Page 5 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

Letting him stew, I get on with my lesson, because I don’t care either way.

The only part about this farce that isn’t a lie is that I hold a doctorate in philosophy.

Uncle insisted. He said all this brawn had to have brains, and apparently, his idea of brains required several hellish years at Stanford.

First, there’s nothing, but then his eyes burn into the back of my head.

I sense them, heated and angry, without having to look to know that they’re trying to incinerate me.

I make sure to turn as I lecture and catch him glaring.

He doesn’t bother to look away as if he’s analyzing my soul with those eerie blue eyes of his, trying to figure out what makes me tick.

If he thinks he’ll find what will manipulate me, he’s wrong.

That’ll come as a shock to someone used to getting everything he wants.

With a jawline like that, I’ll bet he has but to smile and shine his glory upon someone, the whole world at his command.

Men and women must die to run their hands through his dark locks.

Which means he wouldn’t have had to build an extensive repertoire of skills to manipulate with.

All he has are his good looks, and sure, they work on everyone else, but not me.

He’s tall and broad-shouldered, filling out his team jacket in all the right places, so he’s probably used to having size on his side.

Also, not with me. I’ve got at least four maybe five inches on him. I’m wider and thicker than he is. Oh, how I love showing men like him that they’re nothing but needy, spoiled princesses.

“There will be an essay every week, and I expect the required readings done before you come to class. Expect pop quizzes every week that will be counted toward your grade.”

McKinnon’s mouth drops open, but he closes it when I set my gaze on his, refusing to drop his eyes back to his punishment.

I spend the rest of the hour going through some other housekeeping, and a short lesson on what I expect in an essay—they can’t say they’re not prepared. The bell rings, and McKinnon attempts an escape.

“No, McKinnon. Sit. ” He wants to act like an unruly puppy? I’ll treat him like one.

“I have our afternoon training session to get to. Trust me when I say you don’t arrive late to Coach’s training sessions. I’d think you’d know that, Professor VanCourt. ” He emphasizes my last name.

“Sir,” I correct him. “You should be worried about arriving late to my class.”

One of his minions—the blond one that looks like he belongs in a Ken-doll box—drops his bag beside him. “You okay, Cap?”

He nods. “Yeah, I’ll catch up.”

Cap. God. He’s their king on and off the ice.

I get a nice glare from each of them as they exit for daring to chastise His Majesty.

“You’ve already punished me—only me for some reason—why am I being kept after, too?”

Sliding into my coat, I slowly put my things away, making him wait. I’ll start the conversation when I’m ready. He finally takes a hint and shuts his mouth.

“There you go, you can be obedient.”

He spreads his arms, not speaking, but the frustration’s building. There’s too much tension in his face, those pretty blue eyes clouded over.

“I know your type, McKinnon, and I’m not tolerating it. Show up on time, or be punished, and I promise you that I went easy today.”

“May I ask why I’m being singled out, sir?”

“They look up to you, Cap ,” I say with heavy sarcasm. “I’m holding you responsible for them and anyone else who shows up to my class late.”

“What the fuck? There’s no way you can do that.”

“Language, McKinnon. Try me.”

Anger mars his beautiful face. “I don’t have that much influence over them. Look, I’m sorry. We got off on the wrong foot here. Is there any way we can start again?”

“We’ll start with you and your team arriving to my class on time.”

He runs exasperated hands through that messy chestnut chaos he calls hair. “It’s not possible. The time we get breakfast depends on the time your family member lets us out of practice. You expect me to tell a team of hungry hockey players they can’t eat?”

Is that true? Fucking Tatum. Probably. I’m not surprised that he’s part of the problem.

No doubt, he doesn’t see anything wrong with professors having to give preferential treatment to his team.

Tatum needs to let them out with enough time to eat, but if McKinnon’s too much of a coward to stand up to “Coach”, I’m not helping him with that.

“Figure it out, McKinnon. The time class begins isn’t a suggestion.”

“Alright, we may have gotten into a bad habit of showing up when we feel like it, but what I said is true.”

I shrug. “Not my problem. Show up on time or pay the price. Non-negotiable.”

“Fucking hard ass,” he mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, sir,” I correct.

“Can I go now, sir?”

The word sir doesn’t have a lick of respect in it. I should call him on that, but as much as I’d love to berate him some more, I have my own shit to do.

“Dismissed.”

He’s up and gone so fast, I see why he’s captain of the hockey team. The notebook’s there, open to the lines he was supposed to be writing that I didn’t bother to check.

Which is unlike me.

I squint at the page. Is that a … oh, he’s so dead. Not only did he not write a single line, he doodled tiny penises on every inch of the paper.

With eyes.

And facial expressions.

Clothes and props, too.

Wait, one of them looks like … is that me? One of his special penis cartoons has a scruffy beard, dark hair, wolverine claws and a little badge that says Prof. Van Dickhead.

Yep, that’s me.

I stare at it for too long.

Okay, I should get a haircut—point taken—but first, I’m going to skin McKinnon alive.

I stare some more until the corners of my lips twitch into a smile.

Actually, this is perfect. I tuck the notebook with the page full of penis caricatures into my bag.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s just signed his life over to me.