Page 53 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
Jason smirks.
"Don't want to get in the way of lovebirds planning their big day," he says with a sneer, his eyes flicking between Isabella and me. The sarcasm in his voice is almost tangible.
“Yeah, not getting in the way—good idea.” Isabella’s looking like she wants to rip him apart with her bare hands.
As he strides out of the cabin, a sense of relief washes over the room. I turn to Isabella, my expression filled with concern. "What the hell was that about?" I ask, my voice low but insistent. The look in my eyes is searching, hoping she'll open up about what's really going on with Jason Sinclair.
Isabella brushes off the encounter with a nonchalant shrug. "Just a minor disagreement about logistics. Nothing I can't handle."
I study her for a moment, knowing there's more to it than she's letting on. But I respect her enough not to pry, at least not here, not now.
"Alright," I say, a bit unconvinced. "Just remember, I've got your back in this. Whatever you need."
She offers a small, grateful smile, and we shift our focus to the task at hand—getting the team ready for what promises to be an intense training camp. I can't help but feel a nagging concern about Jason's involvement. Something about him doesn't sit right with me, and I make a mental note to keep a close eye on him. For Isabella's sake, if nothing else.
“Well, now that you’re here,” she says. “How about we go over the weekend?”
“Works for me.”
As we settle into planning the weekend's activities, the conversation flows smoothly between Isabella and me. We're discussing team strategies, but there's an undercurrent of something else, something less tangible.
She nods, slipping into professional mode. Crazy as it might sound, she’s sexy asfuckwhen she’s like this.
“Practice game’s first up,” she says.
“Right,” I reply. “Looking forward to it. Good way to see where the Blades and Pucks are both at, see where we need improvement.”
"Exactly what I was thinking. Then we’ve got the first drills after that. I’m considering something that challenges their agility," Isabella suggests, her eyes focused on the clipboard in her hands.
"Yeah, agility's key," I agree, leaning in closer to look at her notes. "But let's not forget about endurance. Maybe mix in some long sprints?"
Her eyes meet mine, a hint of a challenge in them. "You planning on showing us how it's done, Mr. Former NHL Star?" she teases.
I chuckle, leaning back against the wall. "Maybe I will. Got to show these young guys they still have a lot to learn."
The air between us crackles with unspoken words. Isabella bites her lip slightly, pondering over the schedule. "We could also do some paired exercises. You know, to foster some team spirit."
"Paired exercises, huh?" I quip, my voice dropping an octave. "Sounds like an opportunity for some... close teamwork."
Isabella smirks, meeting my gaze squarely. "Oh, I'm sure you're all about teamwork, Dom."
For a moment, we're locked in a moment of charged silence, our eyes doing all the talking. The space around us feels smaller, more intimate.
I take a step closer, under the pretense of looking at her notes again. "You know, Isabella, teamwork is all about understanding each other's strengths and weaknesses."
She nods, her breath catching slightly as I hover just inches away. "Understanding is crucial," she replies, her voice a whisper.
Our faces are so close now; I could count the flecks of gold in her eyes. The urge to close the gap, to taste the words right off her lips, is overwhelming.
But just as the tension reaches its peak, the door swings open. Carter, one of the Blades’ assistant coaches, enters like a cold splash of reality, abruptly pulling us out of the moment.
"Hey, Dom, Isabella, do we have extra pucks in storage? Some of the guys were asking," he inquires, looking between us expectantly.
"Yeah, there should be some in the main storage locker," I reply, trying to sound nonchalant. "I'll check it out in a bit."
Isabella, who's been unusually quiet, suddenly speaks up, her voice slightly higher than usual. "I, um, I should go check on the team's arrangements," she says hurriedly, avoiding my gaze. "Make sure everything's set for tomorrow."
I nod, watching as she makes a quick exit, her usual composed self seemingly rattled. The coach, still none the wiser, continues with his questions, but my responses are automatic. My mind is still in that moment, the intensity of our near-kiss lingering like a phantom touch.
