Page 7 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
I cross the room, my boots silent on the plush carpet. "Please tell me it's not another budget cut, Rick," I jest, sinking into one of the leather chairs across from his desk.
He chuckles, shaking his head. "No, quite the opposite. The plays you've been drilling into the guys—impressive work. They might just make athletes out of them yet."
His praise warms me, but before I can bask in it, he's moving on. “Now, there’s something else. The owner is coming in."
I'm puzzled. "Owner? You mean Jack? He’s here more than his own house."
Rick's expression is serious, a rare departure from his usual jovial demeanor. "No, Isabella. The owner. Above Jack. From the Hudson Sports Group. Owns several teams."
The Hudson Sports Group is a titan, their logo stamped across multiple leagues, an empire of athletics. And suddenly, the office feels a lot less cozy. "Here? Why?"
Rick’s phone buzzes, and he reads the message, his eyebrows arching slightly. "He's here now, actually. Wants to meet."
I sit up straighter, my mind whirring. The owner of a sports conglomerate doesn’t just drop by. This is big league. "Now?" I echo.
Rick nods, gesturing towards the door as footsteps sound in the corridor. "Now."
The question mark practically hangs in the air, visible as my breath in the cold of the rink. Who is this mystery owner? Why is he coming? The thoughts pace in my head like a penalty shootout—back and forth, back and forth.
Rick, leaning back in his chair, sees the play of emotions on my face and offers a half-grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. "I know, Izzy, this is a bit left field."
I cross my arms, not bothering to mask my frustration. "A bit? Feels like we're playing a whole different sport here, Rick."
He nods, the picture of sympathy. "I get it. But this guy, he’s been the boss for a good stretch. Just not a spotlight kind of guy, until now."
I frown. My world is the ice—clear and bounded, where everyone knows everyone and titles mean everything. "Why haven’t I heard of him? I mean, a shadow boss?" I let out a laugh, but it’s edged with uncertainty. "What is this, a spy movie?"
Rick’s smirk widens, and he looks like he’s enjoying this far more than one should. "Let’s just say he prefers the strategy room to the trophy room. Likes to let his teams do the talking."
I shake my head. This isn’t adding up, and the sense of not knowing the plays grates on me. I’m about to press further when there’s a knock on the door.
Rick doesn’t miss a beat. "Come on in, D."
D? My mind can’t help but flick through the dossier of D-named possibilities. I roll my eyes, muttering under my breath, "What kind of high-flying boss goes by 'D'?"
The door swings open, and in strides a figure that sends a shockwave through the room. My heart doesn’t just skip a beat; it feels like it's been body-checked against the boards. It’s him.
Dom.
Standing there, a smirk playing on his lips, eyes glinting with the same playful challenge they had three months ago. He looks every inch the confident leader—no trace of the bad boy who tangled the sheets with me. Well, aside from those tattoos, that is.
"Nice to see you again, Isabella."
The words hang in the air, a perfect slap shot that finds its mark dead center. I’m caught—pinned like a goalie at a breakaway, no defense, no warning. My mind races, every sense sharpening.
4
Dom
“Dom?”
The door closes behind me with a sound that resonates through the room like the final buzzer of a game. There she is, Isabella, looking as if I've just pulled off the most illegal of moves. Surprise etches her face, her mouth slightly parted, those sharp, intelligent eyes wide. It's a look I could get used to—Isabella caught off guard, all those walls down.
And damn, does she wear authority well. The business suit hugs her figure in all the right ways, managing to look both immaculate and inviting. The skirt flirts with her knees, and the jacket cinches at the waist, showcasing curves that have etched themselves into my memory. Her hair, that rebellious mane that refused to be tamed even in the throes of passion, is pulled back in a professional ponytail that screams 'I mean business.'
Rick’s chuckle pulls me back from my visual tour. "Surprised to see Dom Steele in the flesh, eh, Izzy?"
I watch her recover, the professional mask sliding into place as she tries to transform her shock into something resembling nonchalance. "Well, you don't expect a legend to just waltz in every day," she quips, but her voice has a tremor that betrays her.
