Page 37 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
"I know," she says, a trace of her usual fire returning to her voice. "I just don't like being the center of a media circus."
Before we can dive any deeper into our conversation, Isabella's phone chimes with an incoming email. She flicks it open, and as her eyes scan the screen, a small, almost incredulous smile forms on her lips. It's a rare sight—Isabella smiling at her phone—and it piques my curiosity instantly.
"That was fast," she murmurs, her eyes still glued to the screen.
"What's up?" I ask, leaning in slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of her screen.
She locks her phone and turns to me, the smile still playing on her lips. "That was Anthony Silverman, the owner of the StarPucks—not to mention, my boss. He's already caught wind of our engagement and is absolutely thrilled."
"Thrilled, huh?" I reply, my interest now fully piqued. "What does he have in mind?"
She chuckles, shaking her head in what seems like disbelief. "He wants to arrange a joint training camp next week between the Pucks and the Blades. His idea of celebrating our engagement and showing the world that our teams aren’t destined to be rivals."
I can't help but let out a low whistle. "A joint training camp, that's ambitious. And a smart PR move." The wheels in my head start turning, considering the implications, the potential benefits.
Isabella nods, her professional demeanor slipping back into place. "It's a great opportunity for both teams. Publicity, team morale, a chance to build a narrative around unity and sportsmanship."
I lean back in my seat, mulling over the idea. "Silverman's playing his cards right. But he's not just doing this for the teams. He's banking on our 'engagement' drawing more attention."
"Yeah, he is," Isabella agrees, a hint of resignation in her voice. "But it could work in our favor. If we're going to do this, we might as well go all in."
I grin at her, admiring her pragmatic approach. "That's the spirit, Carrington. Let's turn this circus into a parade."
***
I'm now in my apartment, settled in front of a screen for a remote conference with my investors. The mood is tangibly different from the last time we spoke—there's an air of excitement, an undercurrent of anticipation that wasn't there before.
As their faces pop up on the screen, one after another, the congratulations start rolling in.
"Dom, this is fantastic news!" Robert Hastings exclaims, his smile beaming through the digital divide. "Your engagement to Isabella Carrington is the talk of the town.”
I lean back in my chair, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth. "Thanks, I thought it might catch a few headlines," I say, playing it cool but feeling the adrenaline rush of success.
Eleanor Chu jumps in. "It's not just the headlines, Dom. This gives us much more confidence moving forward with the Apex Arena. We thought that your relationship with her problem… but now we see why you did what you did.”
“Sorry to keep you all in the dark,” I say with a smile. “Couldn’t let the news slip before we were both ready.”
“Understandable,” Robert said.
Their words are music to my ears. Everything is falling into place, just as I planned.
"I appreciate your patience with my, ah, tumultuous personal life," I respond, keeping my tone even but my satisfaction undeniable. "We're all in this together, and the Apex Arena is going to be a game-changer for us."
The conversation moves to logistics and future plans, but I can sense the shift in their attitude. The doubt has been replaced with enthusiasm, the hesitation with eagerness. As the call wraps up, with promises of further discussions and expedited plans, I can't help but feel a surge of triumph.
But as I end the call and the screen goes dark, a sobering thought intrudes upon my victory. If our ruse is ever exposed, if the truth behind our "engagement" comes to light, all of this could crumble like a house of cards. The investors' newfound confidence, the momentum for the Apex Arena, the public's perception—everything hinges on this delicate facade we've constructed.
I stand up, pacing the length of my living room, my mind racing through scenarios. I have to stay ahead, have to keep control of the narrative. Isabella and I have set the stage, but the performance is far from over. We're walking a tightrope, and there's no safety net below.
Determined, I grab my phone to send a message to Isabella. We need to be in sync, now more than ever. Our fake engagement isn't just a charade anymore; it's the linchpin of my future plans. And I'll be damned if I let it slip through my fingers.
19
Isabella
Thesharpsoundofmy whistle pierces the cold air of the rink as I oversee the StarPucks' practice. This is where I belong—in the thick of it, strategizing, commanding, leading. With each passing day, my rapport with the team strengthens, and their respect for me solidifies. I can sense the change, feel their trust in my decisions growing.
"Alright, let's tighten up those formations!" I call out, my voice echoing off the walls. The players respond instantly, their skates carving precise patterns on the ice.
