Page 57 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

Ace

I t’s Saturday, only the second Saturday since this whole fucking thing started, but it feels like a lifetime.

We’re sitting in the locker room before a home game against Los Angeles U, fitting in five minutes to go over Beta Sigma’s proposed rollout schedule.

Shep and Bender are still at odds, Lars keeps suggesting inappropriate merch ideas, and somehow, I’m supposed to be the adult in the room.

Where are Luke and Coach when I need them?

Right. Dealing with their shit. Something fucking else happened. Luke said he’d tell me when he could—he’d rather in person than text—but there hasn’t been time.

With one of my gloves tucked under my arm and the chill of the arena creeping in from the door, I scroll through the email, smiling. This is gonna work. It’s so totally gonna work. I can feel it. I should be happy.

I am happy.

Except when I remember the look on Arovini’s face. Like he already owned me. Like it wasn’t just an opportunity, it was a done deal.

Talk about a negotiator. That guy’s a fucking shark.

The guys pestered me about it afterward, dying to hear what he said, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell them.

Not yet. Hell, even Luke doesn’t know. Not because it’s a secret, exactly.

I haven’t figured out how to say, “Hey, the future came knocking” when the present still feels like it’s bleeding out.

Dragging my feet wasn’t because my NHL dream faded, it was because signing any contract meant accepting that my college career—the last thing Mom physically touched while we filled out admissions bullshit together—was ending.

She was fucking excited to wear a professional jersey—any NHL jersey—with my name on it, and sometimes I had the thought … what if that jersey were an Orcas one? Her favorite team. Now, here was my chance.

My heart clenches so tight it might stop.

Signing that contract should be a no-brainer. But it’s not.

I don’t want to do it without her. But I also don’t want to say no because of her.

“Why me?” I asked.

Mr. Arovini didn’t need to explain why he came himself instead of a member of his staff.

I already knew.

He wanted to be the first. He wanted me to remember his offer.

Edward Arovini isn’t a hockey player anymore; he’s an owner of the game.

I’m sure he’s heard whispers of the “talent in Shadowridge who won’t sign”.

Bet that’s the kind of thing bigwigs like him talk to their rivals about while they golf and play friendly for an afternoon, using conversation like chess pieces.

My college-boy scandal didn’t make national news, but it was bound to be included in golf-time gossip.

You’d think the scandal would have ruined my chances, but the NHL is a lot different than the college leagues.

They’re used to siccing their lawyers on “scandals” much worse than a frat-boy caught doing frat-boy things.

In the following days, I learned how right I was.

My phone got a workout with all the calls that overwhelmed it, begging me to call them back first and set up a time.

Arovini was the only one who came in person. He’s the one whose face I can’t get out of my head days later.

“You can’t be unaware of your level of talent, Mr. McKinnon?” he said.

Numbers don’t lie, and I know my stats. I’d have to be completely out to lunch not to know.

“I have an idea,” I’d said.

He studied me, tapping his jaw with two fingers. It wasn’t cocky. More like he was testing a theory he hadn’t said aloud yet.

“I couldn’t figure out if it was arrogance that was holding you back,” he mused, “or obliviousness.”

“And?” I said, trying to read him as easily as he was reading me.

“It’s neither.”

He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t ask. But something shifted in his gaze. Like he just confirmed something about me. Something he didn’t plan to share.

“Sooooo, talent?” I asked, more flippantly than I felt. “Is that really it?”

He gave the smallest shrug. “Sorry if you were looking for something more exciting, McKinnon. I want my club to win a cup. Vancouver never has. With you, we think we can.”

It makes sense that you can’t survive as an executive in the cutthroat world of professional hockey without cleverness and an ability to read people that borders on psychic.

The way Eddie had casually dropped that line …

It wasn’t news—it’s a fact that haunts every Vancouver fan.

Some think we’re cursed. But in that moment, the words slid under my skin.

Like he wasn’t just asking about the Cup.

He was asking if I still gave a shit about anything.

It called upon the ugly piece of my ego that likes being a fucking hero, waking him up from a long slumber.

Did he know about Mom? Hell, did he know her? I didn’t ask, but it sure felt very fucking strategic. The unsaid implication was there: Not only would I get to play hero, but I’d get to play hero for Mom. Win her team a cup. I’ll admit that he rattled my cage, but he didn’t push me over the edge.

Because there’s a catch.

I have to reach for that new chapter with both hands, which means letting go of the things I’d held tight to my chest.

How do I chase the future without feeling like I’m abandoning the past?

Bender elbows me. “Where’d you go, Cap?”

“Nowhere far. Just thinking about all the money we’re gonna make—should I swim in it like I’m a rich duck billionaire or use it to wipe my ass?”

“I’m dying to know what you-know-who thinks about you-know-what.”

Translation: what Luke thinks about this alliance with Beta Sigma.

I wince. “Um, haven’t exactly told him yet.” Pretty sure Luke still wants all their heads on pikes.

“Oooooh, boy. Can I be a fly on the wall? Please?”

I whack him upside the head—not hard! But Shep’s head snaps in our direction.

“Let’s just go win this fucking game, eh?”

And I’ll worry about Luke later. Much later. After sex later. He’s always in a good mood after sex.