Page 21 of Off-Ice Misconduct
“B average? I don’t need a B average.” I haven’t pulled off something like that since I was in high school, and Mom and Dad were in charge of my schedule.
Because I was a fucking kid.
I don’t need someone doing it now, and I don’t need a B average to stay on the team.
“If I say you need a B average, then you need a B average, McKinnon.”
I lean back in the chair, stretching my legs out and groaning with pure frustration. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I take everything back. He’s just a thorn in my side. I was—momentarily—distracted by his home-wrecking good looks, but I’m all better now.
Sitting back up, I challenge him with the same stare I give to whatever poor sap’s trying to take the puck from me. “I don’t need tutoring, sir.”
VanCourt taps his chin. “Hmmm. Your grades last term say otherwise.”
Of course. He looked into me like a creepy stalker. He waits to see if I’ll admit that I simply wasn’t applying myself, to which I’m sure he’ll have some other “solution” to my academic failings. I don’t want to give him the opportunity to get even more creative than “office hours”. I should go easy on the old man, it probably hurt his brain to come up with that farce in the first place.
“You got me, sir. I’m dumb as a bag of rocks. Hopefully, you’ll be able to get through to me.” I knock on my skull, implying it’s thick.
His eyes flick toward the paper. “Keep reading.”
The second page has special instructions for the team. “I’ve already told you, I don’t have this kind of influence over the teamoff the ice. There’s no way I can promise to drag all their asses to the library study sessions.”
“You drag their asses to practice and training, I don’t see why you can’t get them to comply off the ice as well. You’ll do it, McKinnon. Next page.”
This better be the last goddamn page. On the third is a special diet and dress code requirement. The dress code’s for the whole team, but the diet’s just for me.
“What the fuck is this? This is crazy and unnecessary.”
“Language, McKinnon. It’s about ritual. Doesn’t the team wear suits before every game, even though they change into hockey gear?”
“You just want to look at us and see proof you’ve got the upper hand.”
“Both things can be true at the same time.” Fucker’s not even denying it.
I scrub a hand over my face. Maybe I can get the team to show up for class on time, and maybe even adjust their study habits to meet in the library once a day instead of the house, but pry Shep out of his sweatpants for English class? That’s a step too far.
“I’ll tell you what, McKinnon. Since I can see this is about to make you cry—and I do want to see you cry, but I didn’t think it would be this easy—I’ll make an amendment. Obey that last page to the letter, and I’ll leave the team out of it.”
Obey.That word again from his filthy lips. What’s wrong with me? I don’t know, but I can’t deny my dick’s interest as it perks up like a damn dog for its owner. It’s an apt metaphor; this man has me by the balls.
“Fine,” I bite out, scarcely able to breathe. After this, I’m stopping by the student clinic. There’s got to be something wrong with my lungs.
And my dick.
“No. That’s not how you talk to me.”
Heart pounding. Blood pooling in my nuts. I suck whatever’s left of the oxygen out of the air. “Yes, sir.”
“I know you can follow orders,” he says. “I expect no less than perfection. Can you do that? Be perfect for me?”
My muscles melt like butter. Is that allowed? Him saying stuff like that to me so fucking casually? Apparently. And I’m not mad about it. I might like it a little bit too much. A shiver runs directly to my cock.
“Y-Yes. Yes, sir.”
“Good. Behave and I’ll reward you, McKinnon. Disobey me, and I’ll punish you.”
I want to fight him. I want to mouth off, yell, argue, and tell him what I really think of his rules. But there’s no fucking blood going to my brain right now. It’s all down south. I need to get out of here before he notices.
“Got it, sir,” I say, going for respectful, but I’m giving, “I still think you’re a fucking pigeon”.
