Page 7 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

She covered her hands with her face, and I crumbled inside. “Dude, look I?—”

“Dude? Dude? ”

“I call everyone dude, Celeste. Everyone.”

Her arm pulled back, swinging with ferocity I didn’t have the heart to dodge. I could have, even in my inebriated state, but I’m used to taking a hit anyway, so I let her.

That’s what it took for me to understand—literally being punched in the face—that Celeste didn’t want to be just anyone to me.

Was I a na?ve fuckhead? Yeah, I could take responsibility for that much, but I wasn’t an intentional asshole. There’s a fucking difference. But I love Celeste—as a fucking dear friend—and I was willing to be her fall guy.

She threw my jacket on the floor and poured her sugary drink all over it. “I think you should leave, Ace.”

“I … yeah, okay. I’ll go.”

As much as I wanted to be a fucking saint in this whole ordeal, part of me was mad. I’d tried to do a good thing.

“Why can’t a guy give a girl a jacket without it meaning he wants to take her hand in marriage?”

“Not to be a dick, but if you gave me your fucking jacket, McKinnon, I’d think I was yours,” Bender points out, blinking his long lashes at me.

Which, now that I think about it, are criminally fucking long.

We’re on a couch in one of the common rooms back at the house.

His arm’s slung around me, and I have a bag of peas around my eye—not on my eye—so I don’t freeze my eyeball.

“You kinda are mine, Bend,” I say. “Not in a romantic way.” We have a different kind of friendship than the usual.

“Okay, fine, same. I’m not the best example, but you can’t do that shit. You’ve never experienced it because you’re the jacket giver, so to speak, but for us jacket receivers, it means something.”

Huh, but if I’m truly a jacket giver, shouldn’t I have known that? I don’t say that out loud, but now I’m thinking.

When Shep put his jacket around Hudson for the first time in freshman year, it meant ownership. Sometimes I feel that way too … and sometimes I don’t. Can a person feel both ways? Do I always have to be one way or the other?

I mean, I already like men and women. When I’m with a woman, I still like men.

When I’m with a man, I still like women.

Being with one gender doesn’t negate the attraction to the other, or change my sexuality from bisexual to straight or bisexual to gay, so maybe you can also be a jacket giver and a jacket wearer at the same time?

“No, you don’t, but, well, have you ever felt the other way? Has anyone ever put their jacket on you?”

I huff a laugh. “Noooo. Look at the size of me, Bend. Who’s gonna put a jacket around me?”

But then it occurs to me, someone could.

Guess who comes to mind? Yep, Professor VanCourt. My backdoor deal doesn’t work if I actually want the person.

Fuck.

The year is fucked.

It was supposed to be the best year, but things seem to be unraveling one by one.

The next day, I hide in my room. Professor VanCourt’s stack of required reading sits on my desk, taunting me.

It’s Sunday, so there’s no hockey anything today, and I’ve canceled out of several events around campus to lay low.

The House thinks what happened last night will blow over by Monday so long as I don’t show my face.

I could read today.

I let my fingers toy with the hi-gloss cover. Should I actually fucking read?

A loud knock jolts me from any notion of doing what I should. “Yeah?”

It’s Shep. “Fuck, Ace. You’ve got to see this.”

I race down the stairs after Shep. The team and a few of our other frat brothers who aren’t on the team have gathered around the large bay window, looking out to the well-manicured yard. Oh shit. Oh, holy mother shit.

The entire Delta Gamma sorority has gathered on our front lawn. They have signs. They have a giant Scorpions flag. They have a fucking torch. Wendy’s poised beside Celeste with a megaphone.

“Christ. The war paint’s a bit much,” I mutter.

“Male scum of Alpha Kappa Epsilon,” Wendy says through the megaphone. “We see you. Yes, all of you.”

Wendy points her finger, scanning the air with it as if to highlight all of us.

“We demand Ace McKinnon’s removal from office, or our alliance is over.” A cheer erupts from every member of their sorority as our sacred Scorpions flag burns to cinders, disappearing into the orange and blue flames.

I rub my hand over my face. This is bad. Soooo bad.

Shep steps forward. “Let ‘em riot, Ace. This is bullshit.”

Maybe, but we’ve got several fundraisers and socials set up with Delta Gamma this year, meant for building financial and social capital. I want to leave this fraternity in a better position than when I took over, not worse.

How Celeste felt because of what I did was horrible, and I want to make it up to her—if they’ll let me—but this is way overboard.

Our goaltender, Lars, shuts the curtain. “No fucking way. This is bullying. It was a misunderstanding at best. We don’t need their alliance, Ace.”

I nod slowly. I love the solidarity from my frat brothers, but something awful stirs within me.

The idea of stepping down as president feels like …

relief. They’re all looking to me for something, words of agreement, direction, news of another party.

I’m thinking about how maybe my stepping down isn’t the worst idea.

It’s the last year anyway. I had a great two-year run.

Except I can’t do that. Mom and Dad were the presidents of their houses when they went to this school, from the time they were elected, right through to their degree. I’ve got standards to live up to.

Right.

“We’ll give them the week, let them cool off. I’ll have a chat with Celeste, apologize— again —and I’ll have this all cleared up.”

Scratch reading. Scratch all my fucking homework. I’ve got to do whatever it takes to make this right. And then I stay the hell away from dating anyone. I’ll keep strictly to the Benduovr app for a few hookups to get me through the season. No one’s looking for love on that thing.

In fact, maybe that’s the perfect place to explore my new little sexual discovery. Someone to play Hot Professor with me. I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about playing it with one in real life.

Monday morning hockey practice is shit because of course it is, and then Coach calls me into his office.

The team’s already late for breakfast, I’ll have to miss breakfast altogether if I don’t want to be late for his brother’s class, but I haven’t had the chance to resolve the breakfast issue due to the whole thing with Delta Gamma.

But you don’t disregard Coach, or he will bench you.

“I know, I was shit today, sir. I’ll do better next time,” I say, not making excuses.

“You weren’t your best, but that’s not why I called you in. What the fuck happened to your eye?”

He sits behind a standard wooden desk that’s got a lonely laptop on it.

Nothing else. His office shelves showcase gleaming trophies, and the walls are laden with awards, plaques, and pictures of him with the team.

It’s all hockey. Nothing that hints at his life outside of hockey.

Does the man have kids? A spouse? Anything outside of this hockey team?

Never thought about it until today, come to think about it.

Would he tell me about his brother?

“A girl with a solid right hook.”

He glares. “Were you doing something you shouldn’t be doing to her?”

Does he think I…? “Fuck, no. Not like that. I mean, I might have led her on, but I didn’t mean to,” I say in a rush. “She was pissed, and I’m a big guy, so I let her take out her frustrations on me. Not like I can’t take a hit, Coach.”

He swallows as he considers me. “Just because you’re a big guy, doesn’t mean you have to let anyone hit you.”

God. This whole thing’s getting blown out of proportion in so many fucking ways.

“I know that, sir,” I say as respectfully as possible, so I don’t get benched. He’s hesitant to bench me because he knows I carry the team, but he’ll still do it if I’m a shithead.

“You’re my star, McKinnon. You can’t get hurt like this.”

I get lectured about being more careful, and about team representation, because each member of our team—especially the captain—is a face, and we need to put our best faces forward so we’ll continue getting the donations we need.

I listen, keeping my mouth shut, and I leave rubbing my temples before kicking up a sprint, racing across campus, so I’m not late to his fuckhead brother’s class.

My foot steps across the threshold as the bell rings. Will he call me on it? Haven’t even looked at the guy yet, waiting, wanting to view him all at once. God, there’s already a damn tingle in my gut. Why? Why this man? It’s not going to amount to anything good.

“Thank you for joining us, Mr. McKinnon,” that gruff voice says. It’s pure gravel. Like someone rubbed his vocal cords with sandpaper. My cock’s instantly interested.

I turn and?—

Fucking hell.

He’s shaved, and it’s not a bad thing. Don’t get me wrong, I was digging the sexy mountain-man beard, but that jawline could cut glass, and his green eyes stand out now that my eyes aren’t drawn to the clawing mass that was on his face last week.

His jet-black hair’s still a little long on top, and he hasn’t lost the wild aura that surrounds him, taking up most of the space in the classroom.

He’s looking at me funny. Oh, right. The black eye. “Stay after class, McKinnon.”

Those words in that tone sink into me like fire. “I’m not late,” I complain. Shut up, mouth. We want to stay with him after class. That’s how my body feels anyway. My brain’s still an indignant fucker.

“You’re barely on time, but that’s not why you’re staying. I want to speak with you about some interesting drawings you left me on Friday.”

I can’t hide the smirk. Right. My penis doodles. Some of them had cute little faces and clothes. They were fucking adorable, but he doesn’t look impressed by them. “Yes, sir.”