Page 56 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

In the locker room afterward, I sit on the bench like it’s a courtroom drama and I’m waiting for my sentencing.

This is all my fucking fault. Some Team Captain I am.

We’re not gonna have a team next year, and it’s all because I couldn’t keep my shit together.

I’m not leaving a legacy; I’m leaving the ashes of one.

Is this the meaning of irony? The team finally got its name on the board because of my name and Dad’s money, but it looks like I’m taking it all with me.

Whatever they have to say to me, I deserve it.

The gear around me feels too loud—sock tape rips, water bottles crack open, skates pound against the rubber flooring. My throat burns, and my heart wells with agony. I can’t let this team die.

“I should’ve been better,” I say. “I should’ve been careful, put the team and frat first. Instead, I let my own shit get in the way and now we’re paying for it.”

The root is my grief about Mom. I’ve been doing my own version of coping, except unlike Dad, who has worked on letting go, I was trying to bring her with me. Mom can’t come with us anymore. I have to fucking accept that or I’m gonna keep ruining the lives of everyone around me.

I stand up, letting the tears fall. I shouldn’t be doing this.

They need a real leader. Not some grief-stricken fuck up that just wants his mommy.

Because I do. I want her here so damn bad.

She was supposed to do this with me. I miss her in the stands, holding up her handmade McKinnon signs.

Even the cheesy one that said, “We’ve Got an Ace on the Ice. ”

I miss the fucking sound of her voice.

I’ll never, ever hear it again.

Ripping off my jersey, I take a final look at the bright letter “C” on the front.

“Someone else should be captain. I don’t fucking deserve it.”

“No,” Shep says flatly.

“No fucking way,” Bender echoes.

“Nice try, McKinnon,” Lars says, removing his goalie pads all normal-like, as if I’m not breaking down in the middle of the locker room.

All the guys have turned my way. None of them are about to let me off the hook—but not in the way I feared.

Shep pulls out his phone and flicks through the camera roll. “This was taken at around two in the morning that night—a selfie of me on the roof, shirtless, trying to convince the DG girls to let me do a keg stand dangling headfirst over the edge.”

There’s a low rumble of laughter. Someone else adds, “And this was ten minutes later—Enayat and Juno doing shots off the ping-pong table.”

Fucking Enayat and Juno—always doing crazy things together.

Bender leans in. “Point is, it could’ve been any one of us, Cap. You just happened to be Andy’s target. We don’t blame you for shit. Andy’s the villain of this story.”

The words lock in my throat. My chest tightens in the worst and best way. They don’t just absolve me; they still believe in me.

Shep slaps a hand on my shoulder. “You’re our captain, Ace. Nice try getting out of it, though.”

“A goalie’s nothing without his defense,” Lars says. “Same as a captain without his team behind him. I’ll ride into battle with you, Cap. I volunteer myself to help hunt down that fucking rat Andy.”

“Me too.”

“And me!”

A few guys chime in.

Something cracks open in me. Not guilt. Not shame. Resolve. If they’re gonna stand behind me through thick and thin, then I have to dig deep, and step up.

“I’m going to get our funding back,” I promise them without any clue as to how I’m going to do that.

Just that I will.

I knock on the door like they haven’t already seen me coming.

Knowing Beta Sigma, they probably have a perimeter alarm and facial recognition wired into their security system since the remodel.

This is a new porch, and did the Beta Sigma House always have that massive gazebo out back? It would be sick for parties.

I’m flanked by Shep and Bender, who—for once—aren’t glued at the hip. Unfortunately, I think it’s because of a lovers’ spat. I don’t know what they are exactly—neither will say—but whatever they are, they fight a lot more than Shep and Huddy ever did.

But I’m glad they could put their feud aside and be here as a presence today. I’m still not sure I’m not on the Beta Sigma’s Most Wanted List. They could be waiting to grab me, so they can plastic wrap me to a tree naked—the modern-day version of tar and feathering.

The door swings open. I don’t know this guy, but he’s tall, lanky, and has a mullet worse than mine.

“I need to speak to your president,” I say in a voice I hope carries command, and, okay, I totally infuse some of what I hope is the magic ingredient that seems to make people obsess over me. I need that on my side right now.

“That’s me,” a voice says from behind. “Bring them into the common room, Alec.”

Huh, that was too easy. I expected the door to slam in our faces for the first couple of attempts.

Their common room is freshly remodeled. Hardwood floors, giant TVs, a full arcade, pool tables, the works. Fuck. This is nicer than our common room. It’s giving VIP bottle service meets nerdcore. Or possibly a kinky sex club with a Mario Kart addiction. Haven’t decided yet.

We take seats on black leather couches that are way too nice for a frat house. I suddenly feel wildly underdressed in gym clothes. Damien Tommel, their president, is wearing a full suit. Don’t know if he’s about to make a Clock App video or sell us a condo.

“We had a feeling you’d show up on our doorstep, tail between your legs, McKinnon,” Damien says.

Deep breath. Don’t strangle him. Channel Dad. Dad eats at these kinds of negotiations. Something has to have rubbed off on me, right? Mom … well she was a hockey player. She would have strangled him.

I run a hand through my hair. Dad would tell me to figure out what the guy really wants.

That’s the key to every negotiation. I have the answer to that question, because it’s the same thing every college student wants.

Fuck, they were willing to go to war over it.

It’s something I’m more than willing to offer.

“We need your help, and in exchange, we’ll give you what you want.”

“And what is it we want, McKinnon?”

“Honeys, hotties, and popularity.”

He wrinkles his nose like he’s about to deny it. It’s cliché, it’s trite, it’s even a little pathetic—us college students are all the fucking same at our core. But he can’t turn down an offer like that.

“We have money,” he says, bitter. “So much fucking money and still, no one wants to party with us long term. I don’t get it, we’re attractive!”

“You are,” I agree. “But you have the swagger of a turnip. We—on the other hand—have swagger for days, and it’s yours if you help us fundraise.”

I did a bit of research. They’ve been able to put together some kind of crowdfunding-style thing, and they’ve clearly made bank, but it’s not going as viral as I’d bet they’d like it to.

He studies me. “If you hadn’t approached us, we were going to approach you. We know the longevity of the hockey team is at stake, and as much as we’ve had our beef with your fraternity, we don’t want to lose the team. We weren’t good enough to make it on the team, but we love the game.”

“So, you’ll help us?”

“Not so fast, McKinnon. Give me the details of your offer.”

“A full alliance. VIP party passes for life, and one of the box seats in the arena.” I haven’t exactly talked to Coach about that yet, but I’m sure he’ll be down. He will, right? “Tell me how your crowdfunding scheme works.”

He smirks because it is a scheme. “It’s … a little morally gray. Maybe even dark gray. But no one’s getting hurt. Our platform began as a cross between Benduovr Fans and FundMePlease. Thirst traps and fantasy content. People eat that shit up.”

A rock sinks in my gut. I can’t do any of that. Luke didn’t want me on a hockey calendar; I can’t be a thirst trap. Some of the guys might be willing, but probably not enough to make what we need.

“But,” Damien adds, “you know what people love even more than those things?”

“What?”

“Experiences. Personality. Brotherhood. Chaos. So we … we monetized chaos. We started showing people what it’s like to be us—behind-the-scenes stuff, pledge week madness, wild dares. It’s become a content machine.”

“Holy fucking shit,” I say, hope rising again as a tidal wave of potential floods my mind.

Damien reads me. “Yeah, if we did the same thing for the hockey team, it would go wild. Did you know they call going to a hockey game, going to the boy aquarium? Imagine what we could do with full access to your team. Content. Highlights. Locker room shenanigans. All we need is your permission and your faces.”

“A frat-built content empire,” I murmur.

“Exactly.”

“So, I give you our stories and our content, and you can build it and make it look good?”

He nods. “Yep. What we would pull in would be more than enough to keep our frats going and the hockey team.”

“How long?”

“It’ll take us time to warm up the accounts and get things going. Maybe a month or two? Faster if you guys are willing to create some content. Thirst trap optional.”

“If it helps move things along faster, I volunteer myself for thirst-trap content,” Bender says.

“No, he fucking doesn’t,” Shep says, glaring. They still aren’t touching each other.

“It would speed things up if some of the hockey players were willing to do some, um, door leans and stuff, shirtless,” Damien stresses. “Content with masks is especially fruitful right now.”

Lars would be all over that—especially the last one—and his tattoos would make everyone salivate.

“I’ll ask who’s available and willing.”

“Bender’s not on that fucking list,” Shep says in case we didn’t get it the first time.

“I’m not letting him on the list,” I promise.

“I’m right here,” Bender says. “And I can decide for myself, thanks.”

Shep glares.

Damien raises a brow, probably questioning our ability to remain mature enough to broker this fellowship.

I swear to fucking god. Love is going to end us all.

I shake my head. “Don’t worry about them. Do we have a deal, or what?”

“We have a deal, McKinnon.”

“And no one’s going to wrap me in plastic wrap?” I check, because I’m still clocking that vibe.

“Depends. Are you going to give up who flooded our frat house? I know you fucking know.”

“Never.” I’ll freeze my nuts off all night, cinched to a tree via Saran Wrap with wood bugs crawling up my ass before I give up Luke.

“Then no promises,” Damien says with a grin.

I know the money’s not in the bank yet, and a lot could go wrong, but things feel better already.

Like we’ve climbed halfway up the hole my blunder got us into.

Yeah, mine. The guys were right that it could have been any one of us, but it happened to be mine.

I want to make sure I do everything I can to make it right.

Lars runs out of the house, breathless, before we can enter. “Guy. Important. In the house.”

“Slow down, man.”

“Someone’s here to see you. He’s from the NHL.”

“Like, an agent or something?”

He shakes his head. “A team owner.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Team owners don’t take special trips from their ivory towers to talk to players. They get their staff to do it.

Lars shrugs. “When are you gonna get used to it, Ace? The world wants you. The world makes exceptions for you.”

He’s not mocking me, he means it. He believes the world should make exceptions for me. I’m so totally gonna tell Luke that as soon as I see him. He’s going to think I’ve learned nothing.

I know who it is as soon as I see the devilishly handsome man in Armani, but my eyes must be deceiving me. It can’t be, but it is. Edward Arovini. His family owns the Vancouver Orcas. He’s a long way from Canada.

“Ace McKinnon. You’re surprisingly hard to track down. May I have a minute of your time?”