Page 31 of Off-Ice Misconduct
Saturday comes too soon. I’ve taunted the fuck out of Professor VanCourt all week. He hasn’t made good on any of his threats—and believe me, there were a lot of them—but it doesn’t matter. I’m high on the feel of those threats. It’s almost just as good, somehow, as reaping the comeuppance, and I’ve never felt this amount of electricity in my life.
But mixed into mildly terrorizing the professor, I’ve been to class on time—every class—I’ve dressed how he’s demanded I dress, I’ve been to every Daddy-mandated study session. The boys have followed suit, and honestly? It’s kinda nice to know they have my back like that. Guess I shouldn’t have expected any less.
The professor and I’ve had one office-hour session since that first day. I thought for sure he was gonna lay the smack down on me—more specifically, my ass—but he didn’t. It was like we’d both lost our nerve.
He was dressed as before, a loose gray scoop-neck t-shirt, damp with sweat, and loose gray workout pants. His dark hair was dripping and messy, like he’d run his hand through it too many times. He looked me over, asked a few questions about the swelling, then told me to sit my ass in a chair. Once I had theessay prompt in front of me, I was expected to work while he put some finishing touches on the unpacking of his office.
It looked like he’d finally decided to stay awhile. On the shelf was a framed picture of him, Coach, and a man they both vaguely shared some features with. He even hung a certification on the wall that was from fucking Stanford University.
Luke C. VanCourt, PhD, Philosophy.
There went my theory that the professor had only gotten in via his brotherly connection.Lukewas seriously educated, but the jury was out on whether he was a real professor.
By the time I was finished writing my impromptu essay, the office could pass as a real professor’s office. The only thing that seemed out of place was the extra-large First-Aid kit, hanging on the wall. A bigger one than he had with him the last time.
“If you’re going to be around me all year, I’m going to need it,” his gravelly voice said when I’d stared at it for too long. Then he dismissed me. Did I leave a brand-new penis cartoon for him on page three of my essay? Yes, yes, I did. One of the penises was in the sexy workout gear he keeps wearing. The other, leering from nearby, was a penis in a hockey jersey that happened to have my number—twelve—on the sleeve.
But that was it. Mostly companionable silence. No teasing, no taunting. Both of us on our best behavior. I wasn’t even halfway down the hallway from his office when I texted him with a note to make sure he checked out the special art I left for him.
I smile, thinking about our last volley of banter that sprouted from those new drawings as I involuntarily choke myself with the collar of my dress shirt and secure my lucky blue tie in place. If I’m gonna be forced to schmooze with rich people, I’m gonna bring in as much money as possible by looking sharp as hell.
The fundraising event’s held in the Chamberlain building on campus, just one of the fancy buildings at this school, hostingthese kinds of events. It’s large and old, with a tall fountain of a scorpion dead center. Kind of outlandish, but also pretty sick.
Everyone takes notice of the hockey team filing in. Coach instructed us to dress to impress—we delivered on that—and chat the fuck out of everyone here. He gave me his Al Capone eyes, wordlessly letting me know he’d be watching me.
Scanning the room, my eyes don’t find who I hoped would show. He’s such a monster; I’d see him immediately. That guy’s not gonna be able to hide, even in a room this packed with people, which means he’s not here.
“Why do you look so sour all of a sudden?” Bend leans to whisper. We’re supposed to be giving “upstanding citizens”, not whispering to each other. This whole thing feels so militant. Is this what it’s like to go to North Point Military Academy? I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be them.
“No reason.” I haven’t told anyone about my liaisons with the professor yet. I’ll probably tell Bend and Shep first. Soon. But I’d rather wait until I know it’s more than just flirting.
Because what we’ve been doing is our version of flirting. Maybe not to some, but definitely us.
For four long-ass hours, the team does its part, chatting up the potential donors and entertaining the crowd with stories of our past achievements. Coach gives a presentation, which is damn impressive. Didn’t know he had it in him, not with the way he barks orders like a grouchy dog on the ice.
After that, we break again, and it’s more polite drinking and conversation.
“May I steal you for a moment, son?”
The voice halts me mid-step. Familiar. Polished. Distant enough to stiffen my shoulders before I turn.
“Dad?”
Yep, it’s Dad alright. Effortless confidence wrapped in a navy-blue suit, looking like he’s just stepped off a magazine spread titled Successful Men Who Never Falter.
I falter.
His scent hits first—cedarwood, lavender, and whatever incense his assistant swears helps with “emotional clarity”. We hug, but it lacks the ease we used to have. Dad was the air in the flowers, the spark of the sun, but I barely know the impostor walking around in his skin these days.
“Thought I’d surprise you,” Dad says, lifting a brow.
“Yeah,” I say, voice tight. “You surprised me.”
I swirl the wine in my glass. Anything to avoid looking at the places he’s changed—the ones I miss the most, the ones that vanished after Mom.
We don’t talk about her. Not anymore. He has his way of dealing with it, and I have mine.
“So, Coach invited you?”
