Page 1 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
1
Isabella
"Jenna,theseconferencescouldput a caffeine-addicted squirrel to sleep," I groan into my phone, swirling the olive in my martini. Neon Nights is humming with the seductive energy of New York City nightlife. A deep blue glow casts an almost dreamlike haze over the hip crowd, and the bar's modern aesthetics provide the perfect contrast to my day at the impossibly dreary NHL Annual Strategy Symposium.
Laughter dances from the other end of the call. "I can't even picture you, Miss Always-in-Control, at one of those things. All suits, ties, and puck dynamics. But come on, it can't bethatbad?"
I roll my eyes, even if she can't see it.
"Imagine getting mansplained about the aerodynamics of hockey sticks," I say with a hint of dry humor. My feet ache in my high heels, longing for the comfort of my usual sports attire.
Jenna's laughter rings through the space. "I bet you were wearing your 'thoroughly unimpressed' face the whole time," she teases.
"Oh, absolutely," I reply. "But I'm really not a fan of this whole suit-and-heels thing. My feet are staging a full-on rebellion."
"Missing your comfy sneakers, aren’t you?" Jenna asks knowingly.
"You have no idea," I groan. "And don't get me started on the hair. This power bun has been a nightmare.” I reach up, letting down the tight bun that's been pulling at my scalp, and my hair cascades down in a wave of liberation.
Jenna chuckles. "Ah, the small joys of shedding the professional armor and coming back to your true self."
"Exactly," I agree, running my fingers through my hair. "Give me my team jacket and a pair of comfortable shoes any day. That's the real Isabella Carrington, not this suited-up, high-heel-enduring version."
"Well, suit or no suit, you’re still the Isabella who's kicking ass and taking names," Jenna says supportively.
"Thanks, J.”
As I vent, my gaze drifts across the bar, landing on a sight that stops me mid-sentence. There's a man, all sharp lines and brooding intensity, seated in a way that screams confidence. The tailored cut of his suit showcases broad shoulders and an athlete's physique. The dim lights catch the intricate tattoos that wind down his rolled-up sleeve on his left arm all the way to his hand, then back up along the same side of his neck, revealing tales I can only guess at.
"Earth to Izzy!" Jenna's voice snaps me back to reality.
Caught in my open admiration, I quickly divert. "Sorry, Jen. Just... surveying the room."
"Ooh, someone caught your eye?" Her voice lifts with mischief.
I smirk, keeping my voice casual while my gaze subtly follows the man across the bar. "Just a random guy. He's definitely hot, but I've got bigger fish to fry."
Jenna laughs. "Always business with you. Speaking of which, why'd you call?"
I sigh, tapping my nails against the bar. "Needed a break, and a momentary escape. But you know me, always finding a way to work."
Jenna's laughter rings through the phone, light and teasing. "Seriously, give meonegood reason why-" There's a sudden pause, a muffled sound, then Jenna's tone shifts, more serious. "Oh, shoot, that's Dr. Reynolds calling from the hospital. Might be important. I gotta take this. Keep me posted, okay? And go conquer the world, or at least that bar."
"We'll see. Bye, Jen" I end the call, laying my phone on the bar. Fishing a sleek tablet from my bag, I pull up a few documents, figuring I can squeeze in some work while enjoying my drink. Then it’s back home to Seattle in the morning.
I lose myself in reports and strategies, making notes and planning moves for my team, the Silver Blades. In the periphery of my vision, I occasionally notice the tattooed stranger glancing my way, his dark eyes intense. But right now, my focus is all on the game off the ice. After all, in the fast-paced world of sports management, every moment counts.
I don't know what hits me first—the potent warmth of the martini or the sultriness in the gaze of the tattooed man. It's a heady combination. I'm used to feeling eyes on me, especially in my line of work, but this? This is a different ballgame–or hockey game, in my case.
I glance up, just a cursory survey, but I'm not prepared for what greets me. Those intense eyes, exuding a primal, unspoken challenge. It's the kind of confidence you don't often see, the kind that says he's played the game—in more rinks than one—and knows how to win. That hint of a smirk, so infuriatingly arrogant, is enough to send a jolt straight to my core.
There’s something else, too. The guy looksfamiliarin a way I can’t quite place.
My cheeks flame.Damn it, Carrington, pull yourself together.
I quickly return my attention to the screen, telling myself that the bar's ambient temperature is the reason for my sudden warmth. I become engrossed in a particularly gnarly contract clause, letting its jargon and complications distract me from the man who seems to have temporarily short-circuited my brain.
A new email pops up, pulling my attention. Some update about the Seattle StarPucks, the newest franchise team to hit the ice. As I scan the lines, I make a mental note to respond later. My eyes flit over stats, percentages, margins—numbers and figures that ground me, making the world make sense again.
