Page 12 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
He leans forward, his tone earnest. "It's just... It's been a few years since your injury, and I remember how tough it hit you. Are you sure being this close to the game, not playing, doesn’t mess with you?"
Fucking hell, am I that easy to read? Had I been watching the game with some wistful expression?
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "Nah, man. I don’t dwell on that stuff. I don’t get all sentimental and shit. Being close to the game, it's different now, but it's still good, you know?"
Sam nods, seemingly satisfied with my response, but I can tell he's not entirely convinced.
"Seriously, D. I mean it," Sam insists, his tone a mix of concern and the usual brotherly ribbing we've come to expect in our friendship. "I was there when you were injured, I know how much it hit you. You can talk to me, you know."
I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. "Look at you, getting all Dr. Phil on me," I tease, trying to deflect. But deep down, I appreciate his concern. It's not every day you get a friend who sticks by you through thick and thin.
Sam's not letting it go, though. "Come on, man. We've been through a lot. Just want to make sure my bud’s holding up alright.”
I laugh. "You know, for a tough guy on the ice, you've got a soft side."
Sam rolls his eyes but grins. "Guess I learned from the best. But seriously, D. This new role with the Blades, being so close to the rink, the players... It's gotta stir up some old ghosts, right?"
I pause, considering his words. The truth is, being back in the rink, feeling the energy of the game, the players—it does stir something in me. The roar of the crowd, the chill of the ice, the thrill of the game. It's a world I thought I'd lost forever.
"Yeah, it stirs up some stuff," I finally admit, my gaze drifting to the screen showing a highlight reel of the game. "But it's not all bad. It's like... finding a new way to love the game. Coaching, mentoring—it's a different kind of rush."
Sam nods, understanding flashing in his eyes. "That's good to hear, man. You've got a lot to offer these kids. And hey, if you ever feel the itch to get back on the ice, I'm always up for a one-on-one – no-contact, course.”
I chuckle, raising my glass. "You just want a chance to say you've beaten Dom Steele."
He raises his glass in return, the clink echoing our shared laughter. "I’d tell them that even if I lost.”
That gets a laugh out of me.
Sam leans forward, lowering his voice as if sharing a state secret. "You know, speaking of the game and all, what's your take on Isabella's run with the Blades? She's pushing hard, aiming high."
I take a slow sip of my beer, considering my words. Isabella Carrington, a topic that's more complicated than it seems on the surface. "She's ambitious, driven. Knows the game inside out. Hard not to respect that," I reply, keeping my tone neutral, but inside, there's a storm of thoughts swirling.
"Yeah, she's impressive," Sam agrees, nodding. "But, man, I worry about her sometimes. She's my sister, you know? Always pushing herself to the edge, chasing after some big dream."
I glance at Sam, seeing the genuine concern etched in his features. Family ties run deep, and Sam's protective streak over Isabella is as clear as day. "She's tougher than she looks," I say, a hint of admiration slipping into my voice. "Isabella's not the type to back down from a challenge. But yeah, I get it. You want to make sure she's not burning out."
There's a brief silence as we both take a moment, lost in our thoughts. Isabella, with her sharp mind and sharper tongue, has been a constant puzzle, a challenge that I've found both infuriating and intriguing. She's more than just a colleague or a rival in the world of hockey management; she's someone who's managed to get under my skin, for better or worse.
Sam breaks the silence, his voice laced with a brother's concern. "Just... if you see her going overboard, you know, maybe give her a nudge? Tell her to take it easy?"
I chuckle, the sound a bit more forced than I intended. "What am I, her keeper?" But even as I say it, I know there's a part of me that wouldn't mind being just that. "I'll keep an eye out, Sam. She's good for the game, good for the team. Wouldn't want to lose that fire."
The game on the screen takes a dramatic turn, a crunching hit followed by a moment of tense silence before the crowd erupts. It's a scene I know too well, a mix of adrenaline and brotherhood, risk and reward. I find myself caught in a moment of raw nostalgia.
"You know," I start, my voice unexpectedly somber, "You’re right. I miss it sometimes—the game, the ice, the guys. No. I don’t miss it sometimes. I miss itall the fucking time.”
Sam looks at me, his expression understanding. "I can only imagine, man. You were at the top. It's gotta be rough, watching from the sidelines."
I nod, feeling an uncharacteristic wave of melancholy wash over me. "Yeah, it's tough. But life throws you slapshots, right? Gotta learn to catch 'em or duck."
He sips his beer, thoughtful. "I sometimes wonder if I can make it as far as you did. You're a legend, Dom. Always looked up to you, you know?"
I scoff, trying to brush off the heaviness of the moment. "Legend, huh? More like a cautionary tale these days." I clap him on the back, a reassuring, firm grip. "But you, Sam, you've got talent and drive. Don't sell yourself short. You're carving your own path, and it's looking damn good."
Sam grins, a bit of pride flickering in his eyes. "Thanks, man. Means a lot, coming from you."
The game continues, the players on the screen a blur of motion and intensity. In their movements, I see echoes of my past, reminders of what once was. It isn’t much longer before the final whistle blows on the screen, signaling the end of the game. Sam and I exchange looks, a mutual understanding that it's time to wrap up our night.
