Page 17 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
Isabella
“Alright,boys—formup!”
The brisk Seattle air nips at my cheeks as I stride up to the entrance of the Rainier Medical Center, the Silver Blades in tow. These guys, decked out in team gear and lugging equipment bags filled with signed pucks and jerseys, might grumble about early mornings, but the prospect of lighting up some kid’s day has a way of cutting through even the thickest fog of sleepiness.
Today's no different. We’re here for a reason that’s a heck of a lot bigger than hockey—a reminder that the heart of this team beats strong not just on the ice, but off it too. I’ve always pushed for these community events, argued for them, organized them down to the last pen for autographs. The owners may not see the direct line to ticket sales, but I see the direct line to heartstrings—and isn’t that where true loyalty starts?
We navigate the sterile hospital halls, the antiseptic smell mingling oddly with the musk of athlete sweat and rubber from the soles of their sneakers. Nurses give us knowing smiles, a couple of the younger ones not-so-subtly checking out the players. I don’t blame them; hockey players have a certain rugged charm that’s hard to ignore.
Then we’re there, the recovery wing, where life’s unfairness is on full display. Kids, way too young to be here, look up as we enter, and for a split second, there's a hush—like the sharp intake of breath before a goal is scored. Then the room erupts. Smiles bright enough to light the entire Pacific Northwest break out on faces that have seen too many frowns.
I hang back, content in my role as orchestrator, watching the players bend down to talk to kids, hand out Blades’ paraphernalia, and share stories. I catch the eyes of a little girl clutching a stuffed bear. Her grin is missing a couple of teeth, but it's wide and infectious, and I can’t help but smile back, waving. For a moment, I wonder about kids of my own, but I mentally chuck the thought away like a hot puck. My life? It’s schedules and strategies, practices and press releases. There's no room for bedtime stories and Band-Aids.
“Isabella, come take a picture!” Jack Simms, our star right winger, beckons me over. I slide in next to him, the players making room. There’s a click, a flash, and it’s immortalized—this moment, this team, this connection.
“Thanks for setting this up, Coach,” Ryan Cutter, our goalie, says to me after the picture. His gratitude is genuine, voice hushed in reverence to the place we’re in.
“It’s the least we can do,” I respond, and I mean it. It’s easy to forget the world outside the rink when you live and breathe the game. But these visits, they’re grounding, humbling.
I lean against the doorframe, my arms crossed, a contented smirk playing on my lips. The Silver Blades might be fierce on the ice, but here, in this pastel-painted recovery wing, they’re teddy bears—each one of them. It’s a side of the players the public rarely gets to see: their humor, their tenderness, the way they can make a room full of sick kids forget about the world outside these four walls.
One of the guys starts a goofy TikTok dance with some of the kids, and the room bursts into giggles and cheers. Another joins in, and then another. I should probably tell them to be careful about their image, but hell, this is the kind of publicity you can’t buy. Plus, the sight is too pure, too joyful to interrupt.
Sam is in his element, bending down to match eye level with a boy whose eyes are bright with unshed tears of joy.
"You just focus on getting better, and I'll make sure there are tickets waiting for you," Sam promises, and I know it's not just talk. That’s my brother, all heart, sometimes more than he knows what to do with.
As we step out of the room, Sam’s beaming. "Good call on this, Iz," he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. "Reminds you what’s really important, doesn’t it?"
“Yeah," I reply, "it's not just about what happens on the scoreboard. It's about heart. It’s about community.” I believe every word. You can’t build a team’s legacy just from wins and revenue. It’s about the imprints they leave, the lives they touch.
“Where's Dom, though?” Sam frowns slightly, looking around as if he might have missed him in a corner, handing out candy or signing a cast.
I'm about to roll my eyes to the ceiling—typical Dom, always on his own schedule—when the man himself strides in. Late. Of course. But the moment he does, the room transforms. Kids straighten up, eyes wide. The murmurs rise to cheers.
Dom has that effect, the kind that ripples through a space, changes the air. It’s infuriating, and... I have to admit, a bit electrifying. He’s in casual gear today, but even without the suit, he carries an air of command, like a captain—no, like an owner. His presence is a natural force, the kind you can’t bottle or sell, the kind you just have to witness.
He walks straight up to the boy Sam had just spoken to. “Heard you're a fan of the game,” Dom says, his voice a low rumble that seems to echo even in the busy room.
The kid nods, eyes fixed on Dom like he’s the sun.
“Well, you make sure you get well soon. We need fans like you cheering us on,” Dom says and ruffles the kid's hair, his expression softening in a way I've rarely seen.
Dom's arrival might have been fashionably late, but as I watch him with the kids, all effortless charm and easy smiles, it's hard to stay mad at him. I lean against a wall, arms folded, a bemused expression no doubt painting my face.
"Nice of you to finally join us," I quip, the corner of my mouth lifting in a half-smile. It's half-hearted sarcasm, the sting taken out by the genuine pleasure I see in the eyes of the kids surrounding him.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he shoots back, that grin on his face reaching his eyes. The way he says it, you almost believe he’s been here the whole time, that his heart was present even when his body wasn't.
As Dom makes his way through the room, his eyes land on a young boy sitting off to the side, his small frame curled up in a chair, separate from the bustling activity. There's a withdrawn quality to him, a quietness that seems to set him apart from the laughter and chatter of the other children. Dom's expression softens noticeably, a hint of recognition in his gaze as if seeing a part of his younger self in the boy's solitude.
He alters his path, his usual confident stride giving way to something softer, more approachable. He crouches down beside him, their eyes on a level.
"Hey there, champ," Dom starts, his voice gentle, a stark contrast to his usual commanding tone. "You know, when I was about your age, I was pretty shy too."
The boy looks up, curiosity piqued by Dom's admission.
"Yeah?" he whispers, almost inaudible.
