Page 15 of Off-Ice Misconduct
“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.”
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.”
