Off-Limits to My Hockey Star

Evelyn's POV

My name is Evelyn Clark. If I count carefully, I've been teaching at this university for seven or eight years now.

I've been single for thirty-four years. I've never been in a relationship.

When I was young, I was too busy with my master's and doctoral programs to think about any of that. By the time I came up for air, everyone around my age had already married and had children, while I hadn't been on a single proper date.

After so many years, that part of me had gone perpetually unsatisfied.

Sometimes I'd think about downloading a dating app. But fortunately, work at the school keeps me busy enough to distract myself.

There's one advantage to living in the faculty housing on campus: it's close to the classrooms. Five minutes on foot after getting off the shuttle.

There's also one disadvantage: every morning at six-thirty, the sound of ice skate blades scraping the rink cuts right through the walls, like someone dragging a knife along my bones.

I was a figure skater once — competitive, through the regional circuit. My knee gave out when I was sixteen, and I haven't been able to skate even recreationally since. After that, I started taking routes around the rink, but there's no avoiding the sound.

Every morning I lie in bed with my eyes closed and wait for it to stop before I get up.

Today is Sunday. The hockey team has the day off, so there's no scraping sound.

But I woke up even earlier, because Liam was coming to my office. He'd said he couldn't get his literature paper started.

Liam Brown is the most well-known student in my class — a star player on the varsity hockey team, captain of the Huskies, and the object of every female student's admiration on campus.

He mentioned last week that he needed a one-on-one tutoring session on Sunday. I had no way to refuse, because this was already his third time this semester asking for help, though it was the first time we'd be meeting alone. The previous two sessions had other hockey team members present.

So I dragged myself out of bed early, with no time to put myself together properly. I didn't even notice that my usual black stockings had a run in them — a large stretch of bare skin exposed all the way up from the inner thigh.

I calculated that I was already running short on time, so I grabbed a sandwich, took a bite, and headed for the door.

Just as I was nearly there, my phone buzzed. It was Nina.

Nina is the assistant in the athletics department, handling administrative affairs for the hockey team specifically. She's also the only person at this university I can speak honestly with.

"I heard you're meeting our hockey star one-on-one today?"

I typed back with one hand, sandwich still in my mouth: "Just tutoring. For his paper."

"You know he's had his eye on you for most of the semester, right? Last week he was asking me what kind of coffee you like. I told him you only drink black coffee, and the very next day he replaced the coffee machine in your department building."

My steps slowed. I looked up at the end of the hallway, where a brand-new coffee machine sat.

So it wasn't a replacement from the college administration after all.

I slipped my phone back into my pocket without replying.

The office door was already open.

Liam was already there. He was sitting in the chair across from my desk, wearing a gray hoodie with the hood down, his dark brown hair showing. He was young and good-looking — the kind of good-looking that came from years on the ice, something clean and sharp about it, his jawline like it had been cut by a skate blade.

When he saw me, he stood up. He was more than a head taller than me.

"Morning, Professor."

His deep blue eyes settled on me, his gaze pausing briefly over my body. Then he looked down, reached into his backpack, and pulled out a pair of stockings, handing them to me.

"Professor, you're so beautiful — you should take care of how you present yourself. It'll put you in a better mood too."

I looked at the stockings. Still sealed. Brand new.

"You carry these around with you?"

"The female players on the team sometimes need them for promotional shoots," he said, with a small smile. "I don't mean anything by it. I just thought — with the skirt you're wearing today, white stockings would look better."

The skirt in question was a beige knit dress, with a neckline that sat a little low. I'd bought it two years ago and hardly worn it since.

I looked down at my legs. Only then did I see it — the run had spread from the inner thigh all the way up past the knee.

He had already looked away. He'd done it too quickly, which was precisely what told me he was holding himself back.

Liam's gaze moved from my face to the window, then from the window to the floor.

"Go ahead and change, Professor. I'll wait."

I took the stockings and went to the restroom.

The woman in the mirror looked a little flustered.

I wasn't sure why. I had nearly ten years of teaching behind me. Standing in front of a hundred pairs of eyes never made me nervous. But the way he'd turned his gaze away just now had unsettled me more than being stared at outright would have.

After I changed, I touched up my makeup as well — just something light. When I came back to the office, Liam was still seated, but he'd swiveled the chair halfway around so it faced the window. He turned back when he heard me come in.

He glanced at me — just once — and the corner of his mouth curved slightly before he leaned back in his chair.

"Professor, if you come to class dressed like this from now on, I don't think I'll be able to pay attention."

Heat rushed through me. I turned away. The last time someone had looked at me like that — with that kind of open appreciation — was back when I was in college, over a decade ago. Something in me felt pleased, but I caught myself and gave myself a hard internal pinch.

I must have lost my mind. Having thoughts about my own student.

"Then try harder."

"I am trying."

For the two hours of the tutoring session, I was acutely aware of his gaze moving back and forth across me — careful, measured. Each time he looked, he'd pause first, as though checking that I wouldn't notice, and only then let his eyes drift over.

I was watching him just as intently.

I studied the line of his profile when he bent over his writing, the short stretch of his nape exposed above his collar, the black wrist brace he wore, his fingers — long, with faint calluses at the joints.

For the first time in thirty-four years, I looked at a man this much younger than me deliberately, with full intention.

When the session ended, he stood without lingering.

"See you next week, Professor."

He walked to the door, then stopped. He turned back. "Will you come to the practice match next week?"

I blinked. "Why would I come to your practice?"

"My paper is about hockey, isn't it? You'd be better at advising me if you've seen it in person."

I remembered writing in the margin of one of his assignments: You need to have witnessed it firsthand, or your argument loses its force.

He had memorized every word of my comments.

"I'll think about it," I said.

A full smile broke across his face. Then he left.

After the session, I caught the faculty shuttle just ahead of him, squeezing on before the doors closed.

The shuttle was unusually crowded. I found a spot along one side and leaned against it, staring out the window.

Then a solid chest pressed into my back.

I instinctively started to turn — and in the next instant, I felt something press against the back of my skirt. Hard. Warm. Unmistakable in its shape.

My whole body went rigid.

The shuttle was faculty only. Today was Sunday — no regular students would be on this route. The only person who could possibly have boarded was the one who had just been kept behind for a private session.

Something deep in me lurched, a want I hadn't felt in years rising up without warning.

I froze. I didn't turn around. I didn't move away. I heard my own breathing go uneven, my fingers tightening and loosening around the handrail in an unsteady rhythm.

He leaned close to my ear, his voice low, like it was rolling up from somewhere deep in his throat: "Professor — do you want this?"

My face burned. Something low in me ached with it.

Every shred of reason I had left told me no. I was the teacher. Liam was the student. Even if we were both adults, both unattached — the difference in our roles didn't disappear. I shifted slightly, trying to put a sliver of space between us.

But that hard, insistent heat was still pressed against my skirt, and through two layers of fabric, the warmth of it bled in, slow and relentless.

"Professor." His lips were almost against the curve of my ear. "You can take one step forward. If you do, I'll stop."

I stood where I was.

Every rational thought I had told me to step forward. My body refused. It pulled in the opposite direction, demanding that I stay exactly where I was.

And then — as though the moment had been timed — the shuttle lurched into a hard, sudden stop. Startled sounds rose from the other passengers as everyone pitched forward.

Liam's full weight came down against me. Through the fabric of my skirt, that hard, burning length pressed between my thighs, and in one breathless instant, I felt my underwear go completely wet.