Page 11 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

GOLDA

T he email from the rink sits in my inbox like a bill I can’t afford to pay.

Congratulations! Your children have been accepted into our advanced programs. Tyson - Youth Hockey Development. Blythe - Figure Skating Fundamentals. New session begins Saturday.

Eight hundred and twenty-five dollars a month. Plus equipment. Plus gas driving to extra practices and weekend games.

I close my laptop and lean back in my kitchen chair, attempting to rearrange the numbers in my head like some cruel math problem.

The voice-over work is steady but not spectacular.

The audiobook contracts pay well when I can get them, but Carol at Lakeshore Publishing has been mysteriously silent about the romance series she dangled in front of me last month.

“Mom, did you see the flyer?” Tyson appears in the doorway, still in his pajamas but clutching the flyer for the hockey league that he’s been holding onto since last Saturdays class. “From the rink? About youth hockey?”

My chest tightens at the hope in his voice. Three months of learn-to-skate lessons have transformed my quiet, careful son into someone who talks about crossovers and defensive positioning like he’s been playing hockey his whole life.

“I saw it, buddy.”

“Coach Dex said I was ready. He said I have really good hockey sense.” Tyson sits down across from me, feet swinging under the chair. “That’s good, right? Hockey sense?”

“That’s very good.”

“So can I do it? Please?”

The please gets me every time. Not the whining, demanding please of a kid who’s used to getting what he wants, but the careful, hopeful please of a child who’s learned not to ask for too much.

“It’s a lot of money, Ty.”

His face falls slightly, but he nods like he understands. Which makes it worse, somehow. “How much money?”

I could lie. Tell him it’s not about the money, that I need to think about schedules or commitments or any of the other excuses parents use when they can’t afford their kids’ dreams.

“About five hundred dollars a month.”

He’s quiet for a moment, processing this information with the seriousness of someone who’s old enough to understand that money is finite. “That’s a lot.”

“It is.”

“More than groceries?”

“About the same as groceries.”

He nods again, and I can practically see him weighing whether hockey is worth the same as food. The fact that he’s even considering it makes my heart break a little.

“What about Blythe’s skating?”

“That costs money too.”

“Oh.” His shoulders slump. “So we can’t do it.”

I’m about to explain that we’ll figure something out, that maybe I can pick up more commercial work, when my phone buzzes against the table. Evan’s contact photo fills the screen—the last family picture we took before everything fell apart, when we were still pretending smiles came naturally.

Need to discuss the kids’ expenses. Call me.

I flip the phone face down, but it immediately starts buzzing again.

“Is that Dad?” Tyson asks.

“Yes, but?—”

I’m cut off by the rapid-fire pattern of incoming texts.

Answer your phone.

I know you’re there.

Tyson and Blythe said last week you’re signing them up for more activities. We need to talk.

I mute the phone entirely, but the damage is done. Tyson’s watching me with that careful expression he gets when his father enters any conversation.

“Are you in trouble?” he asks quietly.

“No, sweetheart. Dad just wants to talk about money stuff.”

Which is true, in the way that saying the Titanic had a small ice problem is true.

My laptop chimes with an email notification. Evan’s name appears in my inbox, because of course he’s moved on to email when I wouldn’t answer his texts.

Are you insane? They need discipline, not expensive hobbies. Call me back or I’m calling my lawyer.

I delete it without reading the rest, but Tyson has moved closer and caught his father’s name on the screen.

“He’s mad about hockey?”

“He’s...” I pause, trying to find words that won’t make my ten-year-old feel responsible for adult problems. “He thinks hockey costs too much money.”

“It does cost too much money,” Tyson says with devastating honesty. “Maybe I don’t really need to play.”

And there it is. My child, who has finally found something he loves and is good at, ready to give it up because his mother can’t afford it and his father thinks it’s a waste.

Another email from Evan appears.

Kids don’t need skating lessons. They need structure. Real activities. Not fantasy sports for rich kids.

Fantasy sports. Like the thing that’s made Tyson smile more in the past three months than he did in the entire year after our divorce.

“You know what?” I say, reopening the registration website. “You’re going to play hockey.”

“But the money?—”

“Is my problem, not yours.” I enter my credit card information before I can change my mind. “Your job is to be a kid and learn hockey. My job is to figure out how to pay for it.”

“What about Dad?”

“Let me worry about Dad.”

The confirmation email arrives instantly, cheerful and official.

Welcome to Youth Hockey Development! Your first practice is Saturday at 8 AM.

Tyson’s smile could power the entire house. “Really? I can really do it?”

“You can really do it.”

He launches himself at me with the enthusiasm of someone who’s just been granted their biggest wish, and I hug him tight while mentally calculating how many extra commercial auditions I’ll need to make this work.

My phone, still face down on the table, starts buzzing again. Evan, probably escalating from text to email to whatever comes next in his playbook of control disguised as concern.

But I find myself not caring about what he has to say. My son is going to play hockey, my daughter is going to figure skate, and Evan can call his lawyer all he wants.

Saturday morning, the rink parking lot buzzes with a different kind of energy.

The youth hockey players look more serious in their gear, like they’re crossing some invisible line from “kids who skate” to “actual hockey players.” Expensive equipment bags and helmets gleam with the kind of perfection that suggests they’ve never seen actual ice time.

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” Tyson breathes, shouldering his gear bag—picked up at the used sporting goods store because buying new equipment would require selling a kidney.

“Believe it,” I tell him, though my own stomach churns with first-day anxiety mixed with buyer’s remorse. Eight hundred and twenty-five dollars a month. The number follows me like a debt collector.

Blythe skips ahead, chattering with friends she’s made during our months of learn-to-skate. She’s already mentally planning her first recital costume, complete with sequins and probably enough fabric to bankrupt me.

Inside, the lobby splits our family in two directions.

Blythe heads right toward figure skating fundamentals, where Coach Juliette is setting up cones for what looks like actual choreography instead of the basic strokes we’re used to.

Tyson and I turn left toward the hockey rink, where the sounds are sharper, more aggressive.

Sticks hitting pucks, skates carving ice, the occasional thud of a body hitting the boards.

“That’s my group,” Tyson says, pointing toward a cluster of kids in full gear. They look confident and I wonder briefly if we’re in over our heads.

“Ready?” I ask, though I’m not sure which of us I’m trying to reassure.

He nods, clutching his stick like a lifeline.

The youth hockey coach isn’t Dex—it’s Mike, the assistant from learn-to-skate, who’s been promoted to lead instructor. He’s organizing equipment and taking attendance with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a hundred times.

“Where’s Coach Dex?” one of the kids asks.

“Team practice,” Mike explains, not looking up from his clipboard. “Professional players have their own training schedule. But don’t worry, we’ve got plenty to work on today.”

I settle into the bleachers, laptop balanced on my knees, trying to look like I belong among the other hockey parents. They have the easy confidence of people who’ve been doing this for years, who understand the terminology being shouted from the ice and don’t flinch at the monthly fees.

“First time in youth hockey?” The woman beside me has perfectly blown-out hair and the kind of expensive athletic wear that suggests she’s never actually exercised in it.

“Yes. You?”

“Third year with Mason.” She nods toward a kid who’s executing crossovers like he was born on skates. “It’s addictive. The skill development happens so fast at this level.”

I nod like I understand what skill development looks like at this level, when honestly I’m just hoping Tyson doesn’t fall and embarrass himself.

“The cost is worth it,” she continues. “Mason’s already being scouted for travel teams.”

Travel teams. Which probably cost even more money I don’t have.

On the ice, Tyson joins the group for warm-up drills.

He looks small compared to some of the other kids, but his skating is smooth and controlled.

The learn-to-skate program has given him solid fundamentals, even if he lacks the aggressive confidence of kids who’ve been playing since they could walk.

The practice is intense in a way that makes our old learn-to-skate sessions look like casual recreational therapy.

These kids are learning actual hockey—passing drills, shooting practice, defensive positioning.

Tyson absorbs it all with the focused concentration he brings to everything, watching the other players, mimicking their movements, making mental notes I can practically see forming behind his eyes.

“Mind if I sit?”

I look up to find Dex Malone already lowering himself onto the bleacher beside me, not waiting for an answer. He’s in street clothes—team track pants and a t-shirt that shows off his arms.

“Looks like Tyson’s holding his own out there,” he says, nodding toward the ice where my son is working through a passing drill.

“He’s trying his best.”