Page 8 of Off-Ice Misconduct
“What the fuck? There’s no way you can do that.”
“Language, McKinnon. Try me.”
Anger mars his beautiful face. “I don’t have that much influence over them. Look, I’m sorry. We got off on the wrong foot here. Is there any way we can start again?”
“We’ll start with you and your team arriving to my class on time.”
He runs exasperated hands through that messy chestnut chaos he calls hair. “It’s not possible. The time we get breakfast depends on the timeyourfamily member lets us out of practice. You expect me to tell a team of hungry hockey players they can’t eat?”
Is that true? Fucking Tatum. Probably. I’m not surprised that he’s part of the problem. No doubt, he doesn’t see anything wrong with professors having to give preferential treatment to his team. Tatum needs to let them out with enough time to eat,but if McKinnon’s too much of a coward to stand up to “Coach”, I’m not helping him with that.
“Figure it out, McKinnon. The time class begins isn’t a suggestion.”
“Alright, we may have gotten into a bad habit of showing up when we feel like it, but what I said is true.”
I shrug. “Not my problem. Show up on time or pay the price. Non-negotiable.”
“Fucking hard ass,” he mutters.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing, sir,” I correct.
“Can I go now, sir?”
The word sir doesn’t have a lick of respect in it. I should call him on that, but as much as I’d love to berate him some more, I have my own shit to do.
“Dismissed.”
He’s up and gone so fast, I see why he’s captain of the hockey team. The notebook’s there, open to the lines he was supposed to be writing that I didn’t bother to check.
Which is unlike me.
I squint at the page. Is that a … oh, he’ssodead. Not only did he not write a single line, he doodled tiny penises on every inch of the paper.
With eyes.
And facial expressions.
Clothes and props, too.
Wait, one of them looks like … is that me? One of his special penis cartoons has a scruffy beard, dark hair, wolverine claws and a little badge that says Prof. Van Dickhead.
Yep, that’s me.
I stare at it for too long.
Okay, I should get a haircut—point taken—but first, I’m going to skin McKinnon alive.
I stare some more until the corners of my lips twitch into a smile.
Actually, this is perfect. I tuck the notebook with the page full of penis caricatures into my bag.
He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s just signed his life over to me.
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