Page 3 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
My laughter is genuine and unbridled. It feels like a release, especially after the stiffness of the conference. "Oh, please. It's all about the optimal squirt trajectory."
Dom chuckles, clearly delighted by my response. "Ah, squirt trajectory. Now that's a panel discussion I'd sign up for!"
There’s a lull in the conversation, and right away I notice that it’s not an awkward pause—not even a little. It’s the kind of pause you have with someone you’ve known for a while, someone you’re totally comfortable with.
Strange, considering I’ve just met the man.
"So, Isabella," Dom leans in, his voice dropping a notch, "what do you do when you're not suffering through tedious conferences? You mentioned the Silver Blades earlier."
"Ah, the Silver Blades," I say, pride evident in my voice. "I'm their Strategy Manager. I pretty much oversee the strategic planning and execution for the team. Makes me sound important, right?"
Dom's eyes light up with genuine interest. "That's impressive. Not just a pretty face then?" The flirtation is evident, but it's his playful tone that makes me laugh rather than roll my eyes.
"I like to think I have the brains to match," I retort, shooting him a sassy grin.
I can't ignore the electricity in the air, the tingling sensation whenever our hands brush, or the heat that rises in me every time I catch his gaze. It's been ages since I've had this much fun talking to someone, and for a fleeting moment, I forget who he is—forgetting the fame, the accolades, and the legacy.
For now, in this dimly lit bar in New York, he's just Dom. And I'm having the time of my life.
2
Dom
"Iswear,ifonemore person tries to explain to me the aerodynamics of a slap shot, I might just spontaneously combust," I say, grinning devilishly.
Isabella throws her head back, laughing. "Oh, come on, Dom. Surely, after all these years on the ice, there's some hidden, profound mystery about it you've missed?"
I smirk, leaning closer. "The only mystery here is how I've managed to stay awake through half those sessions."
Her laughter gradually fades, and I take the moment to really look at her. Damn. Up close, she's even more striking. The dim bar lights catch the rich, raven-black strands of her shoulder-length hair, making them shimmer like the midnight sky. Her hazel eyes, framed by those sleek, black cat-eye glasses, have this intense yet playful glint.
It's as if they're challenging me, daring me to keep up with her sharp wit.
Her laugh, that genuine, soul-deep laugh, makes her entire face light up. The way her lips curve, full and inviting, has my mind wandering down paths it probably shouldn’t. And it's not just her face. I can't help but appreciate her lean athletic frame, the unmistakable curves that her tailored pantsuit hints at. She has me wondering how those toned muscles would feel under my hands.
She's a blend of strength, beauty, and intelligence. It's a dangerously alluring combination.
"So, Isabella," I begin, my voice dropping an octave lower, involuntarily adding a sultrier tone. "Strategy Manager for the Silver Blades, huh? Sounds important. Do you, like, plan out how many left turns players make during a game?"
She snorts, her earlier laughter replaced with an amused smirk. "Oh, at least a hundred. It's a very scientific process. Mostly involves me spinning a wheel and yelling out directions."
I chuckle, leaning back and taking a sip of my drink. "I knew it! All those years wondering about the secret strategies, and it's just a glorified game of Twister."
She laughs again, and I'm caught in the melodious sound. I'm used to being the charmer, the one who has people hanging on his every word. But here, with Isabella, it feels like the tables have turned. Every quip, every laugh, every glance she throws my way—I'm hooked. And it's a feeling I'm not quite sure what to do with.
I let the moment linger, the atmosphere thick with playful tension. There's a magnetic pull between us, undeniable and strong. It's been a long time since I've felt this kind of connection, especially so instantly.
"So," I start, leaning my elbow on the bar counter, "how does someone like you end up in hockey management?"
She arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her smirk growing more pronounced. "Someone like me? You mean a woman?"
I can't help but laugh, that smooth, self-assured chuckle that's gotten me out of more than a few tight spots. "Nah," I reply, my eyes shamelessly raking over her, "more like abeautifulwoman. Someone who looks like you wouldn’t have to work a single day in your life… unless you wanted to."
For a split second, I worry I might've laid it on too thick. But then, a delicate blush spreads across her cheeks, making her already stunning face glow. God, I could get addicted to that blush.
She rolls her eyes, though the smile tugging at her lips gives away her amusement. "Oh, please. That's your go-to line, isn't it? Well, for your information, Mr. Steele," she playfully stresses my name, "my love for hockey strategy isn't rooted in my looks. It started with my brother."
I raise an eyebrow in genuine curiosity, my previous cockiness momentarily overshadowed. "Your brother?"
