Page 14 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
I chuckle, a mix of pride and wistfulness in my laugh. "Thanks, J. It's just... sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to grow up in a family where it was okay to just be, you know? To not always be chasing the next big thing."
Jenna reaches out, her touch warm and comforting. "You might have been raised to chase success, Isabella, but you've also got a huge heart. Don't forget that. It's one of the things that makes you such an amazing friend... and manager."
"Yeah, well, sometimes I think that same drive makes me butt heads with people like Dom," I admit, swirling my wine. "You know, strong personalities clashing."
She chuckles. "I was just thinking that. You and Dom Steele, huh? Two forces of nature. Maybe it takes someone as bullheaded as him to match up with you."
I let out a half-laugh, half-groan. "Don't remind me. The man's infuriating. But I can't deny there's... something there.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Like a…somethingsomething?”
“No way!” I shoot the words out. “Not a chance I’d get involved with a boss. I’m thinking more like a challenge, maybe."
“A challenge, or a sexy challenge. Then again, you’ve already gotten him into bed once.”
“And that’sit. No mixing business and pleasure, thank you very much.:
I smile, grateful for Jenna's presence in my life. She always knows how to lift my spirits. "Thanks, Jenna. I don't know what I'd do without you."
She grins, raising her glass again. "Here's to us—the overachievers with hearts of gold."
I laugh, clinking my glass against hers. "To us."
The cool Seattle rain lightly patters around me as I make my way home, the gentle shower almost refreshing after the heat of the bar. Each drop seems to bring a clarity, washing away the buzz of wine and the weight of the evening's conversation.
Walking under the dim streetlights, I find my thoughts drifting to my parents. They were always so emotionally reserved, like affection and warmth were secondary to ambition and success. In our house, achievements were celebrated, emotions were... well, they weren't really discussed.
Growing up, I learned to mirror their stoicism, to tuck away feelings and focus on goals. It was simpler, less messy. But it left a void, a space where emotional connections should have been.
I remember seeking their approval, their recognition. It wasn't about love, not in the way other families seemed to define it. It was about being the best, about achieving what was expected and then some. My heart, my personal desires, they took a backseat to career aspirations and accolades.
As the raindrops mingle with the streetlights, casting a shimmering glow on the damp pavement, I can't help but wonder if that upbringing shaped my current struggles. Maybe that's why I clash with Dom, why his challenging demeanor unnerves me. He represents a disruption to the emotional control I've clung to for so long.
I pull my coat tighter around me, the rain growing steadier. In this quiet moment, alone with my thoughts, I realize how much I've closed off my heart. Career and success have been my armor against vulnerability, but at what cost?
8
Dom
"Stevie,crossit!"
My voice cuts through the roar of the crowd, urgent, commanding. On the ice, there's only us—the players, our breaths misting in the cold, our bodies engines of raw power and sheer determination. I'm a streak of color against the white, jersey fluttering as I punch through the opposing line, stick ready, eyes locked on the rubber disc that's about to define our fates.
"Got it, Dom!" comes the call, almost lost in the cacophony. Stevie's trusty backhand sends the puck slicing through the air, a spinning promise of victory.
Everything slows down, like I'm moving through syrup. The puck and I are in perfect sync, hurtling towards the net. The goalie's eyes are wide behind his mask, tracking the puck, tracking me. He knows what's coming. I know what's coming. But knowing isn't enough to stop it—not when I'm in the zone, not when the play is this clear, this sharp.
I let out a grunt as I slap the shot, a textbook feint to the left before snapping it to the right. The goalie bites, just as I knew he would.
It’s in. The crowd goesnuts.
I've already started my victory turn, stick raised, ready for the cheers, for my team to pile on me—
The crash is sudden, brutal, a sledgehammer blow that derails the world off its axis. A shadow, a rival, a delayed reaction, and then I'm flying, my back colliding with the unforgiving ice. Air whooshes out of my lungs, stars explode behind my eyelids, and the pain, sharp and searing, spears through my leg.
Silence swallows the pain for a heartbeat—or maybe the pain swallows the noise. It's hard to tell when you're lying on the ice, the game forgotten, the cheers turning to a distant echo, the worried faces of teammates hovering like ghosts above.
The cold seeps in, numbing the pain, numbing my thoughts. A stretcher appears. Voices are urgent but sound muffled, as if underwater. And then there's the sensation of floating, of being untethered from the solid ice, from the solidity of my life as I knew it.
