Page 8 of Pucking My Bad Boy Boss
I decide to take the reins before she finds her footing. "Let's get down to business," I suggest, and the way her brows furrow tells me she doesn't like being rushed. Good.
“Wait, we’re doing a meetingnow?” she asks.
"No time like the present," I continue, moving towards the head of the table with a confidence I've honed over years in the rink and the boardroom. "I like to see what I'm invested in up close."
Isabella stands her ground, though. "I was under the impression that this meeting was scheduled for tomorrow," she says, a challenging edge to her tone.
I lean forward, hands flat on the table. "In hockey and in business, Izzy, sometimes you've got to call an audible. Adapt and act."
Rick nods, understanding the play, but Isabella looks like she's about to drop the gloves. "This isn't a game, Dom," she fires back, "This is a professional team with schedules."
"And sometimes," I say, locking eyes with her, "the coach has to change the game plan."
She doesn’t break eye contact, the ice of the rink mirrored in her gaze. "I'm not one of your players, Dom."
"No," I concede with a half-smile, "you’re definitely not."
The air is charged with challenge, the kind that tells me we’re both players who love the game. I can tell, this is a woman who doesn’t just hold her own—she defines the game.
"So, shall we?" I gesture to the seats, not waiting for her response as I take my place at the conference table in the center of the room. I’m looking forward to this, the head-to-head, the strategic dance.
I can almost see the steam coming off Isabella as she reluctantly takes her seat across from me. Her frustration is palpable, a tangible thing hanging in the air, and I can't help but find it slightly amusing. But as much as I might enjoy the fire in her, I'm here to play a bigger game.
"As much as I've enjoyed our previous... teamwork," I begin, watching her reaction closely, "let's not forget—I call the shots."
She folds her arms, leaning back in her chair, but there's a hint of acquiescence in the line of her shoulders. She knows the score.
"I'm shifting my base to Seattle for the season," I announce, letting the words settle over the room like a sudden change in play. "We've got potential here, and I want to tap it personally."
Rick nods, always the mediator, but Isabella's jaw sets. She's clearly not used to being micromanaged.
"About your strategies," I continue, flipping open the folder I've brought with me. "They're good. But 'good' doesn't win championships. You're playing with ideas when we should be playing to win."
She bristles, ready to defend her work. "Hockey's evolved, Dom. What won games ten years ago won't cut it now. We need to be ahead of the curve, not just riding it."
I respect her gumption, the way she stands by her decisions. But respect doesn't mean agreement. "There's a difference between being ahead and being out in left field," I retort. "And right now, you're not even in the ballpark."
Her eyes flash. "My plays are based on statistics, projections, player strengths—"
"And risks," I cut in. "Unnecessary ones. We've got a solid team, but they need structure, not stunts."
We're toe-to-toe now, our debate echoing the same intensity as a playoff game. The room's temperature seems to have notched up a few degrees with our back and forth.
That's when Rick clears his throat, a sharp sound that cuts through our standoff. "Okay, let's take a breather here. We all want the same thing—to see the Blades come out on top."
He's right, of course. And as much as I enjoy the head-to-head with Isabella, we've got a bigger opponent than each other—every other team in the league.
Isabella takes a deep breath, and I can tell she's reigning in her pride, her passion. "Fine," she says, her voice cooler now. "We'll discuss the plays, see where we can make adjustments."
"Good." I lean back in my chair, satisfied with the truce, however temporary. "I'll be around to oversee those adjustments personally."
Her gaze meets mine, and there's a promise there, a challenge that tells me she's not down for the count. Not by a long shot.
The sleeves of my shirt roll up with ease, the fabric a minor hindrance to the business at hand. I’m laying out the roadmap to victory, piece by piece, when I catch Isabella’s gaze drifting. She’s looking at my forearms, her teeth tugging at her lower lip in a moment of absent-minded temptation. It’s a small victory, but I file it away, a smirk threatening the corner of my lips.
Still, I can’t resist teasing her a bit. “Focus, Isabella. This is the part where we strategize.”
Her eyes snap up, a flash of irritation there before she schools her features into professional indifference. It’s a mask, but I can see the cracks.
