Page 65 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

Ace

S hit.

Fuck me.

This is how I die.

We all thought I was just sailing into a happy ever after, didn’t we? But no. My life is way too dramatic for that.

Who should I call for help? Bender? Shep? East? Lars? I can’t call Dad, he’s friends with the enemy. Huh, I might be on my own for this one—maybe I should consider moving to another country?

Maybe it’s not that bad.

Ugh, who am I kidding? It’s worse. This is Luke we’re talking about.

He’s gonna spank my ass. Hard. “Won’t be able to sit for a week” hard.

Hmmm, but he seems to prefer using his hand over any of his many implements, and I love that fucking hand—it might be worth it.

So big, and solid. The feel of it against my bare ass is some kinda magic I might never be able to explain.

A language all its own. Fuck, though, it’ll have a lot to say about this.

I inspect the damage. It doesn’t cost that much to fix a window, does it? It doesn’t help that our “window” is the entire wall, and that our condo is way up high, I suppose. That’s gotta be more expensive than a lower-to-the-ground window, which is bad news for my ass.

Before Luke left, he warned me in that dark voice of his.

“McKinnon, I see it in your eyes. You’re itching to pick up a stick. Go to the rink, take a net outside, do not shoot pucks at tin cans on the mantle. Even you make mistakes.”

But the rink is too far—I’d have to get in my car and everything! And outside with a net isn’t great in this area. There’s too much traffic. Plus, if I’m being honest, it was that last comment that got me. Ace McKinnon doesn’t make mistakes, not when it comes to shooting the puck.

I’d show him. I could shoot pucks at tin cans on the mantle, and it would be fine. Frankly, it’s half his fault for saying something like that. He should know by now that shit like that eggs me on.

He caught me doing it about a week ago. Totally flipped out. I got out of that one by the skin of my teeth, with a stern talking to. For the rest of the day, he muttered about my pretty pout and letting it talk him into—and out of—things.

He wanted a house, not a condo. We both did, originally.

I had dreams of a home hockey rink in the basement.

Luke wanted space for a food garden, chickens, and bees.

But when I saw the price of houses in the Vancouver market, I rejected on principle.

It’s fucking criminal. Who’s living in this city? Gang members and the one percent?

Anyway, Luke didn’t give a fuck, because we could afford it.

“It’s a good investment,” he’d said. “And you’re way too … ambitious to be kept in a condo.”

Ambitious. Psshht. Cue my rolling eyes. He meant I’m an instrument of chaos.

This condo wasn’t cheap either, but it was way less, and I kinda wanted to see what it was like to live in the heart of downtown Vancouver.

Alright, and maybe—very much maybe—I’d heard that Rhett Elkington and his husband live in this building. Rhett plays for New York, but Vancouver’s his hometown. According to his Gram account, he spends the off-season here.

But anyway, Luke almost moved us out of here when he caught me, stick in hand, about to let loose with one of Mom’s signature slap shots. Cue the puppy-eyed pout again. Works every time.

Ugh, but probably not this time. What am I going to do?

At least I got a sick video of the whole thing. I set up my phone and ring light to film it as content to send to Beta Sigma. Even though I’ve graduated, I’ve promised to continue to submit some of my adventures as a Shadowridge alum.

I’m contemplating how I’ll start a whole new life, somewhere Luke will never find me, when a loud rap on the door interrupts my Ghost Protocol. I jump. Can’t be Luke, he has a key.

Padding over to the door, I check the peephole. There’s a thin, dark-haired man standing there.

Alright.

I swing the door open. He’s a lot shorter—and a lot smaller—than I am, but his energy makes up for it, taking up all the space. His dark eyes look me up and down, scrutinizing me before he storms into the condo—uninvited—and stalks over to my current catastrophe. I follow.

He’s a violent little tornado, dark hair remaining in its precisely cut form, the long parts swaying and then halting in place with him.

The man might be thin, but he’s a wall of solid muscle, his body floats as he moves, even the force of gravity not enough to hinder him.

He’s also stunning. Not handsome, but pretty.

Long lashes, cut cheekbones, plump lips.

Dear God. I didn’t know they made people like him in real life.

“You’re in huge shit, McKinnon,” he says.

I squint. “Um, do I know you?”

“Not yet, but I know you—or it feels like it anyway. My husband won’t shut up about you. He’s fucking pissed that Vancouver got you and New York didn’t. My mouth is working overtime thanks to you,” he says, massaging his jaw.

But he smiles as if he might like that. Heat creeps across my neck. Okay, so no boundaries, got it. Though, he did walk into my apartment as he pleased, so that should have been my first clue.

I’m pretty sure I’ve figured out who this is, but just to be sure. “Who the fuck are you, bro?”

“Depends on who you ask.”

I raise a brow. “Depends?”

“If you ask the City of Vancouver, I’m Logan Meyer-Elkington. If you ask my husband, I’m Mr. Elkington. Don’t tell him I haven’t changed my name.” He winks. “But anyway, what are we gonna do about this?”

He crosses his arms.

We?

Running a hand through my hair, I stare at the mess.

We have one of those floor-to-ceiling windows on our North-facing wall.

Perfect for viewing the North Shore Mountains, not so much for rogue hockey pucks.

The glass completely shattered, too, leaving a sea of shards for at least a foot into the living room, and I know they shot further than that, landing on the sofa and coffee table.

We’re gonna be finding glass up our ass for some time no matter how well we vacuum.

What was once the window is now a jagged outline with a cool breeze blowing in from the harbor beyond, salty Vancouver air tickling my nose.

Logan shakes his head. “You hockey players are all the same, McKinnon. I’m gonna call my brother, Mercy, and get the number for his plexiglass people.”

“Plexiglass people?”

“Yeah. This was a regular occurrence in our family. Mercy couldn’t keep up with the breakage, so he gave up and had the windows replaced with plexiglass. Um, don’t tell the strata, though. Better yet, I’ll have Rhett take care of it.”

“I’m all for it, believe me, but why are you helping me?”

“You don’t know it yet, but you’re about to join the family.”

“Huh?”

“You’ll be playing with the Alderchucks. I’ve already bet fifty bucks in the family betting pool on you and Casey becoming besties by the end of training camp, which means you’ll find your way into the Meyer house. It’s a whole thing.”

“Um, if you say so.” I’m just grateful for his help at this point. “Any chance we can have that all done before Luke gets home?”

“No chance, McKinnon,” a deep voice says from behind.

Logan and I turn at the same time. Luke’s standing there, sweaty from his gym workout, looking like a hurricane about to be unleashed. If I had a parachute, I’d jump right out of the new hole I made in our apartment.

Before I can start begging for mercy, a second large figure casts a shadow from the doorway. I’d recognize the man anywhere—Rhett Elkington.

“I’ve lost something that belongs to me,” he says, setting dark eyes on Logan. “What are you doing down here?”

“Making a friend. Everyone’s always telling me to make friends,” Logan says.

“Who? I’ve never said that.”

Logan rolls his eyes. “You can’t make jokes like that in front of new people. They’re going to think you’re insane, gorilla.”

Gorilla?

“Who’s joking?” He snags Logan’s wrist, snapping him to his larger body.

“Luke, this is Rhett, Rhett, Luke,” I say, even though I’ve never officially met the man in person either. But everything about this introduction is unhinged as it is, so I’m going with the vibe.

“I know, princess.” My cheeks heat. “We met in the gym.”

“He gave me boxing pointers,” Rhett says.

“Oh my god. That’s, like, your thing,” I say to Luke.

Luke says nothing. Guess he’s not ready to be playful with me yet.

Rhett runs his eyes over the mess. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full. We’ll chat another time.”

“Plexiglass, Ace,” Logan reminds me. “I’m in the penthouse if you need me.”

Logan dances out of our apartment with Rhett, leaving me in danger. Doesn’t he know Luke can and will eat me alive?

Once he’s gone, Luke’s quiet. Horror movie quiet. The kind of quiet right before the skeleton jumps out of the closet.

“So…”

“McKinnon,” he hisses.

Activate pouty puppy eyes.

“Oh, no. Those won’t work on me this time. We’re moving. We aren’t meant for condo living.”

“We just made friends!” I complain.”

“They don’t live here either. Not exactly. They stay here from time to time when they need privacy.”

“They own a condo in downtown Vancouver as a getaway from where they actually live?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t really understand it myself. But enough about them, back to you.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him my theory about this being half his fault, but I doubt that’s a good idea.

He sighs. “I knew you had it in you today. I should have made you come to the gym with me. C’mere.”

I step toward him, and he pulls me to him, crushing me against his body, holding me a little too tightly.

“You’re confusing me, babe. Am I in trouble, or not?”

“You’re in trouble—big fucking trouble. But …”

I push the sweaty hair off his face. Stuff comes up for him when he boxes sometimes. It’s how he works things out. “But?”

“I’m just really grateful for you, Mr. McKinnon-VanCourt.”

We stand in front of the Vancouver skyline, amidst a sea of broken glass as a summer breeze blows across us, lacing our hands together.

Our wedding rings catch, gold scratching against gold.

We wanted to be married before the season, so we didn’t have a big wedding.

A simple ceremony before we moved to Vancouver with our nearest and dearest.

Luke doesn’t know it yet, but I changed my last name to VanCourt—legally. It’ll be on my jersey for the first game, and that’s when I’ll tell him.

“So, what’ll it be? The rack or the chains?”

“You’re on orgasm restriction for a month.”

“What? Can’t you just spank me?”

“No, but I do plan on using your ass as my personal cock warmer every day, and it’ll need some decoration—a few handprints should do the trick.

I’m looking forward to it. You on my cock while I eat dinner, while I watch TV …

I’ll get to toy with your cock while you explain to me why you were shooting pucks in the house after Daddy told you not to. ”

I groan. That’s gonna be the worst and the best. I’ll love it and hate it at the same time. Plus, the man doesn’t even watch TV, so he’ll just be doing it to torture me.

“I deserve it,” I admit. “Guess I should get started on this, eh?” Cleaning up the aftermath of my hockey itch is gonna suck balls.

He shakes his head. “Leave it. I’ll board the window up later, shirtless, and you can watch me be handy.”

Handyman Luke is the hottest thing in existence. It’s also a new game we play.

“Besides, we can’t have you slicing up these famous hands. Now c’mon. Your punishment can start tomorrow. Right now, there are a few things I want to do to you, and every single one ends in you coming so hard that the only thing left in your head, princess, is me.”

TATE & RYAN (yet to be titled) DARK MM HOCKEY ROMANCE

Obessive-Possessive Love | Burn the world for him | Secret Society | Enemies to Lovers | Morally Gray | Antihero | Touch Him and Die | Age Gap | Mild Redemption Arc | If I can’t have you, no one can | Secret Relationship | Dark Romance | Hockey Romance | His dad’s captive