Page 90 of Off-Ice Misconduct
“Yeah. I’d let him keep playing if he never went to another class, but the NCAA is full of hard asses. If they found out an ineligible player was on the team, we’d face disqualification. Just, keep your dick out of his ass, okay?”
“No.” If my brother thinks that’ll improve Ace’s performance in all areas, he’s wrong. “You need a better plan than … the Ace up your sleeve if you want to secure the team’s future.”
He cracks a smile. “That’s a terrible pun.”
I shrug. “It worked. Why are you so worried? You’d find another job. There are plenty of schools that would snap you up in a heartbeat.”
“Yeah, I guess I just … I dunno.”
“You care about them.”
“Fine. I do. Ace’ll be gone, but plenty of the team’ll remain in his wake. You see them in the hallways, they’ve got an unbreakable bond.”
“They’re a gang of entitled hooligans.” He scowls. “But maybe so was I at their age.”
“No, you weren’t, Luke. You never were. If anything, I was.”
Uncle Jasper used to tell him that all the time—how entitled and spoiled he was. He didn’t think so at the time, at least, that’swhat he insisted. But maybe Uncle’s words affected him more than he let on.
Tatum leans back in this chair. “Ace’s last year is an opportunity. Who he signs with is a mega topic of interest. We’ll be known as the school that trained Ace McKinnon. It’ll attract more rich parents of hockey players who want to sink their money into the school.”
“And you want me to find out who he’s signing with.” My lip curls. “No.”
“Whoa.” Tate grins. “You’re territorial over this one.”
“I don’t want anyone using him.” Except for me. But in my defense, McKinnon loves being my filthy little princess, available for my use. He needs it. What I do for him takes the pressure off. What Tate’s doing would only add to it.
“And I don’t want you fucking him, but guess we can’t always get what we want, huh, big bro?”
“You little fucking brat.”
“Hey, I’m just following your lead, doing what I feel is best for the team. Isn’t that what you taught me?”
He’s right. I did teach him that. I just didn’t think he’d ever use it against me.
I stand. “I also taught you how to use your fucking brain,” I mutter, turning for the door. “Start acting like you have one. Ace isn’t your only option.”
Three days after that debacle, I’m at home and about to plate my dinner, but a loud, irritating knock interrupts me. I swing open the door, about to ream out what or whoever dares to disturb mypeace, but freeze, arrested by the sight of a large, drowned rat that could resemble Ace McKinnon once hung out to dry.
His shoulders are rigid, drawn up and locked, round nostrils flaring. Am I somehow responsible for this? I hope so. God, he’s fucking beautiful when he’s furious. A storm rages around him, reflecting his mood as if he’s solely to blame for the pounding rain soaking the world behind him.
“Well? Invite me in, Professor,” he demands.
I shut the door in his face.
Three, two, one?—
He throws the door open, charging into the house, dripping water onto my entryway.
“Every drop you leave behind is getting cleaned up with your tongue,” I threaten.
He stills. “What are the chances you’ll give me a towel?”
I eye his sweatpants, which managed to stay reasonably dry due to being under the umbrella of his shoulders. “Zero.”
Ace noticed where my eyes were, taking the hint. He strips out of his sneakers and then his sweats, leaving him in a damp pair of white cotton boxers. He dries his hair first, mopping up the entryway, hanging the sweatpants on a hook, pleased with his ingenuity.
“To what do I owe this intrusion, McKinnon?” I rake my eyes up and down his form. If he’s going to show up unannounced, I’m going to assume he’s here for my enjoyment.
