Page 11 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
I cut him off with a wave of my hand. "Pass. You have your bro time."
He grins, unfazed. "Your loss. O’Malley's has the best wings in the city."
I watch him skate off, heading for the locker rooms, leaving me in the echo of the now-empty rink.
Turning back to the stands, I notice that Dom’s attention isn’t on his screen anymore. It’s on me. Our gazes lock across the ice, a silent clash from a distance. I break it first, my focus not on this battle, not on this strange game of chess I’ve found myself in, but on the bigger picture—my team, my career, my life that suddenly has Dom Steele in the middle of it, like a stone thrown into a still pond.
How the hell did it come to this? How did my well-ordered world get flipped upside down by the sudden, whirlwind return of a one-night stand turned team owner, turned daily aggravation?
With a shake of my head, I gather my clipboard and notes, my armor against the chaos, and stride out of the rink. My heels echo a staccato beat that speaks of battles to come, of strategies to be formed, not just for hockey, but for dealing with the force of nature that is Dom Steele. Because one thing’s for sure, I’m not the type to get checked into the boards.
I glance back once more, and he’s still watching, that inscrutable smirk in place. Game on, Mr. Steele. Game on.
6
Dom
"Come on, Rangers! Don't let those assholes push you around like that!" I’m shouting at the screen, my voice drowning in the cacophony of the bar.
Sam, next to me, is just as animated, his eyes glued to the action. "Fucking hell, man! You'd think they'd have learned by now, right?" He throws back a gulp of his beer, the glass clinking as he sets it down.
The game is a nail-biter, the kind that keeps you on the edge of your seat, every play a potential game-changer. I love it.
We're at O'Malley's, the epitome of a classic hockey sports bar. The walls are adorned with jerseys and memorabilia, each piece telling its own story of game night glory. The air buzzes with the sound of lively chatter, punctuated by the occasional cheer or groan as the game unfolds on the numerous screens around us. It's the kind of place where the beer flows as freely as the hockey debates, and every screen is a portal to sports heaven.
During a lull in the game, Sam turns to me. "So, Mr. Hotshot from the New York City Penthouse, how’s it feel being back in the real world, getting your hands dirty with the team?"
I can't help but laugh. Sam's always been good at keeping things light, even when he's poking fun. "I'll tell you, man, it feels damn good. Beats sitting in front of a screen all day, that's for sure. Nothing like the chill of the rink and seeing the guys in action up close."
Sam nods, a smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, I bet. Must be a nice change from the high life, huh? Getting back to the grassroots of the game."
I take a sip of my beer, the cool liquid a sharp contrast to the warmth of the bar. "Absolutely. There's something about being there, in the moment. The energy of the players, the sound of the puck against the stick. It's where I belong, man."
He chuckles, raising his glass for a toast. "To getting your hands dirty, then. Welcome to Seattle, D."
Our glasses clink. "Thanks, Sam. It's good to be here. And working with the Blades, it's... it's something else. Makes me feel like I'm part of the game again."
Sam's expression turns thoughtful. "You always were part of it, Dom. Just in a different way. But now, you're shaping the future of the game, and that's something."
I nod. "Yeah, it's a new chapter. And I'm ready to write it. These guys, the team, they've got potential. It's just about unlocking it."
The game picks up again, our attention drawn back to the screen. The energy in the bar rises, a collective anticipation as the players on the screen battle for control.
As the players on the screen clash in a flurry of skill and speed, I'm momentarily transfixed. A forward breaks away, slicing through the defense like a hot knife through butter. It's a play straight out of my own book, one that I'd executed countless times on the ice. For a split second, I'm back there, feeling the cold bite of the rink, the exhilaration of the chase, the puck at my stick, and the net in my sights.
The crowd in the bar erupts as he lines up the shot, the tension palpable. The puck flies, a blur of potential, and finds the back of the net. The bar explodes in cheers, but I'm lost in my own memories, the echo of the crowd blending with the ghosts of cheers from my past.
I shake my head, pulling myself back to the present, the nostalgia a bittersweet sting. That life, those moments on the ice, they're part of a chapter I've closed. But damn, they still burn bright in my memory.
Sam glances at me, an unspoken question in his eyes, but before he can voice it, he's distracted by the celebration around us. As the noise dies down, he turns back to me, a knowing look on his face.
"Buddy, you look like you're solving the world's problems over there," I rib Sam, nudging his shoulder. "What's eating you, dude?"
“Nothing. Just thinking about the piss-poor defense I just witnessed.” I nod at the screen.
Sam chuckles, brushing off my teasing with an easy grin. But then his expression turns serious again. "How are you, really?" he asks, his gaze steady on me. “Come on—I’ve known you for years, brother. Obvious as hell to me when the great Dom Steele’s got something on his mind.”
I raise an eyebrow, caught off guard. "What do you mean? I'm good, living the dream." I take a swig of my beer, trying to brush off the question.
