Page 21 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
11
Isabella
"He'sunbelievable,"Isay,my words sharp enough to slice through the low hum of the bar. "There he was, picking apart every line, every move, like he's the one who's been coaching day in and day out."
The clink of ice in my glass syncs with the pounding in my head, a steady reminder of the infuriating man who's the source of both. Jenna is across from me, her expression a mix of concern and the kind of righteous indignation only a best friend can muster.
Jenna takes a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving mine. "Dom's just... what’s the word? Insufferable," she says, the word hissing out like steam from a pressure valve.
I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "That's putting it mildly. He took pleasure in it, Jenna. I swear he did. Every pointed question, every skeptical look—like he wanted to see me squirm, like he was taking some kind of sick pleasure out of it.”
The bartender passes by, and I signal for a refill. It's that kind of night. Jenna reaches over, giving my hand a squeeze. "You're the best thing that happened to that team. He should be on his knees thanking you, not tearing you down."
She's got a point. I've turned strategies on their heads, pulled wins out of the hat when everyone else was ready to throw in the towel. But Dom, he just sees me as another plaything in his little power games.
"He even made this snide comment," I continue, the words tumbling out as the anger boils over. "Made it personal. Right there, in front of everyone."
Jenna's eyes flash, a spark of shared fury lighting them up. "He's threatened by you, Iz. He sees you're brilliant and it scares the hell out of him."
Her words should comfort me, but they don't. They can't. Not when I have to face him again tomorrow, and the day after that, each encounter a new battle in a war I didn't sign up for.
The new glass arrives, and I take a long drink, the liquid fire doing nothing to douse the flames of my frustration. "I'm just so tired of it, you know? The constant one-upmanship. I want to coach, not play these ridiculous games."
Jenna nods, her lips pressed in a thin line. "So what are you going to do?"
It's the million-dollar question. I stare into the amber depths of my glass, searching for answers in the swirl of whiskey. What am I going to do? The offer from the StarPucks looms in my mind, a lifeboat in a stormy sea. But am I ready to jump ship?
"I don't know," I admit, feeling weary to my bones. "But something's got to give. Last thing I want is a tyrant like Dom breathing down my throat, challenging me at every damn turn."
Jenna's there, as she always is, a sympathetic ear and a shoulder to lean on. But even she can't fight this battle for me. No, this one's mine, and mine alone.
The glass chills my fingers, condensation beading like sweat on a brow — a physical echo of the turmoil brewing inside me. I've been sitting on this offer from the StarPucks like it's a grenade without a pin, and I'm not sure I'm ready to let it explode into conversation just yet. Jenna, though, she's got a sixth sense for secrets; she always has.
"You're squirming, Iz," she notes, her keen eyes fixed on me over the rim of her own glass. "Spill it."
I hesitate, the words teetering on the tip of my tongue. "It's nothing," I try, knowing even as I say it that Jenna will see right through the lie.
"Isabella Carrington," she says, my name a gentle reprimand, "you've never 'nothing' a day in your life. What's going on?"
Her directness is a force of nature, and under its weight, my resistance crumbles. "I got an offer," I confess, the words tumbling out in a rush.
Jenna’s eyes go wide, and I can almost hear the gears turning in her head. "An offer? Like, a job offer?"
I nod, my fingers tracing the lip of my glass, round and round. "General Manager. For the StarPucks."
"For real?" She's practically bouncing in her seat now, the excitement written all over her face.
Before I can even form my own thoughts into a coherent question, she's already there, her response a sharp exclamation: "Do it!!"
I blink, taken aback by her vehemence. "Just like that?"
"Yes, just like that," she insists, her enthusiasm undimmed. "Isabella, this is huge. It's what you've been working towards. Plus, it's the StarPucks — they're independent, which means you won't be under Dom's... what did you call it earlier? 'Patriarchal thumb'?"
Her words are a mirror, reflecting my own unspoken desires and fears back at me. It's true, the StarPucks offer autonomy, a chance to build something from the ground up, without the looming presence of a man who manages to get under my skin like no one else.
But then, Jenna’s phone buzzes, the sound slicing through our bubble of conversation. "Sorry, duty calls," she says, shooting me an apologetic look as she stands to take the call, her voice shifting into her professional doctor mode.
Left alone with my swirling thoughts, I mull over Jenna's words. Is she right? Is this the natural next step? The offer is great — better pay, more responsibility, and a chance to prove myself without Dom overshadowing every decision.
