Page 62 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
"Don't you dare," I cut him off, feeling a surge of anger and protectiveness. "Just because this engagement is fake doesn't give you the right to be irresponsible with your health. You're not invincible, Dom."
He looks taken aback by my outburst, his usual cocky demeanor faltering. "Isabella, I..."
"No," I interject, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay calm. "You don't get to brush this off. I've seen what happens when athletes push themselves too hard. You're not playing just for yourself anymore."
I stop, suddenly aware of the double meaning in my words. My hand instinctively goes to my stomach, a protective gesture that feels both foreign and instinctive. A rush of emotions floods through me—fear, uncertainty, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility. My gaze drops to the floor, unable to meet Dom's questioning eyes.
"You're not just risking your career, Dom," I continue, my voice shaky. "There are people who care about you, who... who depend on you." The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken implications.
He watches me closely, his usual bravado replaced with something more tender, more concerned. "Isabella, if there's something going on, you can tell me. We're in this together, right?"
I let out a frustrated sigh, feeling the weight of the secret I'm carrying. How do I tell him? How do I admit that our fake engagement has led to something so real, so life-changing?
"It's not just about the game, Dom," I say, struggling to keep my emotions in check. "It's about being responsible, about thinking of the future. You can't just live in the moment when others are... are involved."
I try to continue, to let out more of the frustration and worry that's been building up inside me, but it's like a dam has broken. Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed by everything—the baby, Dom, the sheer enormity of the situation. Tears start streaming down my face, emotions I've been trying to keep in check finally spilling over.
Dom, seeing my distress, doesn't say a word. He just wraps his arm around me, pulling me into his embrace. I find myself sobbing into his shoulder, his strong presence offering a surprising comfort. In this moment, he's not the cocky, infuriating man I've been sparring with; he's just Dom, caring and solid and unexpectedly tender.
As I cry, letting out all the fear and uncertainty, I realize that he's giving me exactly what I need right now. Support. Care. And maybe, just maybe, something that feels a lot like love. It's a strange thought, one that I never expected to have about Dom, but in his arms, it feels undeniably true.
Gradually, my tears subside, and I pull back slightly, sniffling and trying to regain some semblance of composure. Dom clears his throat, breaking the silence that had settled between us.
"Isabella," he starts, his voice low and gentle, "I owe you an explanation. About today, about why I did what I did."
I look up at him, my eyes still red from crying, but curious. Despite everything, I want to understand him, to know what drives him. It feels important, more than just a need for clarity on today's recklessness. It feels like a step towards understanding Dom, and maybe, understanding us.
He looks into my eyes, his own reflecting a depth of sincerity I haven't seen before. "I'm listening," I say quietly, ready to hear what he has to say.
32
Dom
Wherethehelltobegin? Talking about myself, my past, doesn’t exactly come easy to me.
I lean back, letting the memories wash over me. "You know, my dad passed away when I was eight, but I clearly remember many things about him. He was the kind of guy who believed if you're doing something, you do it full tilt. No half measures," I say, a half-smile playing on my lips.
"Hockey wasn't just a game in our house; it was more like a religion. Dad put a stick in my hand practically before I could walk. I won't lie, I hated it at first. Felt like I was being forced into something." I shake my head slightly, the image of a frozen pond and my dad's stern face flashing in my mind.
"But there was this one game in high school. It was a real nail-biter, you know? We were down, the clock was ticking, and something just... switched on inside me. I remember grabbing the puck, feeling like I was flying across the ice. Scored the tying goal, and then bam! Nailed the winner in overtime." I tap my fingers on my knee, lost in the moment.
"That night, something changed. I didn't just play hockey; I felt it, in every part of me. Suddenly, it wasn't my dad's dream; it was mine. And man, I was good… I wish he’d been there to see me. I thought I was going to be the greatest, you know? And maybe for a minute there, I was." My voice trails off, a mix of nostalgia and regret coloring my tone.
Leaning forward, I run a hand through my hair, the memories vivid and raw. "You see, Izzy, hockey wasn't just what I did; it became who I was. When I was on the ice, I felt alive, invincible. It defined me, gave me purpose."
I pause, a shadow crossing my face. "Then came that game. It was routine, just another day at the office, until it wasn't." My voice tightens as I recall the moment. "One wrong move, a twist, a fall, and everything changed. The ACL tear... it was more than an injury. It was the end of a dream."
"After the surgery, I was in denial, big time. Kept telling myself it was temporary, that I'd be back on the ice, better than ever. But reality hit hard. The doctors, they were clear. My days in the NHL were over." The words still sting, even after all this time.
"I didn't handle it well. Threw myself into this playboy lifestyle, partying, fast cars, faster women. It was all a blur, a way to fill the void. But truth is, I never wanted any of that. It was just noise, a distraction from facing the truth." I shake my head, the bitterness evident in my voice.
"I had to find a new purpose, reinvent myself. It's been a hell of a ride, but sometimes, like today, I still chase that ghost. Trying to prove to myself, or maybe to my old man, that I'm still that guy. The one who could make the impossible happen on the ice." My gaze drifts away for a moment, lost in thoughts.
"But I'm not that guy anymore. And maybe that's okay. Maybe there's more to me than just hockey. It's just... hard to let go, you know?" I look back at Isabella, a mix of vulnerability and resolve in my eyes
Continuing, I let out a deep sigh. "I know, what I did today... it was stupid. But letting go of hockey, it's like losing a part of myself. Sometimes, I fool myself into thinking I can still play, that I can go back to who I was. But then reality slaps me in the face, and I'm back to square one."
I finish speaking and turn to face Isabella. Her eyes are fixed on me, an intensity in her gaze that I haven't seen before. There's understanding there, maybe even admiration. I chuckle awkwardly, trying to lighten the mood. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bore you with all my personal shit."
