Page 12 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

“Kid’s got good instincts. Sees the ice well.” Dex settles back against the bleacher behind us like he’s planning to stay awhile. “So what do you think? Worth the investment?”

“We’ll see.”

“Very committed answer.” He grins.

I close my laptop since it’s clear he’s not going anywhere. “Is there something you needed?”

“Just checking in. Making sure the transition from learn-to-skate to youth hockey isn’t too overwhelming.”

“It’s fine.”

“Good. Good.” He drums his fingers against his knee, and I get the distinct impression he’s working up to something. “So, you probably saw about the exhibition game next week.”

“I did.”

“Should be fun. We’re playing the fire department for charity.” He pauses, and I can practically feel him waiting for me to be impressed. “Local news will probably cover it.”

“That’s nice.”

“Nice?” He laughs. “Come on, Golda. Professional hockey players versus weekend warriors? It’s going to be a show.”

“I’m sure it will be very entertaining.”

“You’re really not giving me much to work with here.”

“Work with for what?”

“Conversation. Banter. The normal back-and-forth people do when they’re getting to know each other.”

I study his face, trying to determine what game we’re playing. “Are we getting to know each other?”

“I’d like to. You seem interesting.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on the fact that you’re the only person I’ve met in months who doesn’t seem impressed by anything I say.”

“Maybe I’m just not easily impressed.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you think professional athletes are all ego and no substance.”

“Are you?”

He considers this seriously. “Some days. But I’m working on it.”

The honest answer surprises me. “Why?”

“Needed a change.” He shrugs. “It’s refreshing to meet someone who clearly thinks I’m full of shit.”

Despite myself, I almost smile. “I don’t think you’re full of shit.”

“No?”

“I think you’re used to getting what you want.”

“And what do I want, Golda?”

There’s something in his tone that makes me glance at him sideways, but his attention is focused on the ice and I can’t come up with a response that won’t sound breathless or boring.

“So,” he says after another moment. “I have a confession.”

“Oh good. I love confessions from men I barely know.”

“I heard your commercial work. The team hired you for the new campaign.”

That explains the sudden interest. “Congratulations. You can connect voices to faces.”

“You sound different in the booth than you do in person.”

“Most people do. That’s kind of the point of voice acting.”

He laughs, a genuine sound that’s more pleasant than it has any right to be. “See? There it is.”

“There’s what?”

“That sharp wit you keep hidden under all the hockey mom politeness.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I don’t.

“I have another confession,” he continues.

“We’re really going for broke here, aren’t we?”

“I’d like to take you to dinner.”

The directness catches me off guard. Most men dance around their intentions, they don’t just... say it.

“That’s not a confession, that’s a proposition.”

“Fine. I’d like to take you to dinner, and I think you might actually enjoy it if you stopped calculating escape routes long enough to consider it.”

I laugh despite myself—the real one that slips out when someone surprises me.

“There it is,” he says, looking pleased with himself.

“What?”

“Your laugh. You should use it more often.”

“I laugh plenty.”

“You make polite conversation. There’s a difference.” He stretches his legs out in front of him and I turn away so he won’t catch me staring. “So. Dinner. What do you say?”

“Can you cook anything that doesn’t come from a box?”

“I make excellent reservations,” he replies with a grin. “That’s what restaurants are for.”

I have to say no. My life is complicated enough without adding a professional athlete with a public dating history and an ego the size of the Space Needle.

“I don’t date,” I say finally.

“Ever? Or just not right now?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Fair enough. What about coffee then? Very low stakes. Public place. You can leave if I turn out to be as boring as you suspect.”

“I don’t think you’re boring.”

“No? What do you think I am?”

I look at him—really look. There’s something almost boyish in his expression, like he genuinely wants to know what I think of him. It’s disarming in a way his confidence isn’t.

“I think you’re someone who’s used to being the most interesting person in the room,” I say finally.

“Ouch.”

“It wasn’t an insult.”

“Wasn’t exactly a compliment either.”

“It was an observation.”

He’s quiet for a moment, processing this. “So coffee’s out?”

“Coffee’s out.”

“Breakfast? Very innocent. Pancakes are basically a vegetable.”

This pulls another real laugh from me, which seems to please him enormously.

“Two for two,” he says. “I was starting to think you didn’t have a sense of humor.”

“I have a sense of humor. I’m just selective about when I use it.”

“And I made the cut?”

“Pancakes as vegetables made the cut.”

Down on the ice, Mike is gathering the team for what looks like an announcement. Dex notices too and starts to stand.

“Duty calls,” he says. “But Golda? The offer stands. Anytime you want to test whether I’m as full of myself as you think.”

“I never said you were full of yourself.”

“You didn’t have to.” He grins. “It was implied.”

He heads down toward the ice, and I watch him go with the unsettling realization that I actually enjoyed that conversation more than I should have.

Mike blows his whistle and gathers the team at center ice. “Great work today, everyone. Before you go, Coach Malone has something to tell you.”

Dex steps onto the ice, and immediately every kid goes completely still. Even from the stands, I can see their excitement at having an actual NHL player addressing them directly.

“Next Saturday,” Dex announces, “we’re hosting a special exhibition game. Seattle Puckaneers versus Seattle Fire Department. Charity fundraiser for the children’s hospital.”

The kids start chattering excitedly, but he holds up a hand for quiet.

“Best part? You guys get to watch from the player bench. Right on the ice with the team.”

The cheer that erupts could probably be heard three rinks over. Even Tyson, my reserved and careful son, pumps his fist in the air.

“Will you score lots of goals?” one of the kids asks.

“I’ll do my best,” Dex grins. “But those firefighters think they’re pretty tough.”

“They’re not tougher than you!” another kid shouts, which makes Dex laugh.

“We’ll find out next Saturday. Now get off my ice before I make you run suicides.”

The kids scramble toward the boards, chattering about the upcoming game. Tyson appears at the glass, face flushed with excitement.

“Did you hear, Mom? We get to sit with the real team!”

“I heard. That’s very exciting.”

“Do you think Coach Dex will remember to look for me in the stands?”

The question makes me pause. My son, who spent years being overlooked by his own father, hoping a professional hockey player will notice him.

“I think Coach Dex notices all his players,” I say carefully.

As we gather our things and head toward the exit, I catch sight of Dex through the glass doors. He’s already back with his teammates, joking around during their own practice, completely in his element.

That’s who he really is, I remind myself. Not the guy making casual conversation in the bleachers, but a professional athlete with a life I can’t even imagine.

The reminder should be comforting.

It’s not.

The following Saturday, the rink has transformed into something I don’t recognize. News vans line the parking lot, local TV crews test their equipment near the entrance, and there’s an actual red carpet leading to the main doors. A red carpet. At a hockey rink.

“This is so much cooler than I thought it would be!” Tyson is almost awestruck with excitement as we make our way through the crowd. His youth hockey teammates are clustered near the player entrance, all wearing matching team shirts and looking like they can’t believe their luck.

“Stay with your group,” I tell him, though he’s already gravitating toward the other kids. “And remember?—”

“Don’t touch anything, listen to the coaches, and have fun,” he recites with the patience of someone who’s heard these instructions three times already. “I know, Mom.”

The lobby buzzes with an energy I wasn’t prepared for. This isn’t just a casual charity game—it’s an event. The mayor is here, shaking hands and posing for photos. Local business leaders mingle with firefighters in dress uniforms. A silent auction table groans under donated prizes.

“I had no idea it would be this big,” I murmur, suddenly feeling underdressed in my jeans and sweater.

“Me neither,” Blythe agrees, wide-eyed. “Look, there’s a guy with a really big camera!”

The youth hockey kids are escorted toward the player bench, Tyson disappearing into the group with one last excited wave. I find seats in the stands with a good view of the bench, settling in to watch what promises to be either very entertaining or a complete massacre.

“Golda! Thank god!”

I turn to find Kyla, the teams PR director, rushing toward me, clipboard clutched to her chest and panic written across her face. Her usually perfect hair is slightly disheveled, and she’s moving with the frantic energy of someone whose carefully planned event is falling apart.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“No. Everything is very much not okay.” She drops into the seat beside me, breathing hard.

“Our anthem singer just called in sick. Food poisoning. And the backup singer is stuck in traffic from an accident on I-5, and the news crews are here, and the mayor specifically requested live anthem, not recorded, and?—”

She pauses to take a breath, looking at me with something approaching desperation.

“You don’t happen to sing, do you? I mean, I know you do voice work, but actual singing?”

“Not really…”