Page 18 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
Dom nods, a warm smile on his face. "Yeah. And you know what helped me? Hockey." He begins to gesture, his hands mimicking the movement of a player on the ice. "I was this skinny kid, not very talkative. But on the ice, I could be whoever I wanted to be. It was my escape, my way to express myself without words."
The boy's eyes widen slightly, a sense of wonder replacing the initial apprehension.
Dom continues, "I remember this one game. I was nervous, butterflies in my stomach. But then, I got the puck, and everything just clicked. I weaved through the other players like they were just cones on the ice. And when I scored that goal, it wasn't just a point on the board. It was like I found a piece of myself out there."
The boy's expression shifts, a mix of awe and understanding dawning on his face.
"You think I could do that?" he asks, a hint of hope in his voice.
Dom's smile broadens. "I know you can. Here, let me show you something." He picks up a mini stick, handling it with ease despite its size. "This move, it's simple but effective. Just like this," he demonstrates a basic stickhandling technique.
The boy watches intently, then, with a bit of encouragement from Dom, he takes the stick. His first attempt is awkward, the movements unfamiliar and hesitant.
"That's it, you're doing great," Dom encourages, his voice brimming with genuine support. "Just keep your eye on the puck, and let your hands do the work."
Gradually, the boy's movements become more fluid, confidence building with each motion. A small but triumphant smile creeps onto his face, and his eyes light up with a newfound spark.
"There you go! You're a natural," Dom praises, his own joy at the boy's success evident.
I watch from a distance, my heart warming at the scene. In this moment, Dom isn't just a former hockey star or a high-profile businessman; he's a mentor, a source of inspiration for a young boy who needed just a little push to find his own strength.
As I stand back, observing the scene unfolding before me, a moment of introspection catches me off guard. Watching the Silver Blades interact with the children, each interaction brimming with care and genuine affection, a realization slowly dawns on me. I've always been so driven, so focused on climbing the ladder of success in the male-dominated world of sports management. It's been about proving myself, about being the best. But in this relentless pursuit, have I neglected other aspects of my life?
There's a pang of something akin to regret, or perhaps it's a newfound awareness. It's as if I'm seeing a different world through a new lens—a world where personal connections, family, and maybe even motherhood, hold a place of importance. The thought is both daunting and strangely appealing.
The laughter of the children, the warm smiles of the players, the easy camaraderie—it all paints a picture of what life could be outside the confines of boardrooms and strategy meetings. Have I been so focused on professional goals that I've pushed aside the innate human longing for a deeper connection? The thought of having a family, of nurturing a life beyond my career, is something I've rarely allowed myself to consider. But here, in this room filled with joy and innocent wonder, it's a desire that bubbles to the surface, unbidden yet undeniable.
I watch as Dom gently guides the shy boy through a hockey move, his actions speaking of patience and a natural ease with children. It's a side of him I hadn't fully appreciated before, and it adds another layer to the complex man I've come to know. Could I see myself in a similar role, sharing moments like these, not just as a career woman but as a mother?
My phone buzzes in my pocket, the screen lighting up with an incoming call and snapping me out of my wandering thoughts.
The name flashes: Anthony Silverman. My heartbeat picks up a notch. The owner of the Seattle StarPucks on my line isn't a daily occurrence. I step out into the corridor for a semblance of quiet, thumb swiping the screen.
"Isabella Carrington speaking."
"Isabella, Anthony Silverman here. Do you have a moment?"
The hustle of the pediatric wing feels miles away suddenly, and I'm back in the game. "Of course, Mr. Silverman," I reply, my tone shifting, the sharp, sassy edges honing to professional sleekness. "What can I do for you?"
I don’t miss the glance Dom sends my way, his eyebrows raised in question. I step further away, a clear signal that this conversation is not for public consumption. Whatever Anthony Silverman wants, it's about to change the tempo of my day. I can feel it.
***
The city lights twinkle like a field of fireflies against the night, a vibrant, pulsing backdrop to the stillness of my apartment. I'm perched on my leather couch, a glass of Merlot in hand, its rich aroma mingling with the scent of rain that always seems to linger in Seattle.
The offer letter lies open on my coffee table, a stark contrast against the dark wood, its words printed in a no-nonsense font that belies the upheaval they represent in my life. "We are pleased to extend to you the position of General Manager for the Seattle StarPucks," it begins, each word heavy with implication.
I scan the document, my eyes catching on key phrases that jump off the page: "competitive salary package," "autonomy in team decisions," "opportunities for personal and professional growth." They're offering me the big leagues, a chance to step out of the shadow of the Dom and into the spotlight that's all my own.
The last manager's departure was hush-hush, but in the sports world, whispers travel fast. Evidently, they weren't cutting it, and now, here I am, top of the replacement list. It's flattering, and terrifying, and a whole host of things I'm not sure I'm ready to unpack.
Better pay, more prestige. It's every professional's dream. And yet, it feels like a betrayal, too. The Silver Blades are more than just a job; they're family. They're Sam. They're late nights and early mornings and blood and sweat and tears. They're the taste of victory and the sting of defeat, all mixed together in a cocktail that's become my life's work.
I take another sip of wine. To accept this offer would be to walk away from all that, to turn my back on the team that's been my home since I snagged my first gig in the big time.
But then there's Dom. The thought of no longer having to jostle with him for control, of no longer being under his scrutinizing gaze, it's like a balm to my frayed nerves. Still, can I really let him drive me away? Is that the legacy I want to leave?
The city seems to hold its breath as I sit there, the weight of the decision pressing down on me. The Silver Blades, the StarPucks, Dom, Sam — they all hang in the balance, a myriad of paths and possibilities stretching out before me.
