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

The smattering of fourth-year Delta Gammas glare their faces off in my direction while I take my seat.

I rub my temples some more, and Bender slips me a breakfast wrap he brought from the cafeteria.

“Thanks, man,” I whisper. It’s not gonna be enough to fill me up, but it’ll stave off the hunger pangs.

Hmmm. Also gives me an idea, though.

VanCourt gives us one of his promised pop quizzes, which I’m surely gonna fail.

With all the shit that went on over the weekend, I didn’t find the time.

But I quickly forget about my shortcomings as a student, mesmerized by the titan of a man prowling at the front of the classroom, using that growly voice to make words that should never be considered sexy, fucking sinful.

I’ll never hear the word essay the same again.

There’s something strict about the man that heats my insides. Just like last class, his unyielding tone is doing something for me, and I can’t explain it. My body buzzes with tingles, hanging off his every word as blood seeps into my dick, filling it slowly. Thank fucking god I’m in sweats.

Once the class lets out, I don’t move. I get apologetic looks from my friends while I try not to look too excited about being held back.

I’m supposed to be mad about it. For real, though?

I’m not. The excitement has me sizzling.

All damn class; I enjoyed the most magnificent edging session.

The now rock-solid boner in my pants was only a delightful half-chub at the beginning of class, and that was just from his voice.

Every time he snapped that fucking pointer stick on the desk—which kinda looks like a retractable cane if you ask me—more blood pooled in my cock.

Now, it hurts. The urge to press my hips up and thrust into the desk has become unbearable.

I’m practically shaking and I’m not sure I’ll be able to stave off the building orgasm if he does even one more fucking thing.

Jesus. It’s like I’m a teenager with my first fucking boner.

Though nothing has ever made me feel like this.

Is it the forbidden aspect? He’s my professor and at least ten years older than I am.

Or is it his pure hatred for me? Do I really get off on …

what? How do I explain this one? I’ve heard of people who like to be told what to do, and I guess there’s an element of that, yet that’s not quite it.

Let’s see. What do I like about the situation?

Sexy, no-nonsense voice? Yep. Promise of consequences?

Yep. An old-fashioned strictness that says “obey me or else”?

Yep. It’s all of those things. Not to mention he’s smoking fucking hot.

He wore nice-ish clothes today, too. Which, don’t get me wrong, he fills out those slacks like nobody’s business, but I loved the wolverine, mountain-man look he was sporting last time.

The one that said, “I will tear your head off with my claws and leave you for the crows to eat”.

God.

What the fuck is wrong with me? This is so unlike me, I might take a fucking sick day.

Now that we’re alone in this classroom together, me about to get dressed down for blatant disrespect, I can’t breathe.

The only other place I’ve ever felt this alive is on the ice.

And lemme tell you, I never thought I could feel this way off the ice.

Now that I know I can, I want it. Want to keep it.

I may never know what to call what’s attracting me to him, but I’m already addicted to the lightning-esque sensation that’s broken out all over my body, threatening to split my cock in two.

“Get your ass down here, McKinnon.”

Fuck, okay. I don’t usually like being ordered around, but I fucking love that. Maybe it’s just him, though? Only one way to find out.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I jog down the stairs toward the desk. He’s pulled the notebook from his laptop bag, the same one I was supposed to write lines in last time. He slams it down.

“Do you recognize these?”

There are no witnesses, and he’s got no real proof I drew those. My word against his kind of thing.

“Looks like someone anthropomorphized penises, sir. Is that one wearing a hockey jersey?”

He glowers. Pretty sure I’m leaking now.

“I could make a sexual harassment complaint, McKinnon.”

I swallow. He can? “But they’re just cartoons, sir. Not real penises.” Unlike the very real penis in my pants that wants him to touch it. If only he knew about the things I want him to do to me, he’d drag me to the school’s sexual harassment office immediately.

“Even still, these are unacceptable.”

The word unacceptable has never been so hot. I half expect him to tell me to unbutton my pants and lay myself over the desk for punishment with that retractable pointer I know is a fucking cane. He can spank me till I’m screaming and crying then shove his cock inside without any mercy.

That’s what would happen in a porno, Ace, and you are not in a porno.

Dammit. Kind of wish I was.

I’d feel so owned. I’ve never had that. Didn’t even know I wanted that until exactly right now.

“A-Are you going to report me, sir? Or can I make it up to you in some other way?” Like by sucking your dick? Fuck. Probably not. I doubt he’ll want me to make amends for what he’s calling sexual harassment by sexually harassing me back.

But would he be sexually harassing me if I want it more than I want to scarf everything in the cafeteria as soon as he’s done with me? The only thing currently competing with my burning arousal is belly-aching hunger.

“Tell me what happened to your eye—the truth—and we’ll keep this between us.”

Really? I want to argue that he can’t feel too sexually harassed if that’s the case, but that’s so not the move here. “Love hath no fury like a woman’s scorn,” I recite, thinking it might impress him.

Wrong.

“What are you doing to women, McKinnon?”

The VanCourt brothers are fierce protectors of the female species. Noted. Glad to fucking see it. It might get me buried on the ocean floor if I don’t explain myself quickly, but Mom would approve.

“She says I led her on.”

“Did you?” He crosses his arms over his chest. How did he get biceps like that? Is he the new Captain America test subject? They’re bigger than mine, and mine are more than average size.

“I … I don’t know. She says I did, but it’s complicated. I was trying to be a fucking gentleman, and it backfired. I want to be sensitive to her feelings, but it sucks that my good intentions don’t factor in at all.”

He arches a brow, but I seem to have tugged on the strings of his curiosity. “You wanna elaborate?”

I tell him about her barely-there clothes and the jacket. I tell him about the wink and when she blushed … and then how I kissed Freshman Andy.

He winces. “Congratulations, McKinnon. You’re just like every other ‘dude’ your age. You don’t have the slightest clue about women.”

I rub the back of my neck sheepishly, recalling the part of the night when I called her a dude. I’ll leave that out.

Unless, would he spank me for it? Fuck, stop it, Ace.

“But I’d say the only thing you’re really guilty of is ignorance. You’ve learned your lesson, yeah?”

You’ve learned your lesson. The way he says that should be illegal.

“I have, sir.”

“Where is your jacket?”

He wants to know a lot about me today. “Dry cleaners. She dumped her drink on it.”

“Drink? Were you drinking?”

“It was a party, sir. I’m of age,” I add in case that’s what his problem is.

“You’re an athlete, McKinnon. Hasn’t my brother lectured you all on how much that stuff poisons your brain?”

“What does that have to do with my athletic performance, sir?”

“Everything,” he stresses with undercurrents of annoyance. “Brain health and function are directly linked to performance, McKinnon. I know Tate’s mentioned that a time or two.”

Something new’s taking place inside. A need beyond arousal, though that’s still there too.

But this one’s familiar. The need to please.

I already know I’m a die-hard pleaser. I strived to please Mom, I still strive to please Dad, and I’m always looking for Coach’s approval.

Hell, we could probably add my friends to the mix, the house, and even someone like Celeste who wants my nuts in a jar.

I’m not surprised that Professor VanCourt’s been added to that lengthy list as well. But the difference is, my cock. He’s the only one my cock has any reaction to. It strains behind my cotton boxers, begging me to beg him to fucking touch it.

But that doesn’t make any fucking sense either. I want his approval, maybe more than I’ve wanted anyone else’s. Shouldn’t his sheer disappointment make my erection curl up and die?

You’re confusing, bud.

My breath quickens, my heart beating so loud that the professor’s got to be able to hear it. I know what I want. I want him to put me in my place again.

Yeah, Coach VanCourt’s always droning on about the role of the brain in performance, but I’m not as good at following his directions off the ice as I am on the ice.

Off the ice, other factors come into play, like fitting in with my friends and all the shit I do to please them.

Each person—or group of people—lives in a section of my mind.

That’s the only way I can keep up with pleasing everybody.

The rules of the house don’t work so well with the rules on the ice and vice versa.

“He has,” I admit. “But a little bit of drinking’s not gonna ruin my entire hockey career. It’s fine.”

He flinches, as if he’s been ruffled, as if any form of unruliness crawls under his skin and eats at him. The professor’s eyes narrow.

“I don’t think you realize how serious this is, Mr. McKinnon,” he says, tapping the notebook.

“Oh c’mon. You’re gonna hold a few cartoon penises over my head?” Please hold them over my head.

“I am. No more parties for you.”