Page 4 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

In other words, how big is this idiotic task I’m taking on?

“That’s not important. All you have to do is control their leader. They listen to him like he’s a god or something. It’s weird.”

I shook my head. “And you can’t control one hockey brat?” I found that hard to believe. My brother’s as much of a hard-ass as I am.

“On the ice, yeah. Off the ice? He doesn’t give a fuck about what I say. Sure, he pretends to, in that smooth fucking voice of his, but Ace McKinnon does what Ace McKinnon wants.”

There was that name again—McKinnon.

“Did I mention his dad’s besties with the dean? You should probably know that, too. It’s better for you to deal with McKinnon directly.”

“Isn’t hockey a team sport?” I muttered. Having a player with that much significance is wrong.

“With stats like his, he could be his own damn hockey team.”

“Didn’t you already win your conference and the Frozen Four last season?

” I distinctly remember him being so happy about that, he celebrated for two weeks straight.

When my brother arrived on the scene with the team, it was in the gutter.

This is his fourth season with the team, and that lines up with McKinnon’s college career.

He turned the team around with McKinnon. Made them winners.

It was no wonder McKinnon’s departure had Tate scrambling. It was probably about more than just money, although money is important. It’s the lifeblood of college hockey teams. No funding, no team.

Tatum laughed. “Oh, Luke. You really don’t get sports and the people who play them, do you? I’ll admit, it’s a sickness, but I have to fucking win again this year. I’ll do anything—and I mean anything—to win. I only get McKinnon for one more year, and I want to use him for all he’s worth.”

My brother thinks I don’t understand the competitive nature of sports.

I played a sport, but it wasn’t for a title or trophy.

I hid as much as I could from him, and on the nights he caught me coming home bruised and bloodied, I did what I had to do.

Lied. I didn’t want him to know what I really did for him.

I also understand the people who bet on them, but I’d rather he remains ignorant of that part of me. If he knew, it would take something from him, the same way it did me.

Once I got out, I became a paramedic. I needed to know I could do something good with my hands, stop the bleeding instead of causing it. And I did love it. I loved the problem-solving, the adrenaline rush, being on the edge of a knife.

But the problem was … not everyone deserves saving.

There was a domestic call. A kid hiding in the closet, his mother half-conscious on the floor. My partner looked after her, and I was forced to tend to the man who did it, bandaging his sliced arm. But I remember how close I came to cracking his skull open with the oxygen tank instead.

I quit the next day. Removed myself from society to live in the woods, with the animals, where I belong.

“You said he’s turned down the NHL—that’s suspicious—any idea why a professional team hasn’t snagged him?”

“I know that his dad’s making him go to college first, but that’s about it. Not like I have teatime with the kid.”

“He listens to his dad?” I had a little hope that I could just send Tatum to rat him out to his dad, but Tatum’s not an idiot. If it were that easy, he’d have done it by now. Still, I was curious.

“Yes, and no. About this one thing—don’t know what’s going on there. I’ve seen them fight. They can really go at it, but at the end of the day, McKinnon gets whatever he fucking wants from dear old dad—like new helmets for the entire hockey team. McKinnon does what daddy says.”

Great, so I’d be dealing with a spoiled brat. But I’m a sucker for my brother.

“Fine. I’ll be there, but I’ll be late. I’m not cutting my plans short just to tame some hockey diva.”

Tate smirked. “Still just a merry woodsman, huh, bro?”

If that’s what he wanted to call it. I have a house on an acreage far, far from people, but that’s not enough.

I’ll often spend some of the warmer months deep in the woods, living off the land.

If it weren’t for Tatum and the need to take a man or woman to my bed now and then, I might never surface.

Now I was going to have to live on campus surrounded by little idiots.

Amazing.

I’d hoped my fixed holidays would render me ineligible, and I wouldn’t have to follow through with the monumental level of nonsense, but the school was more than willing to make the exception.

Hard to tell if it was because of my affiliation with their prized hockey coach or because they needed someone that desperately. It was probably both.

So, one week into term, here I am.

Thankfully, I don’t need this job. It’s a favor to my brother, no more. My real job, as far as I’m concerned, is keeping his hockey team in line, and if they step out of line, I’m willing to take measures other professors won’t.

Corporal punishment in schools should never have been outlawed, in my opinion. My palm’s already fucking itching to take each of them over my knee—that would keep them obedient.

Sigh. Those days are unfortunately over, but I have other methods I can use that won’t land me in jail.

I’m not the first one to arrive at my own class.

A few keeners are already sitting in the front row with their laptops out.

I set up my laptop and pull my retractable pointer from my bag.

Students file in, taking their seats, but the upper left corner remains noticeably empty, even after the bell has rung.

Huh.

Call it a hunch, but I suspect it’ll soon be filled with hockey hooligans—if they bother to show up.

Fifteen minutes after the start of class, six of them saunter in as if class begins when they get here. I slam my pointer, which is actually a thin retractable cane, on the desk.

“Gentlemen.”

The biggest one’s staring at me, sizing me up like I’m the one out of place here.

I probably should have shaved so I looked more “teacher-y”.

There’s a proud letter “C” stitched on his jacket, so that everyone knows he’s the captain.

The others flank around him like he’s Danny Zuko.

Yeah, this one’s definitely McKinnon. It’s got to be McKinnon.

Tate didn’t say he was the team captain, but it was heavily implied.

And of course it’s him. The shaggy hockey hair, the swagger, the “I run this school” energy.

“Sorry,” he says in a voice smooth as honey, flashing his pretty eyes at me. Because he is a pretty thing, despite the rest of his rough and masculine appearance. Bet those eyes get him out of a lot of trouble. “Early practice, and we had to be fed. I’m sure you can understand that, Professor.”

They carry on to the area clearly reserved for them, thinking they’re going to sit down without consequence.

I have half a mind to kick them out of class, and if they show up late to my class again, I will.

Splitting them up’s also an option, but that feels like the easy way out. Divide and conquer.

But I don’t need to do that. I’m happy to leave them within the false safety of their numbers.

I bet a gang of them was too overwhelming to take on, so the previous professor rolled over. With so much on the standard professor’s to-do list, the average professor is exhausted—I can understand that. Lucky for me, I’m not the average professor.

My brother was right. The captain’s so obviously their ringleader, all I have to deal with is him—cut the snake off at the head.

I lick the back of my teeth. This little arrogant fucker. I’m not going to waste time by giving him the benefit of the doubt. He’s going to learn quickly that I’m in charge.

“McKinnon,” I snap, reading it off the back of his jacket. “To me.”

He freezes, but then slides his duffle bag over his head, leaving it where he’d usually sit, and jogs down the stairs until he’s in front of me. There’s a curl to his lip and a dangerous glint in his eyes.

Dropping the golden boy routine for me already? Should I feel insulted?

Nah. Can’t find it in me. All it means is that he’s intelligent and knows his own kind. Like him, what you see is not what you get with me.

What other secrets are you hiding, pretty, pretty boy?

But I’ve got way more experience than he does with games. If I’ve already gotten under his skin by calling him up here, I have bad news for him. I pull a notebook and a pen from my bag.

“Since you’ve disrupted my class, and could give a fuck about it, you’re going to sit right here,” I gesture to the desk, “and write out this phrase at the top of the page until class ends. Afterward, we’re going to have a little chat.”

His crystal-blue eyes widen, and while he’s busy looking to his teammates to figure out what the fuck is going on, I write, My hooligan friends and I will show up on time to Professor VanCourt’s class.

“Professor,” he begins.

“Sir,” I correct him. I’ll let everyone else address me as Professor VanCourt but make him use sir.

That’ll really piss him off. Good. I’m not here to play nice with him.

Already, it’s clear that he lacks social discipline.

I bet he has impeccable discipline for hockey and thinks that’s all he needs in life.

So typical of stick-wielding hockey brats.

He sighs, long and suffering. “Sir, I don’t think you understand?—”

“Not interested. Sit. Write. We’ll talk after class.”

McKinnon exhales, blowing the long strands of his shaggy hair upward.

Yanking the chair out, he sits, slumping like the spoiled brat he is.

He’s undeterred. If anything, his attitude’s taken wings.

Is he planning the phone call to his father to have me ousted?

Or maybe he’ll complain to the dean who’s probably like an uncle to him?

Hopefully, he has enough brain cells to put two and two together on my last name, realizing that complaining to his coach would be futile.