Page 3 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

Luke

A re they some kind of … gang? A cluster of large guys wearing the same letter jackets is sprawled across one of the long benches outside in the courtyard, eating as if it’s their last day on earth. The sheer amount of food at that table. It could feed a small country.

Hmm. Nope, not a gang, just the school’s hockey team.

Great. Large testosterone-filled boys who think they’re king shit. By the looks of things, they’re not wrong. Bet the school perpetuates that stereotype, catering to their egos.

It’s Friday, and I should have started here on Monday, but I was a last-minute add to the professor roster so they were stuck waiting until I could get here.

A, I didn’t want this job. B, I didn’t want this fucking job, and C, I tried to turn down this fucking job, but my younger brother’s the coach of those hooligans, and he needed my help.

Oh, and I guess, D, I have a soft spot for my younger brother.

One inconveniently permanent. We were orphaned young—eight and six—because apparently we were part of that well- known animated childhood tragedy formula.

Except instead of woodland creatures and singing teapots, we got militant Uncle Jasper.

He ran his home like a prison yard and believed affection was something you earned.

Tate became mine to protect, and I guess I never figured out how to stop.

“They can’t find a senior English professor,” he explained.

“Why?”

“It’s because of my team,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, they’re good kids, but like all college guys, they like to have a little fun. You should see ‘em on the ice. They really give it their all. Hardest working sons of bitches.”

Yeah, because he wouldn’t expect any less, and Coach is God in the eyes of a hockey player.

“The English professor has trouble keeping them in line?”

“I guess so? Don’t really know. Just that they quit every year. We can’t find anyone to fill the position permanently, but if you took the position…”

Classic Tatum. Setting up a situation for his benefit. As per usual, I had a hard time saying no to him, even though I could smell a rat.

“Why me?”

“C’mon, Luke. You eat kids like them for breakfast. I need someone as hard on them in class as I am on the ice. Then I won’t have to stress about them not making their grades every semester. I’ve got enough to do without having to babysit them.”

So, he wanted me to babysit them for him.

“There’s something else,” I said. “Tell me the truth, or you can fucking forget it.”

Tatum gave me the same hard-edged, petulant pout he always had when he was trying to get away with something, and I caught him in the act.

Even though he’s two years younger, I had to semi-raise him, so, he looks to me for help.

But while my morals might differ from the majority of society in ways that might be considered gray, I still have them, and I don’t break them.

“I want to get on the conference committee because I’m aiming for Commissioner of the Pacific College Athletic Conference.”

“And? I’m sure you’re capable of achieving all this by yourself. You don’t need me corralling hockey players.”

He huffed, scrubbing a hand through his thick hair. “McKinnon,” he said, like that explained everything.

“McKinnon?”

“His dad basically bankrolls the program.”

“Okay.”

“McKinnon graduates this year, and we’ll lose that funding. I need to put my focus on finding donors, I can’t be worried he’s gonna fail out of his eligibility, especially while I still need him. McKinnon’s also the reason we sell so many tickets.”

“I think you’re putting way too much focus on this kid, Tate.”

He made a frustrated sound. “I knew you’d say that, but you don’t get it.

In the world of hockey, a lot hinges on him.

If only you’d seen him on the ice, maybe I could explain it better.

There’s just something Gretzky about him.

People know a once-in-a-lifetime player when they see one.

They come from far and wide to watch him, Luke.

Agents and teams are chomping at the bit to sign him.

He’s said no to all of them. Who says no to an NHL contract? He knows what he is.”

Tate paused as if he was taking a moment to imagine this “McKinnon” on the ice.

Jesus. But there was just no way. There is no other Gretzky.

I would know. He was my favorite player, and I followed that man through his entire career.

I would have loved to play hockey myself, but it wasn’t going to happen for me.

Uncle wouldn’t allow it. One of the many things Tate was able to do because of my intervention.

The most I got to do was help him practice on the ice early mornings before school.

Still, Tate wouldn’t say something like this lightly. If he thinks this McKinnon’s that good, he means it, but it’s definitely also a bread crumb trail for me. He knew I would find it hard to resist a lure like that.

I could always just buy a ticket to a game, though.

“Do this for me, and I’ll finally do that thing you’ve been asking me to do,” he mumbled.

Now there was something actually complicated.

A lot more complicated than this McKinnon character.

It involves a will and our devious, dead uncle.

Long story short, Tate needs to get married by his fortieth birthday, or I’ll be forced to give up the fortune meant for me—well, for us. Everything I did was for me and Tate.

I haven’t pushed the issue because I’m not selfish enough to force my brother into a marriage he doesn’t want for money.

But I have asked about it several times. I’ve poked, prodded, and coaxed.

Uncle’s fortune means more to me than the fortune itself. It represents my lost fucking childhood, including the teenage years, and on into my young adulthood. I was finally free of the old bastard when he died—or so I thought, but he left me with a final lesson.

Your faith was always misplaced, Lucas.

His last words for me, read by his uppity lawyer, have rung in my head since that day.

I’d always put my faith in Tatum despite how many times I got burned.

We were all each other had after our parents died.

Uncle hated that I put my faith in our brotherhood.

He wanted me to put my faith in him—it was the only thing he couldn’t take from me.

It’s his claws reaching beyond the grave to take that too, or at the least, rip the everlasting faith I have in Tatum away and bury it in the abyss with him.

So, I wrestle with it. Wrestle with just leaving him be and pushing the issue.

Just because our uncle decided this was a marker of faith, that doesn’t mean it is.

It’s an outrageous thing to ask someone.

But Uncle had conditioned me this way. The trials, the punishments, the pain disguised as training—all of it to show me who I was, to see if he’d broken me yet.

In a sick way, the tests became my light in the darkness.

Was I broken yet? My barometer was always Tate.

How far would I bend before I’d stop choosing him?

It's another one of Uncle’s mindfucks, but it fucks me well.

That need to know. It itches. Breeds questions.

I gave up years of my life and my sanity; wouldn’t Tatum do the same for me?

Fuck, I don’t even want him to. But now the question burns. Still, I don’t want to officially ask him. Maybe I think it’s too much, or maybe I’m afraid of what the answer will be.

“I haven’t asked you to do anything,” I clarified.

He scrubbed his hand over his face again, as if he hoped doing that would restart me like a computer, trading “Disagreeable Luke” for a more agreeable one.

Nope, it’s still me, little brother.

“I guess you haven’t technically asked, but how can I say no? Don’t really have much of a choice, do I?”

When the will was read, I didn’t think it was going to be an issue. Tate’s always wanted a partner, but he’s been dragging his feet, diving deeper into his career. Now that he was on this “mission to become commissioner”, his finding a partner was further away.

“You have a choice, Tate.”

“No, I fucking don’t. God, that asshole. I wish there were a way to bring him back from the dead, so I could kill him myself. Sometimes I hate pneumonia for getting to him first.”

I laughed, but it was disturbing that I didn’t know if I wished the same. It should be easy for me to hate him, for all the things he made me do, but there were too many times I saw the wisdom in his words.

I am glad he’s gone, but I wouldn’t have wanted to kill him myself, even if I was driven to those thoughts now and then.

“You do. It’s only money, Tate.”

He stared as if he was chewing on my words, as if he could taste what they really meant. He shook his head. “It’s not just money to you, Luke.”

The way my heart lifted with hope.

Fuck.

I’d bought into Uncle’s beyond-the-grave parlor tricks whether I liked it or not.

Plus, there was something else. The will doesn’t specify that he has to stay married.

Technically, he could marry to satisfy the requirements and then divorce, but I can’t seem to bring myself to tell him that.

I hate the reason why. I want him to think it’s forever.

I’d tell him after, of course, but I want to know dammit—because I know it’s what Uncle would say.

He’d scoff that the stakes hadn’t been high enough.

I need to be able to go to Uncle’s grave and tell him “I fucking told you so” with conviction.

He sighed. “I’ll do it.” He held up his hand to stave off my protests. “No, I will. Do this for me, so I can do what I need to do this season, and I’ll find some poor sap to marry me. God, I already feel sorry for them.”

“Me too,” I said, hardly able to believe what I was hearing. I didn’t fight him anymore. He hadn’t done it yet, and it wouldn’t be the first time Tate backed out of a promise he’d made me. “How many guys are on the hockey team?”