Page 20 of Off-Ice Misconduct
But I’d wake up the next day a new man. A harder one. Sharper. I don’t plan on driving myself to near death, but confidence settles over me. Uncle’s methods were harsh, but they guarantee something I need right now.
Control.
5
Ace
“You wanted to see me, sir?” I say, entering Professor VanCourt’s office. Either he hasn’t had time to unpack, or he doesn’t plan on staying long. There’s nothing on the shelves, and I know that Kiss poster was here from the last professor, because I spent some time under that desk.
I smile at the memory.
A growly throat clears. “I’ll be with you in just a minute, McKinnon. Have a seat.”
He’s at the desk with his laptop, the window’s open behind him, a cool September breeze drifting in, natural light waning. He’s too big for this room. That desk and chair were made for humans of a standard size; he’s squished into them and can’t be comfortable. There’s one lonely box set next to one of the empty—dusty—shelves. Bet it doesn’t even have any professor stuff in it. I’m tempted to ask to see his degree because it’s doubtful he’s a real professor. More and more, I think he’s been sent here just to tame me.
At this point, it could be wishful thinking. Not that I want to be tamed, it’s about the journey and shit.
The professor does the whole “sit and make me wait” thing. Honestly, that move’s a bit stale, but he’s older so he probably thinks it’s still “the cat’s meow” or whatever the fuck they said in his day.
I wait, and I wait, and I wait. Is it just me, or is the clicking of his fingers on that keyboard annoying as fuck? My fingers itch to reach for the phone in my pocket to pass the time, but it goes without saying that scrolling Benduovr while I’m in this “meeting” with him’s out of the question.
Touché, Professor.He’s banking on my generation’s inability to live without our faces in a phone for more than five minutes. I can just hear him droning on and on about how our phone addictions will be the death of us, and the ways of his generation are tried, tested, and true. Something, something, something about riding their bikes outside until the streetlights came on.
I won’t give in.
Since I’m here by his request, I’m gonna allow myself to gawk at him without shame. I deserve something for my time, and getting a private Luke VanCourt showing is fine with me. Now that I’m looking closely,shit, he’s sweaty. Bro’s hair is soaked, and it’s not raining, so the only explanation is activity. He was probably working out. With a physique like that, he’s got to do something to keep it from heading into Dad bod territory.
Which, nothing wrong with a hot Dad bod, but he doesn’t have it. He’s fit, trim, a solid wall of muscles. Come to think of it, he’s as fit as any athlete.What are you hiding, Professor VanCourt?
He hasn’t changed out of his gym attire either, and I swear I can smell themancoming off him. His loose gray shirt is worn with dark, damp patches over the chest, sleeves bunched to the crest of his round biceps. Dark hair deranged, none of it able todecide which way it should go, resulting in the sexiest mother fucking tumble. And there he is, just typing away like he’s not a mammoth of a man. I don’t know how he types with fingers that large, but man, everything about them sends tingling sensations zinging up and down my body. What would those hands feel like on me?
He shuts his laptop abruptly, and I jump.
“Thank you for arriving on time, McKinnon,” he says. Yeah, I was on time, but then he made me wait for at least fifteen fucking minutes. There’s no damn clock in this room, but fifteen minutes have to have passed. I have so much shit to do, and now all that time’s wasted.
“Your email made it clear that I should arrive or else. I didn’t have much of a choice.” It wasn’t worded that way. He’s too clever to tip off a third-party reader in something written and binding, but I know better.
“True. You don’t have a choice, and you’re going to obey me to the letter, McKinnon. Lose the cocky attitude.”
Obey.That word will never be the same to me again.
“I did what you said, sir.”Sigh.“Why am I here?”
His lips slowly curl into a devious smile, dark eyes gleaming.Fuck.He was waiting for me to ask that question. He slips a hand into his laptop bag and slaps a neatly stapled stack of papers onto the desk, sliding it across to me. “This is your new schedule.”
What the fuck?
After-hours tutoring with him.
Scheduled library study time.
I look up from the pages. “You know I play hockey, right?”
“None of that interferes with hockey or training. I checked with Coach.”
“I have other duties,” I complain. “When am I supposed to get those things done?”
He shrugs. “A good leader delegates, McKinnon. How else will you maintain a B average?”
