Page 17 of Off-Ice Misconduct
I don’t keep him after class, hoping that if I say nothing, he’ll stay away from the party out of fear.
Okay, yeah, that’s a long shot.
But … fine. It’s the dark blooms shadowing his pretty eye. He’s a hockey player, there’ll be no shortage of artwork like that on him all season. It shouldn’t bother me, especially not for the reason it’s definitely bothering me. Someone left a mark on him, and it wasn’t me.
I’d never mark up his beautiful face like that, though. But his neck, that’s another story.
McKinnon tells his hockey gang that he’ll meet up with them and hangs back, waiting until everyone’s left before addressing me.
“So?” he says with that infuriating smile on his face, thinking he’s got one up on me. “I nailed that quiz, didn’t I?”
Instead of addressing him, I make myself busy, closing up my laptop and collapsing my retractable cane, er, pointer.
“Professor,” he whines.
“Sir,” I correct him.
“It’s all good for this weekend, yeah?” he says as if it’s a foregone conclusion.
“How are your grades in your other classes?” I know what they are. I’ve already had Tatum inquire, with the excuse that we should take proactive measures. I’m stalling. But why? If his grades are good enough to keep him on the team, why should I care about what he does with his private life?
McKinnon frowns. “That wasn’t the deal.”
“The deal’s whatever I make it, McKinnon.”
Finally realizing he’s not getting the upper hand here and that pissing me off is a bad idea, he sighs.
“Not like I did on that quiz, but not bad either.”
“Have you been showing up on time?”
His mouth falls open. I can hear what he’s thinking—you didn’t say I had to be on time for all my classes, sir.
I like it when he calls me sir a bit too much.
“I’ll … make it happen, sir.”
I tsk. “I’d think you’d be working some extra credit angles, McKinnon.”
Defeat sets in. Perfect. That’s what I needed to see. He needs to understand what no feels like.
“You may attend the event.” His chest lifts. “But I want to see more from you. Simply following my rules won’t be good enough next time.”
McKinnon’s lips twist with the protests he wants to voice, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut. Then he smiles, but it’s a smile I don’t trust.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. No drinking—not a single fucking drop,” I add. I hadn’t planned on adding that. The reason why is something I don’t want to admit to myself yet.
“Sir!” he complains.
“Hmmm, maybe you don’t need to go after all…”
“Wait,wait. Okay, fine. I won’t touch the booze, sir.”
“Great. Get out of my face, McKinnon.”
He shifts from one foot to the other, adjusting the hockey duffle slung over his shoulder. Not getting out of my face like he should. I can’t help but notice the way his chest rises and falls as he stands there, almost as if whatever I say next will settle something in him. Like he’s waiting for permission to breathe.
