It takes a lot of money to keep us going. The fees and dues aren’t enough.

“We’ll be there. Tell them we’ll bring the pasta alla ruota.”

Okay, add “find giant cheese wheel” to my long list. I’ll make it happen. Life is about living. Who needs sleep?

I’ll sleep when I’m dead.