Page 10 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
The moment my heels click-clack onto the cold, hard surface beside the rink, I can feel the shift. Heads turn, eyes follow—my team, my territory. Dom's in the heart of a huddle, a general amidst his troops, but this army isn’t his.
"Circle up," I call out, voice clear and resonant over the hum of the arena.
The interruption hits Dom like a slapshot, his head snapping up, surprise etching his features for a split second before his trademark smirk takes over. He straightens, turning to me, an unspoken challenge in the set of his shoulders.
“Keep going, Steele,” I say, not missing a beat, “I’m sure the team was just getting to the good part of your… ‘insights’.”
The players exchange wary glances but re-form the circle, this time with me at the helm. Dom’s presence looms at the edge, his energy a stormfront pressing against the calm I’m holding onto by a thread.
He interjects as I lay out the next drill. "I was just explaining—"
"But you're not the coach," I shoot back, not bothering to mask the ice in my tone. “You may own the team, but these guys? They respond to me.”
His chuckle grates against my nerves. “Ownership has its privileges, Isabella,” he says, voice low and taunting. “And instructing my team is one of them.”
The 'my team' stings, a thorn in my side, but I don’t let it show. “Your team,” I retort, “performs based on a structure, a system. One that doesn’t include an owner undermining—”
“Enhancing,” he corrects, stepping into my space, asserting dominance.
The team's eyes are ping-pong balls, volleying between us. This isn’t just about drills anymore; this is about respect, about the pecking order. If I flinch now, I’ll be the one chasing pucks.
“No,” I say firmly, meeting his gaze dead-on, “undermining. And if you think that buying a team gives you carte blanche to trample over protocols, then maybe you should stick to the boardroom.”
Dom’s eyes harden, the playful edge sharpening into something more cutting. “And if you can’t handle an owner who takes an active interest, maybe you’re not as tough as I thought.”
The words are a red flag, a dare, and I rise to it.
“You want to run this practice?” I challenge, crossing my arms. “Fine. But don’t think for a second I won’t be here, making sure it’s done right.”
There’s a beat of silence, the air crackling with our standoff.
Dom’s posture relaxes, an unreadable shift in his stance. Then that sly smile creeps up, slow and deliberate, a silent tell that he's playing a longer game. The edge of it says everything without a single word—like he's humoring me, the indulgent smirk of an adult watching a child take determined, wobbly steps, bottle in hand, all the while ready to sweep it away.
His voice, when he speaks, is smooth, almost respectful, but there’s a note in it that chimes with challenge. “Lead the way, Coach,” he says, the words calculated.
It’s a concession, one that doesn't sit right—a carefully wrapped gift that feels like a Trojan horse at the gates. It’s too easy, too neat. I'm not just coaching a team; I'm being tested, I can tell. Is this a setup? A prelude to a fall he's too eager to witness?
The way he relinquishes control is almost theatrical, his hands spreading in a gesture of acquiescence, as if bestowing the rink back to me. It’s a grant I never needed from him, but it’s clear he wants me to think I did.
The practice runs like clockwork, my voice the one cutting through the noise, but Dom’s presence is a shadow I can’t quite shake. And as the players move, a part of me can’t help but admit—his intrusion has sparked a fire, a burning reminder that in this game, on this ice, I can’t afford to miss a shot. Not with Dom Steele waiting for any chance to leap off the bench and into the fray.
The Zamboni sweeps across the ice, an intermission in the day’s tensions, as the sound of blades and pucks subsides into a rare moment of quiet. Dom’s still there, an interloper in the stands, fingers flying over the keys of his laptop and his gaze fixed on the screen with that same intensity he applies to... well, everything.
As the players disperse, I run a drill critique in my mind, already recalibrating for the next session. The air is colder in the aftermath, my breath a fog of war that lingers in the space between my command and their compliance.
Sam skates up, still in gear, pulling off his gloves. "That was some faceoff with Steele," he says, a touch of concern beneath the ribbing tone. "What's the game plan here, Coach?"
I shrug, my eyes still on Dom’s distant figure. “Just drawing the lines, making sure they don’t get blurred. It’s about respect, not just for me, but for the team's dynamic."
Sam’s eyes dart to where Dom sits, then back to me. "I get that, but tread carefully, Iz. Dom’s a heavyweight."
I let out a snort. "And what? I'm bantam?"
He chuckles, shaking his head, the bond of sibling shorthand clear in our exchange. "Just saying, it’s delicate.”
"I don’t 'know,'" I say, perhaps a little too sharply. The complexity of it all, the lines of personal and professional so entangled, irks me.
He sighs, the sound carrying his resignation. "He and I go way back. The Wolverines, remember? Before his injury. Been tight ever since." He pulls off his helmet, running a hand through damp hair. "Speaking of, we’re hitting O’Malley’s later. You could come—"
