Page 38 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
During a brief water break, Tyler "Blaze" Morgan, one of our young forwards known for his quick moves and quicker wit, skates up to me, a mischievous grin plastered on his face. "So, coach, how's the fiancé life treating you?" he teases, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.
I can't help but laugh, rolling my eyes. "Oh, you know, it's a whirlwind of romance and paparazzi," I retort, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "Just another day in paradise."
The team chuckles, and I'm glad to see them relaxed. It's important to maintain a balance of authority and approachability.
I gather them around to discuss the upcoming training camp with the Blades.
"This is more than just practice. It's a chance to build camaraderie, to learn from each other," I say, meeting each player's gaze. "Let's show them what the StarPucks are made of, both on and off the ice."
The team nods, their faces a mixture of determination and excitement. They're ready for the challenge, eager to prove themselves against the Blades. They’re hungry, and I love it.
As we resume drills, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Glancing at the screen, I see it's Anthony, the owner. Excusing myself, I turn things over to one of my assistant managers and make my way to the office.
The cool corridor of the stadium offers a stark contrast to the rink's chilly environment. As I walk, my mind races with possibilities. Anthony's calls are rarely without reason, and I wonder what's on the agenda this time.
Reaching his office, I knock and enter. Anthony is seated behind his desk, his expression serious but not unkind.
"Isabella, thanks for coming up," he starts, gesturing for me to take a seat.
I nod, settling into the chair across from him. "What's up, Anthony? Something on your mind?"
He leans back, interlocking his fingers. "It's about the training camp," he says, his tone measured. "There's a bit of a situation I need to discuss with you."
I sit up straighter, my instincts kicking in. A 'situation' in Anthony's terms could mean anything from a minor hiccup to a major crisis.
I take a seat and lean forward, my focus sharp as he outlines his plans. "Isabella, I'm not looking to be the StarPucks' only financial pillar. We need to broaden our base, get some investors and sponsorships on board," he states, his tone a mix of business-like and hopeful.
"That's music to my ears, Anthony," I reply, my voice laced with approval. "Relying on one person's wallet, no matter how deep, is never a good game plan."
He grins, obviously pleased. "Exactly my thoughts. And with your recent engagement, we’ve got the perfect spotlight for attracting some big names."
I raise an eyebrow, a sly smile on my lips. "Is that right?" I ask, thinking of the media circus Dom and I have unleashed.
"It's more than paying off," Anthony says, leaning in with an air of conspiracy. "I've already lined up an investor for the training camp. Someone you evidently know."
His words pique my curiosity, and I’m about to demand names when he beats me to it, signaling the door.
"Let me introduce him."
As the investor steps in, my heart doesn't just skip a beat; it does a full gymnastics routine.
“J…Jason?”
It’s him.
“Good to see you, Bella.”
Only Jason called me “Bella.” Ihatedit.
Jason Sinclair, my blast-from-the-past college ex, saunters into the room, looking every bit the poster boy for a high-end men's magazine. He's aged like a fine wine—still pretty easy on the eyes, and he clearly knows it. His hair is styled just so, adding to his clean-cut, I-spend-more-time-in-the-barber's-chair-than-you-do vibe. The suit he's wearing screams 'more money than sense,' tailored to a T, clinging to his gym-honed physique like it's been sewn on him.
But along with the sharp suit and the GQ look comes that unmistakable air of Jason-ness—that blend of snootiness and entitlement that he wore like a badge of honor in college. It's all there in the way he holds himself, like he's expecting a red carpet to roll out any second. That familiar arrogance twinkles in his eyes, the kind that says, 'I'm here, aren't you impressed?'
He's the kind of guy who's never known a life without platinum credit cards and VIP status. It hangs around him, this aura of privilege, almost tangible. It's a reminder of why, despite his good looks and charm, we were always more fire and ice than fairytale romance.
As he stands there, a figure from a past I thought I had neatly filed away, my initial shock gives way to a simmering discomfort. There's an unease that settles in the pit of my stomach, an unwelcome reminder of a chapter I had closed long ago.
All the same, I need to be professional.
