Misconducts & Temptation (The Crestwood Elite Hockey Academy #10)

2. Keaton

Chapter 2

Keaton

I leaned back in the leather chair, feeling the heavy weight of my father’s office in downtown Chicago. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling, heavy with the scent of old money and power. Expensive art pieces—soulless abstracts that screamed wealth —hung meticulously, each one chosen for its price tag rather than its beauty. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the cityscape, a sprawling testament to capitalism’s relentless march.

The desk in front of me was a monstrosity of mahogany, cluttered with paperwork, framed family photos that looked like stock images, and a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid. I bet it had been sitting there untouched for months. The whole place felt more like a mausoleum than an office, each item meticulously placed to project authority and control.

And of course, my father wasn’t here. Late to a meeting he had called himself. Typical.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a cigarette, the smooth paper crinkling between my fingers. It was off-season; I didn't give two shits about smoking and hockey right now. I lit it with a silver lighter engraved with our family crest—a lion roaring, surrounded by vines—and took a deep drag, letting the nicotine flood my veins.

I hated this place. Hated this city. Everything about it felt like a cage, gilded but suffocating all the same. The skyscrapers outside the window stood tall and unyielding, monuments to ambition and greed. Just like him.

Smoke curled around me as I exhaled slowly, my eyes narrowing at the city below. Every building seemed to mock me, reminding me of the life mapped out without my consent. A life dictated by power plays and business deals disguised as family obligations.

My father’s desk phone rang, an abrupt intrusion into the oppressive silence. I ignored it, letting it ring out until it stopped on its own accord. My mind drifted back to Crestwood Academy, where at least on the ice I felt some semblance of control. But even that was tainted by his influence.

I took another drag from the cigarette and flicked ash into an ornate crystal ashtray shaped like a blooming rose—a gift from some sycophantic associate, no doubt.

I wanted freedom—desperately—but here I was waiting in his world on his time.

The door swung open with the kind of casualness that only he could muster. My father strolled in, his presence commanding the room even before he spoke. He was dressed in a tailored suit, every detail immaculate. The epitome of control and precision. He stopped short when he saw the cigarette between my fingers, his eyes narrowing in that way that signaled a storm was brewing.

“Keaton,” he began, his voice cold and clipped, “I thought I made it clear that smoking is beneath you. And look at how you're sitting. Have you forgotten everything I've taught you about presentation?”

I took a long drag of his cigarette, tuning him out, focusing instead on the way the sunlight hit the decanter, casting fractured rainbows across the dark wood of his desk. I leaned back further in my chair and kicked my feet up onto his desk, the soles of my shoes leaving a mark on the polished surface.

His eyes flared with anger, but he kept his voice level. “You think this is a joke? This is your legacy we’re talking about. Your future. As my only child, you have responsibilities. You can't just coast through life expecting everything to be handed to you.”

I picked at an imaginary piece of lint on my shirt, refusing to meet his gaze. His words washed over me like a wave of static—meaningless noise I’d heard too many times before.

“You need to earn your inheritance,” he continued, his tone growing more insistent. “You think your name alone is enough? It’s not. Every penny of this empire has been built on hard work and discipline—something you sorely lack.”

I rolled my eyes, finally locking onto his steely gaze. The man was relentless.

“You’re going to take control one day,” he pressed on, undeterred by my obvious disinterest. “But not if you keep acting like a spoiled brat who thinks he's above it all.”

He stepped closer, leaning over the desk so that our faces were inches apart. “Do you understand me?”

"Sure," I muttered, barely disguising the sarcasm dripping from my voice. His glare intensified, but it didn't faze me. He’d hit me enough times growing up that his threats and consequences had lost their edge.

He clenched his jaw so tight I thought his teeth might shatter. “You have an obligation to this family, Keaton. To take over this business and continue our legacy.”

I stared at him, unmoved. The city outside the window seemed more alive than this stifling room.

“I’ve humored you long enough with this hockey nonsense,” he continued, his voice rising. “It’s the only thing you seem to be remotely good at. You’re barely passing your business classes, Keaton. You’re embarrassing the family.”

I crossed my arms and leaned back in the chair, feigning a yawn. “Here we fucking go,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

His frustration boiled over, his face reddening. “You think this is a joke? This is your life we’re talking about! You’ve already graduated—barely. Now it’s time for you to step up and get serious.”

I flicked another glance out the window, wishing I could be anywhere but here. His words were a broken record I’d heard too many times to count.

“You need to understand the weight of this responsibility,” he continued, pacing behind his desk. “Everything I’ve built will one day be yours, but only if you prove yourself worthy.”

I let out a sigh, feeling the familiar tension coil in my chest. His idea of proving myself meant bending to his will completely—something I had no intention of doing.

He stopped pacing and leaned on the desk again, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that might have made someone else squirm. “You will take this seriously, Keaton,” he said quietly but firmly. “Or there will be consequences.”

I held his gaze, unblinking. “Yeah? Like what?”

For a moment, he looked almost defeated—a flicker of vulnerability that quickly vanished as he straightened up and adjusted his tie.

“Like losing everything you take for granted,” he replied coldly.

I stared at him, unblinking. “You think I give a shit?” I asked, my voice dripping with disdain. “Leave me destitute for all I care.”

“Oh, you'll care,” he growled, his eyes narrowing. “You’re used to the best schools, the finest clothes, the luxury cars. You’re used to never having to worry about money, about your future. You’re used to power and influence, Keaton.”

“Do it, old man,” I shot back, leaning forward in my chair. “I fucking dare you. I'm all you've got.”

His eyes flashed with anger, a dark cloud passing over his face. It was a low blow, and we both knew it. My mother was dead, had been for years. He had no one else.

“Why am I here?” I demanded, my patience wearing thin.

“You are going to do your duty,” he said coldly. “Now that you've graduated, you will be expected to marry Lola Perez?—”

“Fuck no,” I said firmly, cutting him off.

“Keaton,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

“That bitch is a fucking whore,” I spat out. “I'm not touching that cunt with a ten-foot?—”

His hand slammed down on the desk with a force that echoed through the room. The sound hung in the air like a death knell.

“Enough!” he barked, his face red with fury, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his desk. "You will marry Lola Perez at the end of the summer, or you will be out on the street. No more money, no more support. She’s on a plane right now to finalize the arrangements."

I stood, crushing my cigarette into the polished wood of his desk, leaving a charred black mark.

"I don't understand," he said, his voice straining to keep calm. "The two of you were together in high school?—"

"And then I found her with my friend's dick in her mouth," I interrupted, my voice cold and unyielding. "I'm not marrying her."

Without another word, I turned on my heel and headed for the door. My heart pounded in my chest, anger coursing through my veins like wildfire.

Just as I took the knob in my hand, his voice rang out behind me, filled with a venomous finality. "This is your last chance, Keaton. Marry Lola and secure our future or walk out that door and lose everything."

I clenched my jaw so tightly it felt like my teeth might shatter. The weight of his ultimatum pressed down on me like a physical force.

I didn't look back.

I walked out of that room, each step echoing with defiance and resolve.

No one was going to dictate my life anymore—not even him.

The cold air inside Pandora's Box clung to my skin, the familiar chill doing little to soothe the fire raging inside me. I had just finished my laps around the rink, the physical exertion doing nothing to calm my thoughts. The place was practically deserted; summer had a way of making even this haven feel empty and abandoned.

I leaned against the boards, gripping my hockey stick so tightly my knuckles turned white. My mind replayed the conversation with my father on an endless loop, each word stoking the flames of my anger. Marry Lola? He must be out of his fucking mind.

Coach Morgan had given me a nod of approval to use the rink despite having graduated. I respected the man, even if his methods were ruthless. But right now, not even the solace of the ice could break through my fury.

I skated toward center ice, trying to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of skating drills. The sound of my blades cutting through the ice was usually enough to drown out everything else, but not today. Today, every glide and turn only seemed to amplify my frustration.

My father's voice echoed in my head. This is your last chance, Keaton. Marry Lola and secure our future or walk out that door and lose everything. The ultimatum felt like a noose tightening around my neck. He'd always known how to push me just far enough without snapping the rope—until now.

With each stride across the rink, I replayed every moment with Lola—the betrayal, her lies, and now this absurd demand from my father. It was like he wanted me to relive that humiliation over and over again.

I skated faster, trying to outpace my own thoughts. The rink blurred around me as I pushed myself harder, needing to feel something other than rage and resentment. But no matter how fast I went, I couldn't escape it.

Finally, I came to a stop at center ice, panting heavily. I slammed my stick against the ice in frustration, sending a reverberating crack echoing through the empty rink.

The silence that followed was deafening. It pressed down on me from all sides, amplifying every raw emotion clawing its way to the surface. I ripped off my helmet and threw it aside; it skidded across the ice before coming to a stop near the boards.

My breath came in ragged gasps as I stood there, feeling more trapped than ever. The weight of expectations—my father's control—felt suffocating.

What did he think he could accomplish by forcing me into this marriage? Did he really believe I'd bend that easily?

The more he pushed, the more determined I became to break free.

But at what cost?

I stared at the ice, my breath fogging up the air around me. The weight of the Douglas name felt like a millstone around my neck. Everything I did, every decision, every action—it was all for the family legacy. The burden of upholding our name had been drilled into me since I was old enough to understand words. But when did my own life start? When did I get to live for myself instead of some damned legacy?

Even my mother had those expectations for me. I remembered her gentle voice, laced with both love and duty, telling me how important it was to be strong for the family. Her words haunted me even now, years after she passed away. She had wanted the best for me, but in her absence, her vision had been twisted by my father into something suffocating.

My thoughts drifted to Lola. There was a time when she was more than just a name tied to an unwanted future. We used to be close, maybe even trusted each other once. She was probably the first person I ever let in, the first crack in my carefully constructed armor. But that trust shattered like glass when she betrayed me.

Her ambition and personal gain took precedence over anything we had. I still remembered the sting of her betrayal, like a knife to the gut. Now, the idea of being locked into a marriage with her—a woman I couldn't even stand to be in the same room with—felt like a prison sentence.

I clenched my fists at the memory of her smirk when she revealed her true colors. She played her part well, making me believe she cared, only to turn around and stab me in the back. My father's insistence on this marriage only fueled my resentment toward both of them.

How could he not see what she truly was? Or worse—did he see and just not care? The thought made my blood boil.

I took another deep breath, trying to calm myself. But it was no use; every inhale felt like dragging in more frustration and anger. The rink now felt like another cage.

When would it end? When would I get to make decisions for myself? My father’s voice echoed in my mind again—his ultimatum clear as day.

But as long as I lived under his thumb, freedom seemed like nothing more than a distant dream.

I skated back toward the boards and picked up my helmet. The cold air nipped at my skin, but it couldn't touch the fire burning inside me.

I knew one thing for certain: I couldn't keep living this way.

But maybe… maybe I didn't have to.

I had to get married to continue the legacy, sure.

But did it have to be to Lola?

Could it be to whomever I wanted?

Maybe there was some desperate bimbo willing to marry me for… money? Maybe we could work out some mutually beneficial deal.

I smirked at the thought.

Maybe I could make this work for me after all.

The idea started taking shape in my mind—a plan that would allow me to fulfill my father's demands without sacrificing my freedom entirely.

It wasn't perfect, but it was better than being trapped in a loveless marriage with Lola or losing the lifestyle I was used to.

And if there was one thing I knew how to do, it was fight for what I wanted.

Even if that meant playing by my own rules.