Page 15 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
The memory fades as I come to, sprawled on my office couch, the tail end of adrenaline making my hands shake. It was a dream—no, a memory.
The silence is thick as I push off the couch, my limbs heavy from the quicksilver slide of dreams into reality. The office is dim, lit only by the moon spilling through the massive windows, casting a pale glow over the deserted rink below. I’m alone, save for the echo of my own footsteps—a solitude I’ve grown to appreciate, even crave, in this life where moments of peace are as rare as a clean shot from center ice.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I lean against the cool glass of my office windows, letting the quietude wash over me. My days, my nights, they merge—a relentless march of decisions, strategies, and the weighty knowledge that scores of people rely on my calls. Sleep, when it comes, is more necessity than indulgence, grabbed in snatches, often with a keyboard or phone as my pillow.
Looking out over the rink, I picture the game that's brewing, the players that will clash on this frozen battleground. The Silver Blades, my team, they're more than just a roster of names; they're an extension of a dream, a continuation of a career cut short, a testament to the fact that even when you’re down, you’re never out. Not if I have anything to say about it.
Isabella. Her image flickers unbidden into my mind, fierce and indomitable, a challenge that stirs both frustration and a grudging respect within me. Too hard on her? The question flits through my thoughts, an anomaly in the pattern of my usual certainty. But no, I dismiss the notion almost as quickly as it appears. It’s not cruelty that guides my hand, but necessity. She's a diamond in the rough—and pressure, as they say, makes diamonds.
My mouth twists into a smirk at the thought. She’s got fire, that one, and potential—more than she realizes. And if I have to stoke that fire, so be it. Because the plans I have, the vision I see when I look at this team, it’s nothing short of victory. And for victory, you need warriors, not just players.
With the stadium’s silence as my accomplice, I decide to seize the moment. It’s a rare indulgence, but the ice is calling, a whisper from the past that I can’t—and don’t want to—ignore.
I make my way down to the locker room, movements sure and silent, a ghost in my own domain. The skates are right where I left them, the blades gleaming faintly in the low light. I pull them on, the familiar scrape and tug of laces snug against my fingers, grounding me, bringing back a flood of sensory memories—the cold bite of the air, the adrenaline surge of the play, the unity of team spirit.
The gate to the rink creaks slightly as I step out onto the ice. It's pristine, untouched since the Zamboni’s last round. For a moment, I just stand there, letting the chill seep through my clothes, breathing in the scent of ice and possibility.
And then, I’m off, the glide of blade on ice as natural as breathing, each stroke a silent testament to years on the rink. This is where I belong. This is where everything makes sense.
As I round the net, picking up speed, I can almost hear the roar of the crowd, feel the pulse of the game, the push and pull of competition. For a moment, it’s as if nothing has changed, as if I’m still that power forward with the world at my feet.
Isabella’s going to be part of that legacy. She just doesn’t know it yet.
I'm carving through the ice like it's nothing, the empty rink echoing back the sound of the steel blades cutting cold. It feels damn good, and I can't help the grin that stretches across my face. It's that raw, wild edge of a grin, the kind you get when you're not just running a sports empire, but leading the charge on the ice, setting the pace of the game.
I whisper to the cold, to the shadows of the stadium seats, "You still got it, Steele."
Dropping titles, forgetting for a moment about boardrooms and balance sheets. I'm that guy again, the one with the puck and the glory, not just the man behind the curtain.
The air bites at my skin, the scent of the ice sharp in my nostrils. It's heady, intoxicating. And I push harder, my thighs burning, chasing the phantom of the player I used to be.
But as I dare to fly higher, my knee screams a sharp, blinding warning. Old wounds don't like to be disturbed. I try to power through it, push it down, but my knee has a different story to tell. It snaps with pain, and suddenly, I'm no longer the master of my domain. I'm airborne, a twist of limbs and a flash of steel—and then a crash landing that has me seeing stars.
I let out a roar, a thunderous sound that's all frustration and fury. It's not just about the fall; it's the damn finality of an injury that robbed me of my place on the ice. Lying there, looking up at the dark ceiling, I take a moment, my breath ragged with more than physical exertion.
But lying here isn't my style. I push up, ignoring the ache. It's just a twinge now, a dull echo of the shout it was moments ago. It's not enough to stop me. It never is.
The skate back to the edge is slow, methodical. It's the cool down I didn't plan, a forced retreat from my temporary flight of fancy. I'm thinking about the showers, about the scalding water that's going to wash off the sweat and maybe a bit of the stubborn ache of a past life.
I shed my gear piece by piece, a routine as familiar as the ice under my skates. My shirt comes off, and I toss it aside, the fabric heavy with the honest sweat of a man who's not forgotten the grind of the game.
In the mirror, my reflection greets me with familiar lines and shades. Tattoos coil around my arm all the way up to my neck, a silent testament to the journey I've walked—or skated, rather. They're like roadmaps of ink, tracing up from my wrists, over the sinewy muscles, a living art piece that doesn't stop until it hits the edge of my jawline. Each one's got a story, a mark of victory, a memory of pain, a whisper of the thrills that've colored my life.
I let my hand drift over the puckered scars, medical precision that's left its signature on my skin. The surgeons did their job, knitting the torn ligaments of my knee back together—a technical masterpiece, a reweaving of the body's fabric. They've given me back my walk, but they couldn't give me back my game. Not at the level I crave.
My eyes move over the rest of me. Muscle clings to my frame, no ounce of fat betraying any weakness or indulgence. I've kept the machine tuned, the body of a player who refuses to hang up his skates, even if the professional rink's a thing of the past. Broad shoulders, tight abs, the sculpted form of an athlete—all maintained not out of vanity but out of respect for what I was, and for the battles still to come.
As the water hits me, hot and heavy, I let out a breath. The steam clouds around me, and I let it. The pain in my knee subsides, but the deeper ache, the one that's for the game, for the rush—that's still there, throbbing in time with my pulse.
As the hot water cascades down my back, my muscles relax under the soothing stream. My hands move automatically, soaping and working over the terrain of my body—a landscape of hard-earned muscle and scar tissue. My fingers trace the lines of ink etched into my skin, symbols of my past, of victories and losses. They skim over the roughened skin of my knee, a memento from the surgery that stitched my ACL back together—a skilled doctor's handiwork under the skin, hidden but never forgotten.
And then, unbidden, Isabella invades my thoughts. She’s like a siren song, her image a flickering flame that I can't snuff out. I see her as she was in New York, the memory surfacing with startling clarity. She was all sharp wit and fiery eyes, her confidence an aphrodisiac that still lingers in my mind. I can't help but recall the curve of her smile, the arch of her eyebrow when she challenged me.
Damn sexy, not just in appearance but in her essence, the very air around her charged with a kind of electricity that’s rare to find.
I shake my head, trying to dispel the image, but it's futile. The scent of her perfume, a subtle mix of something floral and citrus, seems to mix with the steam around me. It's a phantom scent, but it's as if she's here in the room, just out of sight.
The fantasy deepens, edging into dangerous territory. I see us locked in a passionate embrace, the kind of desperate, consuming kiss that you see in the movies.
