Page 70 of Off-Ice Misconduct
The last person who saw me weaponized me. Uncle Jasper validated the darkest parts of me without helping me understand them. He stood back, proud of what he wrought from me, admiring the power—whatever I did with it—but he never taught me how to live with that power. To learn balance.
I needed someone to show me how to be whole, not split my personality, swinging between discipline and chaos.
Naturally, I thought control was the answer, and for a long time, it has been; it’s what I’ve relied on. But what if it’s just a wall? One even I can’t climb over. Thinking about an actual wall makes me smirk, because Ace—the reckless fucking brat—is already at the top of that wall, looking for rope, so he can climb down.
Give me all of you.
Maybe Ace is the one. Uncle forged me, but Ace is the heart that can wield me.
Maybe I can hold him fiercely, with all of me, without breaking him.
Because with Ace, control isn’t peace, it’s pressure. It’s a leash stretched tight, ready to snap. It’s a hunger that grows more unbearable by the day.
I hammer the bag harder, so hard my body shakes with the returning impact. The real reason I’ve never fully embraced who I am is because it was Uncle Jasper who told me to do it. He wasn’t coming from the right place, but he was right. It took me years, but I finally collected the pieces to do it—the right balance of restraint and intuition.
I kept all of myself for me and never gave that to anyone else. I’ve never had someone want it. Everyone else wanted the tamed version of me.
Until now.
Maybe I don’t need to kill the beast, control him, or restrain him with Ace. Maybe I need to stop starving him.
Changed and showered, I need coffee. Truthfully, I need whisky, but I’m settling, waiting behind what appears to be an entire dorm, at one of the on-campus coffee shops. A group of young women enters, filling the space with summery laughter. A stark contrast to the October cold that blows in every time the door opens. Most of them are wearing Delta Gamma sweatshirts, all but one.
Celeste.
She’s wearingmyboyfriend’s hoodie.
Perfect.
A lesser man would steal the hoodie back when she leaves it somewhere—on the back of a chair, in the library—and a greater man would let it go.
I’m somewhere in the middle.
I pivot, slow and cold. “Good morning, Miss Fairchild.”
She sputters, lashes blinking, craning her neck up to see where the deep, dark voice came from.
“Professor VanCourt. Haven’t seen you here before.”
Her posse doesn’t seem to notice she’s been singled out. There’s a lot of chatter involving hockey players, North Point, and the Alpha Kappa party last night.
“I usually make coffee at home. Listen, I don’t wanna keep you from your friends, but you’re wearing my sweatshirt. I’d like it back.”
Celeste’s mouth doesn’t work for a second as she processes. “I got this sweatshirt from Ace, Professor.”
“It wasn’t his to give away.” I have the sort of voice that gets people moving. She grabs the hem, pulling it over her head, sliding out of the arms.
“God, I’m sorry. Here.”
It’s hard not to rip it from her delicate hands, but I manage. Once it’s in my possession, the darkness in me quiets.
“H-How did Ace get your sweatshirt, Professor?”
“He stole it from me during a tutoring session,” I lie.
“Sorry, the hockey team can be so childish. Makes sense why it was so big on Ace, though. He usually wears his letter jacket, but this kept him incognito. We were kind of at war, Professor.”
“I read something about a frat war somewhere,” I say, keeping my distance. That frat war was why my boyfriend got shot in the face. Will I get over it? No.
