Page 9 of Off-Ice Misconduct (Daddies of the League #8)

What? Hang on a second. He was supposed to say no more drinking.

I can’t miss the parties. That’ll be noticed.

That’ll be weird. I usually cut back on drinking once the hockey season really gets going anyway.

I drink my face off for the opener, and socially— responsibly —drink until the season wind-up, during which I also drink my face off. My frown says it all.

“Just realized you’re in over your head, didn’t you?”

“I won’t drink at the parties. You have my word.”

He shakes his head. “You won’t go at all. It’s for your own good, McKinnon,” his rough, gravel-worn voice says. “You’ll thank me at the end of the year.”

Is my dick still hard as rocks? Yes. Do I fucking hate him for this? Also, yes. Man, this is confusing.

“Would you really get me kicked out of school over this?” Kicked out of hockey is what I mean. I could give a fuck about school.

He tilts his head, analyzing me. Attempting to read my soul.

Devils can do things like that, can’t they?

Because he is the fucking devil for this.

Once again, it’s one of those gray areas because, okay, maybe I shouldn’t have drawn male genitalia as a fuck you to my professor, but I know he doesn’t care as much as he’s acting like he does.

He’s blowing this way out of proportion.

Like Celeste.

Okay, fine. That’s grating on me a bit.

For the first time, maybe ever, I don’t think my dad can get me out of this mess.

“We’ll see, McKinnon. For now, I own you.” He slides the notebook, otherwise known as his blackmail material, into his bag. What he’s doing has got to be way worse than what I did.

But.

I own you.

I might die because of the orgasm I’ll have later from that. Maybe missing a few parties will be worth the other benefits I get from this.

He’s still a fucking asshole, though.

“Or maybe someone like you works better on a rewards system,” he muses out loud.

“I’m not a fucking puppy,” I snap.

“Language.”

He doesn’t care about my language. He’s enjoying this. “Can’t we talk about this? Figure something out? I’m the house president.” At least for now. “I have to be at some of the events, sir.”

Professor VanCourt taps a thick finger against that sexy fucking jaw of his. There’s a bit of stubble there. I wanna rub my miserable cock against the roughness. That would feel so fucking good right now.

His eyes shine with victory—he’s got me right where he wants me, and I’m the one who signed my own warrant.

“When’s the next event?”

I mentally scan all the events we have, crossing off anything Delta Gamma related. Those’ll be canceled.

“The season opener’s this weekend. I can’t not be there.”

“According to who? Because I’m in charge now, and I make the rules.”

Somehow, an excited thrill and the urge to punch him in the teeth flare at the same time. Everything about what the professor makes me feel is a conundrum.

“What do I have to do to go?”

He pulls a paper from his satchel of wonders. It’s my pop quiz. Sixty-five percent. Nice, a solid “C”.

“Your next quiz better have an A.”

“But—”

“One hundred percent.”

“One hundred percent? That’s not fucking fair.”

He laughs. “Never promised to be fair.”

“You don’t expect much, do you? I have to keep the whole team in line and get one hundred fucking percent?”

“I don’t know what you’re worried about. You’re doing a good fucking job so far. The quizzes are easy. Do the reading, and you’ll be fine.”

He calls me for my language—sometimes—but he uses the word fuck liberally. Should professors be swearing? I don’t know, but I’m not gonna dig myself deeper by mentioning it. Besides, I’m sure he’ll just quip off about how he didn’t promise me fair.

Plus, he said, “Good fucking job.” My insides preen. Maybe I am a puppy. If I get that grade, will he tell me I’ve done a good job, again? Maybe rub my belly, too, and by belly, I mean cock.

“Why do you have it out for me? I was late one fucking day—!” I feel like there’s something else going on. Did Coach put him up to this? He wouldn’t do something like that, would he?

“And I’ve now been sexually harassed,” he says in a way that leads me to believe he doesn’t feel sexually harassed. Plus, he’s smiling.

“You shouldn’t throw that accusation around. It’s serious.”

“It is serious, Mr. McKinnon. Be grateful that I’m not offended, but if you’d done this to someone else, it could have had serious consequences. You think I’m picking on you, but I’m saving you from yourself.”

“Then we agree you’re fine about it.”

“On a personal level. On a professional one, it’s my duty to report something like this.”

Okay, real fear ignites. He’s totally the type to stand on principles.

“Okay, fine. I’ll get the A, and you’ll let this go.”

“I don’t think so. It’s not just an A, McKinnon, it’s about doing what you’re told. Specifically, what I tell you to do. Every party, every event you want to attend will be by my say-so. You’ll ask me for permission.”

Am I outraged? Yes. Is my cock throbbing? Also, yes. Ugh. The fire raging through my body’s confusing. I hate his declaration of authority as much as I love it.

“You might not even be a professor of mine next semester.”

“But I’ll always have those pictures you drew for me.”

Fine. I fucked up big time. And now I can’t risk trying to seduce him. The irony is that, despite his claim he’s got a moral duty to report me, his using the drawings to coerce me into behaving speaks to his shady morals.

It’s contradictory, though, because his demands are ultimately to my benefit. Not to my social life, but there’s no denying his demands will make me a better student and player.

Yeah, this reeks of Coach VanCourt, but it’s not like I’m gonna confront Coach about it—that’s crazy talk—I’m just gonna have to deal with the professor myself.