Page 19 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and lean back against the cushions. The wine has left a warm trail down my throat, a false sense of courage that I wish could decide for me.
"What now, Isabella?" I whisper into the quiet of my apartment. The offer glows under the lamplight, an invitation and a challenge all at once. And outside, Seattle waits, indifferent to the turmoil it's witnessing, a stage for a drama yet to unfold.
10
Dom
Rick’sgottheschedulespread out in front of us like a general surveying the battlefield. I'm leaning back in my chair, the leather creaking under the weight of decisions to come. Our eyes trace the line of games that lead to the division finals, a route mapped out in reds and blues on the calendar.
“Back-to-back away games here could be rough,” Rick muses, tapping a finger against a particularly grueling stretch. His brow is furrowed, the lines etched by years of strategizing and too many close calls.
I nod, my mind already running plays, anticipating the fatigue, the adrenaline, the push for that extra inch on ice. “We’ll need the guys at peak condition. No room for slip-ups.”
Rick looks up, his eyes meeting mine. “And the StarPucks are gaining momentum. They’re hungry, Dom.”
“They may be hungry,” I reply, the edge of a challenge in my voice, “but we’ve got the bite.”
We both know what’s at stake. The StarPucks are the new kids on the block, flashy and eager to knock kings off thrones. And if my gut’s right, it's going to be us facing them when the ice chips settle. I welcome it—the clash, the test. I didn’t build my career on backing down from a challenge.
I stand up, pacing over to the window that overlooks the rink. Down there, Isabella's in her element, her voice ringing out clear and sharp. She's directing the players, her commands punctuated by the slap of pucks against sticks.
A smirk pulls at my lips, unbidden. She's a force, Isabella. She's got this team under her spell—my team. And I'd be lying if I said that didn't crank the dial on my respect for her up a notch every time I see her in action.
But there's tension there, too—a push and pull of wills. Isabella doesn’t just bend to authority because it’s authority. She questions, challenges, fights. It's why she's good. It's also why we clash. Like two lines on the ice, speeding towards the same puck. Collision is inevitable.
“Isabella’s doing good work with them,” Rick's voice breaks into my thoughts, a note of approval there that I can't disagree with.
“Yeah, she’s got game,” I admit, my gaze still on the rink. “But I need to make sure she’s playing for the long haul, not just the flashy wins.”
Rick gives a grunt of acknowledgment, knowing as well as I do that a season isn’t just a series of games; it’s a marathon. And sometimes, you need to rein in the sprinters for the distance.
I watch Isabella for a moment longer, her every move radiating confidence. And as much as it grinds my gears when she defies me, when she sparks up against my authority, I can’t help but anticipate the firestorm our next confrontation will bring. Because every time we clash, something shifts—a dynamic, a perspective.
And that’s the kind of friction that not only polishes steel but sharpens it.
“Can’t help but notice how hard you’ve been riding her,” Rick says. “There a long-term strategy you’ve got in mind?”
Rick’s question hangs in the air, and for a split second, my mind betrays me, wandering down paths less professional and far more primal. Images of Isabella, fierce and unyielding, flash through my head, unbidden and unwelcome in their intensity. I push them away, a mental shove as forceful as a check into the boards.
"Isabella's good," I start, the words coming out with a grudging respect that I don't often afford. "Damn good. But good isn’t the goal. I'm aiming for greatness. For her, for the team."
Rick's eyes narrow, a mix of interest and skepticism. He’s seen his fair share of wannabe hotshots turn lukewarm. "And how do you plan on getting her there?"
I smirk, my mind settling on a strategy as clear in my head as our path to the finals. "Ever heard the saying 'iron sharpens iron'?"
His nod is slow, contemplative. He gets where I’m heading, the old wisdom that pressure breeds excellence.
"I plan on challenging her, pushing her. She's got the fire, Rick, I've seen it. But she needs to be forged into something stronger, something... unstoppable. And I'm just the guy to do that."
It's not just talk. I've got plans for Isabella Carrington. Plans that will test her, mold her, and, if I'm honest, will likely pit us against each other more fiercely than ever.
With that, I stand, the chair rolling back with a decisive clatter. My legs carry me to the door, my strides as certain as the plan forming in my mind. I'm not one for half-measures or gentle prods. If Isabella's going to reach the potential I see in her, she needs to be tempered by challenge, by conflict.
As I make my way down to the rink, the sounds of the stadium around me—the distant clatter of sticks, the muffled directives of coaches, the occasional burst of laughter from the team—fade into a backdrop for my thoughts.
Isabella won’t like it, of course. She’ll fight it—fight me—every step of the way. But that’s what I'm counting on. That fight, that spirit of hers, it’s what will make her great. And whether she knows it or not, I'm going to help her get there.
I pause at the top of the steps leading down to the rink, my hand on the railing, the cold metal a grounding point. Below, Isabella is a commanding figure, orchestrating the flow of drills with a conductor's grace and a general's authority.
