Page 6 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
And I do my job well.
I blow my whistle, the sharp sound slicing through the chilly air. "Huddle up!" My voice rings out, authority woven through each syllable. They come to a sliding stop, sending a spray of ice shards into the air. Heads bowed, shoulders heaving. I step onto the chewed-up ice, tablet in hand, their attention now laser-focused on me.
“Gentlemen,” I start, locking eyes with each player, my gaze landing on the captain last. “We're not dancing ballet out here. I want precision, I want speed, and above all, I want execution. You've got the plays, you've got the skill—now let's put the two together.”
My finger taps on the screen, bringing up the latest play. I’m met with nods and the odd furrowed brow. Good. They’re thinking, at least.
"Jackson, you're anticipating the pass two beats too soon. You need to watch for Darcy’s cue. It’s as if you’re reading the last page of a book before even cracking the spine. Spoilers don’t win games.” A light-hearted chuckle ripples through the group, easing the tension. Jackson nods, a slight red tinging his cheeks.
"And Darcy, you’re holding the puck like it's a newborn. This is hockey, not a nursery. I want confidence, I want decisiveness." Darcy, built like a tank with a gaze to match, doesn’t falter under my stare. He nods once, all business.
I step back, satisfied with their renewed focus. "We're a symphony, not a solo act. Let's get that puck singing across the ice, not thudding. Capisce?”
“Capisce!” they echo, a collective force once again.
I send them off with a swift motion, my chest swelling just a tad as they set back to their drills with renewed vigor. It's like conducting an orchestra, each note having to hit just the right pitch, each player finding their rhythm. That's what I do—I create harmony from discord, symphonies from silence.
I'm still that girl who’d rather orchestrate the play than score the goal. Always have been. As they run through the drill again, nailing it with near perfection this time, I can't suppress the grin that spreads across my face. This is where I belong.
Behind the glass, I catch a reflection that isn’t my own. A figure, leaning against the doorframe, watching the practice. Even from this distance, the stance is familiar—confident, cocky. Could it be...?
I shake my head. No time for distractions. There's work to do. After all, we have a championship to win, and I’m the one to lead them to it. Dominic Steele is just a memory, one that flickers like a candle in the wind, bright for a moment, then gone.
My brain plays an unsolicited highlight reel, the scenes vivid as if I'm back in that plush penthouse suite, where the city lights winked at us through the expansive windows, silently cheering on our carnal dance. I remember the weight of his gaze, heavy with desire, as if he could peel back the layers of my carefully tailored persona and see the raw, unedited version of me. I push the thoughts away, locking them up tight. Work is my solace, not memories of tangled sheets and whispered names.
A slick pass, a shot on goal, and finally—a cheer. I'm jerked back to reality by the satisfying clank of the puck hitting the net. The play works flawlessly. A surge of pride rushes through me, and I can't help but wear it openly. This is the product of my mind's workings, executed by the sinew and sweat of the players before me.
The sound of blades cutting the ice redirects my attention. Sam, my brother and the heart of the Silver Blades, skates over with that same boyish grin that's charmed our parents since he was in diapers. He's the one who drew me into this world, and I'll never let him forget it.
Sam skates up, his helmet crooked. "Hey, Iz, looks like your drills are finally, well, drilling some sense into them."
I laugh. "It's about time. I was starting to think I'd have to lace up and show them how it's done myself."
He chuckles and glances at his phone that's buzzed in his pocket. I watch him tap out a reply, his eyebrows raised in a way that tells me it's someone interesting. "Who's that?" I ask, half-curious.
"Oh, it's D," he says casually, slipping the phone back into his pocket.
"D?" I prod, brushing a strand of hair from my eyes, my brain too fried from strategy to dig through my mental Rolodex.
"Yeah, he's here for the game tonight. Got some business or other." Sam doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press. Hockey is always full of people coming and going, names that ebb and flow with the seasons.
I should be more curious, but the name doesn't stick. It's just another initial, another meeting in the endless grind of the season. I'm more interested in whether the team can replicate that last play come game time.
“Cool,” I reply, watching the Zamboni roll out onto the ice. "Maybe I'll catch him later then."
Sam nods, his gaze already on his departing teammates. "Yeah, you should. He's got some interesting ideas."
As I watch the team file out, the letter 'D' is already dissolving in my mind, just a drop in the day's ocean of details. There’s no flicker of connection to that night three months ago, no shadow of Dominic Steele crossing my thoughts. Just plans for the next practice, the next game, the next win.
The echo of the last whistle lingers as Sam and I trade one last volley of jabs. “Hey, Iz, remember when you used to think a power play was a new move in chess?” he grins, his eyes twinkling with the shared memory of childhood games.
I shove his shoulder playfully. “Keep it up and the next power play will involve you sitting on the bench watching the chess pieces move without you.” We laugh, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings of the arena before he skates off to join the team.
The buzz of my phone drags me back to reality. It's a message from the General Manager, Rick Hansen. “Come see me in my office when you get a chance.” Rick's a legend from the ice—his hockey cards are still taped to the walls of die-hard fans. Now, he trades the stick for strategies and the skates for suits, but the commanding presence never fades.
I make my way up to his office, the familiar scent of chilled air and the faint musk of equipment filling the halls. Rick’s office is perched like an eagle's nest above the rink, with glass walls that give him an unobstructed view of his icy kingdom. The walls are lined with memorabilia, each puck and stick a testament to the glory days of his career.
He’s poring over a pile of papers but looks up as I knock, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Isabella! Just the wizard of plays I wanted to see."
