My Off-limits Professor... But He's Mine

RYDER'S POV

The sharp scent of Zamboni polish and sweat hangs heavy in the cold air of the rink, a stench that Ryder Knight usually breathes in like oxygen. Today, it tastes like ash. His skates carve hard into the ice, sending a spray of white shavings into the air as he dekes around a defender, his focus narrowing down to the net and the black rubber puck sliding off his stick. The scoreboard glows with a lead-his team is up by two-but the only number that matters right now is the one on the back of the jersey checking him from the periphery.

Kai Miller.

Kai is a shadow on Ryder's right, aggressive and relentless. The history between them isn't just written in past friendships; it's etched into the bruises of their last encounter. Ryder had fucked Kai's sister, a decision made in the heat of the moment that had incinerated years of camaraderie. Now, every time they step onto the ice, it's a war. Kai wants blood, and Ryder is happy to spill it, but right now, he wants the win more.

Ryder crosses the blue line, picking up speed. He fakes a shot, watching the goalie drop, and prepares to tuck the puck into the top corner. It's a sure thing. The rank is his.

Then, the world tilts.

A body slams into him from the blind side-not Kai, but a heavy freshman forward who loses an edge. The impact is a freight train hitting solid bone. Ryder's momentum is arrested instantly, his feet flying out from under him. He crashes onto the ice, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall against the unyielding surface. A sickening crunch echoes in his ears, followed immediately by a white-hot lance of pain that shoots from his wrist all the way to his jaw.

He gasps, the air forced from his lungs, clutching his arm to his chest. The whistle shrieks, piercing the ringing in his head.

Through the haze of agony, Ryder sees Kai circling back, stopping a few feet away. Kai isn't looking at the freshman who actually delivered the hit; he's looking at Ryder with a curl of his lip that looks suspiciously like satisfaction.

"You fucker," Ryder grinds out, forcing himself to his knees despite the screaming protest of his shoulder. Two teammates, Leo and Sam, rush over to help him up, but Ryder shoves them off with his good arm. He staggers toward Kai, his vision swimming with red. "You did that on purpose!"

Kai throws his hands up, stick dangling from his gloves. "I didn't touch you, you drama queen. You tripped over your own ego."

"Bullshit!" Ryder roars. He doesn't think. He just reacts. He draws his right fist back-the good one-and drives it squarely into Kai's jaw.

The impact is solid, a satisfying thud of bone against bone. Kai's head snaps back, blood instantly staining his teeth, and he stumbles. Before he can retaliate, the referee is there, blowing the whistle incessantly, and Coach Henderson is bellowing from the bench, storming across the ice like a bull.

"Enough! Get the fuck off him, Knight!" Coach Henderson grabs Ryder by the jersey, hauling him back just as Kai tries to shake off the hit and lunge forward. "Both of you, to the box! Now!"

They sit in the penalty box, the silence between them thick and toxic. Coach Henderson leans over the partition, his face purple with rage. "I don't care what your history is. You are captains. You are supposed to lead, not act like toddlers in a sandbox. Apologize. Now. Or you're both off the team."

Ryder stares at the ice, his arm throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He hates this. He hates losing control. Finally, he mutters, "Sorry."

"Sorry," Kai spits back, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his glove.

"Get to the clinic, Ryder," Henderson orders, pointing a gloved finger toward the tunnel. "And get that arm looked at before it falls off."

Ryder storms off the ice, Leo and Sam flanking him. The walk to the athletic clinic feels like a mile. By the time they push through the double doors, the adrenaline is wearing off, leaving a cold, aching stiffness in his shoulder.

The trainer, a stern woman named Sarah, wastes no time. She prods his arm, her fingers pressing into the bruising flesh. "You're lucky it's not a break, but it's a nasty sprain," she says, wrapping him in elastic bandage with practiced efficiency. "If you keep punching people with it, you're going to need surgery."

"Yeah, yeah," Ryder mutters, wincing as she tightens the wrap. "Just tape it up."

He sits on the exam table, shirtless, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion and the pain. Leo leans against the counter, scrolling through his phone, while Sam tosses a roll of tape in the air.

"You really clocked him," Sam says, a grin tugging at his mouth. "Kai looked like he was going to cry."

"He wishes," Ryder retorts, hopping down from the table and flexing his fingers gingerly. "He deserved it."

************

Classes drag on for the rest of the day, the pain in Ryder's arm dull, constant reminder of the morning's violence. By the time the final bell rings, the campus is bathed in the orange glow of late afternoon. Ryder walks toward the parking lot, his gear bag slung over his good shoulder, flanked by Leo and Sam. The air is cooling down, carrying the smell of dry leaves and exhaust.

They are passing the Languages building when Ryder's steps slow.

Near the entrance, standing under the stone archway, is a man who stops Ryder in his tracks. He's talking to Madame Dubois, the ancient French lecturer who usually smells like mothballs. But this guy... this guy looks like he belongs on a runway, not in a dusty department office.

He looks young, barely older than Ryder, with sharp cheekbones and messy dark hair that catches the sunlight. He's wearing a fitted navy button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that are lean and defined. There's an ease to his posture, a casual confidence that radiates even from this distance. Ryder feels a sudden, distinct tug of interest low in his gut, a heat that has nothing to do with anger.

"Who is that?" Ryder asks, his voice dropping an octave.

Leo follows his gaze and lets out a low whistle. "That's the new guy. The hot young professor everyone's been gossiping about."

"Professor?" Ryder raises an eyebrow, his eyes tracking the way the man laughs at something Madame Dubois says, throwing his head back to expose the long line of his throat. "He looks like a student."

"Nah, he's legit," Sam chimes in, nudging Ryder with his elbow. "Teaches Lit or something. Fresh out of grad school. The girls in the dorms are losing their minds over him."

Ryder watches the new professor adjust his glasses, a gesture that shouldn't be sexy but somehow is. He imagines what that guy would look like without the button-down, imagined if that composed exterior would crack if Ryder pushed him up against the brick wall of the Languages building.

"Well," Ryder says, shifting his bag on his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips as the ache in his arm momentarily forgotten. "This semester might not be a total waste of time after all."