Page 57 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
He's in his element, and it's a sight to behold. But as he glances my way, our eyes meeting across the distance, I can't shake the feeling that we're both playing a far more dangerous game off the ice—one that could have consequences neither of us are prepared for.
The rink is alive with action, players from both teams darting across the ice with impressive skill. I'm on my feet, shouting plays, my voice a sharp contrast to the grunts and clacks echoing around me. Despite the tension I feel watching Dom, I can't help but get caught up in the exhilaration of the game.
As I call out strategies, I catch glimpses of Dom cutting through the ice like a knife. He's a force of nature out there, his movements so fluid and precise it's almost poetic. He was a legend in the NHL, and seeing him now, it's clear why. His presence is magnetic, drawing eyes every time he touches the puck.
"Keep your focus, Isabella," I remind myself, shaking off the distraction. But it's hard, especially when he's out there looking like some kind of hockey god, commanding and powerful.
The StarPucks and the Silver Blades are neck and neck, the game a thrilling dance of speed and skill. One of my forwards makes a break for it, slicing towards the goal with the puck. My heart races with anticipation, but at the last second, a Blade swoops in, stealing the puck and turning the game on its head.
"Damn it," I mutter, clapping my hands in frustration. But I can't stay mad for long, not with the game this good.
And then there's Dom. He's everywhere on the ice, a blur of speed and power. With every move he makes, I find myself torn between admiration and concern. The way he plays, it's like he's tempting fate, daring his injury to rear its ugly head.
As the first period draws to a close, Dom makes a breakaway, the puck his loyal companion. He dodges a defenseman with a slick move, and before anyone can blink, he slams the puck into the net. The crowd erupts into cheers, and even though it's just a practice game, the thrill of it is palpable.
"Nice shot," I begrudgingly admit, clapping along with everyone else. There's no denying his talent, and as much as I hate to say it, watching Dom score is a sight to behold.
As the teams regroup for a break, I catch Dom's eye. He's grinning, that cocky, confident smirk that's both infuriating and irresistible. And for a moment, just a moment, I forget about the fake engagement, the complications, and the worries. I'm just a spectator, caught up in the sheer brilliance of his play.
The second period launches with a burst of energy, the players returning to the ice with renewed vigor. Dom and Sam, a dynamic duo, execute an incredible play, slicing through the StarPucks’ defense with practiced ease. The puck finds the back of the net, and the Blades erupt in cheers. I can't help but admire their teamwork, even as a knot forms in my stomach.
Not to be outdone, one of my players, Alex "Lightning" Thompson, a speedy winger, seizes an opportunity. He dashes across the ice, a blur of determination and skill. With a deft flick of his wrist, he sends the puck soaring past the goalie. It’s a breathtaking goal, one that draws a round of applause even from the Blades' supporters. I punch the air in triumph, pride swelling in my chest.
The tension on the ice is palpable as the final period begins. The game is tied, and both teams are hungry for the win. It’s a nail-biter, each team trading possession, neither giving an inch.
Then, with a burst of energy, the StarPucks manage another goal. The cheers from our side are deafening, the players' excitement infectious. We’re leading now, but I know better than to get too comfortable, especially with Dom on the ice.
True to form, Dom's competitive fire ignites. He plays more aggressively, cutting through the ice with a determination that's both impressive and terrifying. He gets the puck, and the crowd rises to their feet, a collective breath held in anticipation.
He's unstoppable, a force of nature as he heads towards the goal. Even I, caught up in the moment, find myself cheering him on, the lines between professional rivalry and personal admiration blurring.
But just as Dom is about to score, a sharp cry of pain slices through the air. Dom clutches his knee, the same one he injured years ago, and collapses onto the ice.
The crowd goes silent, the cheers dying in their throats. Players from both teams skate over, concern etched on their faces. I’m frozen in place, shock and fear gripping me.
“Dom!” I hear Sam shout, his voice laced with panic.
I find myself moving before I even realize it, skating over to where Dom lies on the ice, my heart pounding in my chest. He’s surrounded by players and the medic, his face contorted in pain.
As I reach him, our eyes meet. There’s fear there, and something else—a vulnerability I’ve never seen in him before. I crouch down, my professional demeanor slipping away, replaced by genuine concern.
“Dom, are you okay?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He doesn’t answer, his jaw clenched as he tries to manage the pain. The medic is already examining his knee, his movements swift and professional.
Time stands still.
28
Dom
Painblindsme,awhite-hot lance through my knee, as voices and faces blur. The medic's instructions cut through the chaos, sharp and urgent. "On three, we lift. Easy does it," she commands, his tone leaving no room for error.
"One, two, three," she counts, and hands grip the stretcher, lifting me with a jolt that sends a fresh wave of agony through my leg. I can't hold back a groan, my vision narrowing to a tunnel as I fight against the darkness creeping in at the edges.
Isabella's beside me, her face etched with worry. "Dom, stay with me, okay?" she urges, her hand finding mine, a lifeline in the maelstrom.
The world lurches as they load me into the med-truck. Every bump and turn on the way to my cabin is an ordeal, each movement a test of endurance. I'm biting down on my lip so hard I taste blood.
