Page 9 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
I lean forward, elbows on the desk, interlocking my fingers. “Seattle’s hockey scene is about to get more crowded. The StarPucks are stepping onto the ice, and they’re independent. A wildcard. Unpredictable. Hungry.” My voice drops a notch, the gravity of the situation settling between us. “They’re not part of my domain. And that means they’re going to be looking to make a statement. At our expense, if we’re not careful.”
The room is silent, the weight of a new rivalry hanging in the air. I’ve seen what the hunger for recognition does to a team—it either breaks them or forges them into champions. And the Blades? We’re going to be forged.
“I want a game plan. I want innovation, but I also want feasibility. We’re going to be facing them on the ice soon, and I want the StarPucks to remember the day they met the Blades as the day they met their match.”
I see it then—the flicker of determination in Isabella’s eyes. The spark that tells me she’s as much in this fight as I am. We may be at odds at times, but we share the same goal: victory.
“I expect a full report on my desk. Strengths, weaknesses, opportunities to capitalize on,” I command, standing to signal the end of the meeting. “And Isabella, this is where you show me those strategies of yours can stand up to the real test.”
Rick nods, already thinking, always the strategist. But it’s Isabella who holds my gaze, a silent promise that she’s not to be underestimated.
“Understood, Mr. Steele,” she says, her tone suggesting a salute.
As I leave, I find myself looking forward to seeing what she brings to the table. To seeing if that fire in her can melt ice. Because if it can, the StarPucks won’t just be remembering us—they’ll be reeling from us.
5
Isabella
I’mslouchedinmyoffice chair, a half-eaten turkey wrap in one hand, and my laptop open in front of me. On screen, Jenna’s bright, mischievous face fills the window, her red curls bouncing as she laughs at my latest Dom anecdote.
“He did what?” she gasps between giggles, clutching her sides. Jenna always finds the humor in things that make my blood boil.
I roll my eyes, a rueful smile threatening despite my irritation. “He just commandeered the whole defensive drill, Jenna. It was like watching a five-star general storm the field. He's got zero boundaries. It's like he thinks he's the coach, manager, and the Zamboni driver all rolled into one!”
Jenna’s still laughing, but her eyes are sympathetic. “And to think, just a week ago, you were still drooling over how he’d filled out that suit.”
That gets a reluctant chuckle out of me. “Was not drooling,” I protest weakly, but she knows me too well.
My gaze drifts past the screen, down to the rink where Dom is now animatedly gesturing to one of the players. The player nods, seemingly taking the impromptu coaching in stride. I should be down there. Those are my plays they're running, but Dom's the one in the trenches, dictating the flow.
“Looks like he’s really getting into it,” Jenna observes, following my gaze through the webcam.
“Yeah, into everything,” I mutter. “He’s like a—” I search for the right word, “—a tornado. Leaves a path of upheaval wherever he goes. It’s exhausting.”
Jenna’s expression softens. “You’re the best at what you do, Iz. Don't let Mr. Hotshot Owner throw you off your game.”
I take a deep breath, drawing strength from Jenna’s unwavering support. “Thanks, J. I needed that,” I say with a renewed sense of resolve. I sit up straighter, pushing aside the lingering frustration. “Anyway, enough about Dom and his antics. How’s the hospital? Any new drama in the ER?”
The subject change is a breath of fresh air, and Jenna launches into a tale about her latest shift. She recounts an incident involving a particularly clumsy intern, a hectic emergency case, and an untimely spill that almost turned into a disaster.
We're wrapping up our call when my eyes catch a moment down on the rink, one that encapsulates the infuriating enigma that is Dom Steele. He’s not just barking orders. He’s down on one knee, demonstrating a stance to a rookie who’s all wide eyes and nodding head.
It’s moments like this that throw me. For all his overstepping, there’s a passion and a knowledge there that’s... I shake my head. Respectable.
“I’ve got to go,” I tell Jenna. “Duty calls.”
She winks. “Go show that tornado what you’re made of, Iz.”
I end the call, take a final bite of my wrap, and toss it into the trash. Standing, I smooth out my blazer and head for the door.
Down on the rink, Dom's gaze lifts, and our eyes meet. There’s a challenge there, an unspoken duel, and for a moment, I’m back in his penthouse with the city lights painting us in silhouette.
But that was another world.
This is my rink. My team.
With a determined stride, I head towards the ice, ready to remind Dom Steele exactly who calls the shots here.
