Page 23 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
Thelockerroomischarged with the kind of tension that precedes battle, each player suited up, eyes fixed on me as I stand before them. This is my terrain, where I mold individual talent into a single, unstoppable force. I relish it—the power, the control, the unity.
"Listen up," I start, my voice the commanding rumble of thunder before a storm. "The Wolverines are coming into our house for the next game." I let the name hang in the air, a target painted in their minds. "They're fast, they're dirty, and they think they've got our number. But here's the thing—" I pause, a predator's smile tugging at my lips, "—they don't have a damn clue what's waiting for them."
The team nods, a sea of helmets bobbing in agreement, the growl of 'yeah' rolling through them like a wave. I pace before them, locking eyes with each player, ensuring the gravity of my words sinks in deep.
"We're more than just a team; we're a brotherhood. We watch each other's backs. We move as one. And when one of us scores," I punch a fist into my palm, the impact a punctuation, "we all score."
It's a speech I've given a hundred times, but today, it feels different. Because as I look out at the sea of faces, there's a gap where there shouldn't be one. Isabella's spot is empty, her usual punctual presence conspicuously absent.
I wrap up, "We’re going to outskate them, outplay them, and if it comes down to it, we will outlast them. This is our ice, our game, our victory to take. Let's show the Wolverines what it means to mess with the Blades."
A chorus of agreement follows, the room a cacophony of claps and cheers, but my focus has already shifted. Where the hell is Isabella?
The team disperses, clattering out towards the rink, and I catch sight of Sam, his gear half-on, his expression unreadable. He's her brother; if anyone knows why Isabella's MIA, it's him.
I stride over, my approach direct, the question unasked but already burning in my gaze. Sam looks up, and there's a flicker of something there, a hesitation that has me bracing for news I'm not sure I want to hear.
I catch Sam just as he’s about to head for the ice, his gear half-strapped and his mind clearly somewhere else. "Sam," I call out, my voice cutting through the residual noise of the locker room.
He turns, his expression tight. "Yeah?"
"Where's Isabella?" I ask, the question blunt, a hammer looking for a nail. "She's never late."
Sam's brow creases, and he looks at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. "You didn't hear?" he finally says, a note of disbelief in his tone.
"Hear what?" I press, feeling an unfamiliar tug of concern in my chest. Last practice got heated, sure, but Isabella's got skin thicker than most.
Sam's silent for a beat, his eyes shifting to the floor before meeting mine again. "Izzy's gone," he says, the words hitting me like a blindside check. "Greener pastures, I guess."
Gone? The word doesn't make sense. Not Isabella. Not in the middle of the season.
"Greener pastures?" I echo, the confusion must be written all over my face.
"Yeah," Sam nods toward Rick’s office, a silent signal that the GM would have the answers I'm after. "Talk to Rick. He'll fill you in."
I'm moving before I even decide to, my strides long and purposeful as I head to Rick's office. Isabella, leaving? It doesn't add up. She's as much a part of this team as anyone, more than some. I push the door open without knocking, urgency rendering me tactless.
Rick looks up, startled by the intrusion. "Dom," he starts, standing up, "what—"
But I don't let him finish. "Isabella," I demand, "she's gone? To where?"
Rick's eyes hold mine, a silent conversation before he even speaks. "You better sit down, Dom. We've got things to discuss."
***
From the high-rise vantage point of my penthouse, Seattle sprawls out like a kingdom. Here in my office, surrounded by glass walls and steel ambition, I'm a king in waiting, poised for the next conquest. But tonight, the city lights feel like distant stars—close enough to see, too far to touch.
I’m at my desk, an expansive slab of dark wood and chrome, the skyline reflecting in its polished surface. My laptop's open, a silent sentinel as I wait for the investors’ call to begin. Normally, I’d be reviewing stats, but tonight, my mind is on a different game entirely.
Isabella’s gone.
Rick’s words play on repeat. She gave her notice quietly, slipping away without fanfare. He respected her decision, said she needed to fly. But me? I was left in the dark. And I can't shake the feeling that she wanted it that way.
Did I drive her to it? Was it that last practice, that final jab that pushed her over the edge? I've always prided myself on knowing how far to push, but with Isabella... with her, it was different.
The room's ambient lights dim, a reminder that the call for my investor meeting is imminent. The screens flicker to life, windows to the faces that control the purse strings of empires. It's showtime.
But as I prepare to don the mask of the indomitable Dom Steele, a sliver of doubt worms its way into my fortress of solitude. Isabella was a pillar, as much a part of this team’s spirit as I am. Her absence is a shadow, a cold spot where the fire used to be.
