Page 19 of Off-Ice Misconduct
I wasn’t allowed near a fraternity when I was in college, and neither was Tate. If Uncle had caught either one of us, he would have hided us both regardless of whether it was me or Tate that attended.
Tate raises a curious brow—why do you want to know that—but he doesn’t pry. “They’re nothing compared to pledge week, which is a nightmare, by the way, but it’s not unusual for someone to end up at the campus hospital after a party; they’re loud, annoying, and messy,” he lists off on his fingers. “Butthey’re part of a legacy of bullshit brother and sisterhood that the school refuses to crack down on.”
I don’t know if hearing this is better or worse. Parties have dancing, drinking, and sex. All of them are things I don’t want McKinnon doing. I’ve stalled the drinking part for now.
Pledge week sounds exhausting.
“Your hockey team participates in this idiocy, and you wanted me to babysit them. Is it something I need to monitor closely?” In other words, should I lock McKinnon in a basement somewhere?
He shrugs. “Meh. Don’t think so.”
We shoot the shit after that. I’ve missed Tatum. He moved to Seattle to take this job while I remained behind in California. We’re not the best at phone calls. Sure, we did them, but they were short. We paid each other an odd visit, but it wasn’t the same.
“I’ve made headway,” he says. “Thanks to you, I’ve been able to put my focus into organizing events where there’ll be big donors with fat pocketbooks. I’ve got a few lined up.”
I tilt my head. “Any marriage material hang around these events?”
“You promised I had until the end of the season. I don’t have time to worry about that right now.”
And that’smyworry, that he’ll never have the time. “Nothing wrong with killing two birds with one stone.”
“I told you I’d do it, and I will.” His voice is hard. I’m pushing him too far. He doesn’t get like this about any other topic. He’s the easy-going brother if there is such a thing in the VanCourt family, although I’m probably the only person alive who sees him that way.
We agree to do dinner, and I leave before I wear out my welcome.
The rink’s quiet. No more pucks brutalizing the boards. Maybe McKinnon left. I should leave too, but my feet barrel a clear path toward the arena. Ace is still there, but instead of whacking at pucks, he’s skating with one nestled in the cradle of his stick, pulling off wild maneuvers at speeds I didn’t think were possible. The little showboat. Not even a soul here—that he knows about—and he’s making a spectacle for an imaginary crowd.
Of course.
A guy like McKinnon can’t help himself. Someone needs to teach him a lesson. Humble his ego.
What I wouldn’t give to be the man to do it.
First, I’d take him over my knee.
No. First, I’d peel his pants and boxer shorts down, then he’d go over my knee. I’d turn that round ass of his a bright cherry red. Smack it until he was crying and begging for me to stop.
That would teach him. It’s what I’m itching to do, aching to do. That much of it wouldn’t even be sexual. Purely discipline and to show him who’s in charge.
But then I’d bend him over, shove my cock inside, and show him why I’m his new king.
Captain of the hockey team? Sure, when he’s on the ice, but off the ice he’d be nothing but my needy little bitch. He’d look so pretty writhing on my cock, pleading until his throat was hoarse.
That would humble him. That would take some of the cockiness from his pretty blue eyes. Because then he’d know. Know that he was always made to be broken by me.
Digging my fingers into my hair, tugging into the roots, I pull—hard—to rip myself away from thoughts like that. I can’t think like that, but he makes my mind go there.
McKinnon gets full blame.
But I’ve got to be the one to shove these thoughts into the darkness where they belong. It’s a bit late, though. My dick’s at full mast, ready to take. To claim.
Fuck.
Tate said there was a punching bag around here somewhere. No one gets to use the gym designated for hockey players, but he gave me a key fob with full access to everything. I need to find it now.
I know myself too well, though. I won’t be able to get rid of this dangerous little obsession I have over McKinnon. The best that can be done now is a better plan, one that keeps McKinnon firmly under my thumb, firmly mine, without diving into the desire. Beating the shit out of a punching bag has always cleared my mind, helped me think, even when it was forced.
In my uncle’s house, if I didn’t win, I didn’t sleep. He said I needed more discipline—a body learning to submit. I hated him for it, throwing punch after punch at a bag, sometimes injured, until there was less than nothing left of me. Until I collapsed on the floor in a puddle of my own puke and self-loathing.
