Page 14 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

DEX

I ’ve taken hits before. Had the wind knocked clean out of me. Caught an elbow to the face that left me seeing stars. But this? This feels like someone just rearranged my entire brain without warning.

“Malone!” Barrett’s voice cuts through whatever the hell just happened to my nervous system. “Game’s starting! Let’s go!”

Right. The game. The charity exhibition where I’m supposed to demolish some weekend warriors while looking impressive in front of the woman who just made my soul leave my body with her voice.

The woman who’s now sitting in the stands. Watching. With her son on our bench and nowhere to escape to even if she wanted to.

Fuck.

I push off from the blue line, trying to remember how to skate in a straight line. Golda’s voice is still echoing in my head—not the careful, polite tone she used when rejecting my dinner invitations, but that soaring, powerful sound that filled the entire arena like she owned the place.

The puck drops and I immediately forget where I am.

The firefighter across from me—some guy who probably spent his morning washing trucks and doing sit-ups—wins the face-off clean. I don’t even move. Just stand there like I’ve never seen a hockey puck before.

“What the fuck, Malone?” Varga skates past, chasing the play I should be on.

Good question. What the fuck is right.

The firefighters’ captain steals the puck from Rodriguez and heads up ice.

I’m supposed to backcheck. That’s literally my job.

Instead, I glide in the general direction of the play while my brain replays the moment Golda opened her mouth and reminded me she’s a completely different person than I thought.

The guy scores. Top shelf. Beautiful shot.

1-0. To the guys who probably learned hockey at the local rec center.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, watching them celebrate like they just won the Stanley Cup.

From the corner of my eye, I can see the youth hockey kids on our bench, including Tyson, watching with the wide-eyed attention of kids seeing their heroes play. Except their hero just let a firefighter deke him like he’s standing still.

I take the next face-off and lose it immediately. Not because the guy’s good—he’s not—but because I’m looking up at the stands where Golda is sitting with Blythe, probably wondering why the professional hockey player just forgot how to play hockey.

The puck goes behind our net. I’m supposed to retrieve it. Simple play I’ve made ten thousand times. Instead, I skate directly into the corner and somehow manage to pass the puck to their winger, who’s so surprised he almost misses it.

He doesn’t miss the shot though.

2-0.

Barrett’s voice carries across the ice: “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING OUT THERE?”

Excellent question, Coach. I’m having an existential crisis because a hockey mom just reminded me that women are actual people with talents and depth, not just obstacles to overcome on my way to getting laid.

But that seems like too complicated an answer for right now.

The firefighter who scored skates by and pats my shoulder. “Nice pass, buddy. Didn’t know we were on the same team.”

He’s grinning like this is the best day of his life. Which it probably is, considering he just scored twice on an NHL player who’s apparently forgotten how to hockey.

I take another shift and somehow get worse. Miss a check completely—not because the guy avoided it, but because I skate past him like he’s invisible. Fall down for no reason. Pass the puck directly to our goalie, who looks as confused as I feel.

“MALONE!” Barrett screams.

The whistle blows and I skate to the bench like I’m heading to my own execution. Which, considering the look on Barrett’s face, I might be.

“What,” Barrett says through gritted teeth, “the actual fuck is happening out there?”

“I’m just?—”

“You’re just what? Having a stroke? Experiencing some kind of amnesia? Because I’ve never seen you play this badly in ten years.”

From the stands, I can hear scattered applause for the firefighters. The crowd is starting to enjoy this David and Goliath story, except David is a guy who probably spends most of his shifts playing cards and Goliath is having a complete mental breakdown.

“Sub me out, Coach,” I say quietly.

“What?”

“I’m not... I need a few minutes.”

Barrett stares at me like I just suggested we forfeit the game. “You want me to bench you? In a charity exhibition? Against firefighters?”

“Just for a bit.”

“Against guys who work twenty-four hour shifts and play beer league on weekends?”

“I know, but?—”

“Malone, these guys’ idea of conditioning is carrying hoses up stairs. Their captain works at a station that hasn’t seen an actual fire in six months. Their biggest emergency this week was probably getting a cat out of a tree.”

Everything he’s saying makes this worse. I’m not losing to elite athletes. I’m losing to guys who lift weights between emergency calls and spend their down time making chili.

“I just need?—”

“You need to get your head out of your ass and play hockey.”

But I can’t. Because every time I look up, I see Golda in the stands, and I remember the way her voice sounded when she wasn’t being careful around me. When she was being completely, authentically herself.

And I realize I don’t know that person at all.

“Bench me, Coach,” I say again.

Barrett looks like he wants to strangle me. “Fine. But we’re having a conversation about this later.”

I sit down on the bench next to Tyson, who looks up at me with the wide-eyed concern of a kid watching his hero fall apart in real time.

“You okay, Coach Dex?” he asks quietly.

No, Tyson. Coach Dex is having a complete meltdown because your mom has a beautiful voice that matches her beautiful face and I’m an idiot who can’t handle basic human complexity.

“Just taking a breather, buddy,” I manage. “Sometimes you need to reset.”

He nods, despite the confusion in his eyes. Kids always know when adults are lying.

From the ice, the firefighters score again. 3-0.

The crowd erupts. For the guys who polish red trucks.

This is going to be a long game.

“Nice pass, superstar,” Rodriguez says as he drops onto the bench beside me, breathing hard. “To the other team.”

“Shut up.”

“No seriously, that was beautiful. Really threaded the needle there.” He grins, keeping his voice low enough that the kids can’t hear the full sarcasm. “Couldn’t have placed it better if you tried.”

Tyson and the other youth players are watching this exchange with the fascination of kids who sense adult drama but don’t understand it yet.

“Everything okay, Coach Dex?” one of them asks.

“Just fine, buddy,” I manage. “Sometimes players need to... strategize.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Varga slides over, voice dripping with fake concern. “Strategy?”

On the ice, the firefighters score again. 4-0.

“BEAUTIFUL,” Rodriguez announces to the bench. “Really showing them how it’s done out there, boys.”

“Coach,” Tyson tugs at my sleeve, “why are they winning? I thought you guys were really good.”

Out of the mouths of babes.

“They are good,” I say weakly. “Sometimes... things happen.”

“What kind of things?” another kid asks.

Brody skates over, supposedly to grab water, but really to join the roasting session. “Oh, you know. Sometimes players get... distracted.”

“Distracted by what?” Tyson asks with genuine curiosity.

The guys exchange looks. They want to destroy me, but they can’t exactly explain to a ten-year-old that their coach just had his brain melted by a woman’s voice.

“By... the crowd,” Varga says carefully. “Sometimes the crowd can be very... loud.”

“The crowd’s not that loud,” observes one of the kids.

“Some players have very sensitive hearing,” Rodriguez adds, fighting back a grin.

I glare at him. “Don’t you have a game to play?”

“Coach benched me too. Said I was laughing too hard.” He leans closer, lowering his voice. “Dude, you passed the puck to our goalie. Directly to him. He didn’t even have to move.”

“It was a mistake.”

“It was art. Pure comedy gold.”

The firefighters score again. 5-0.

“This is getting embarrassing,” one of the kids says.

“For who?” Brody asks innocently.

“The firefighters,” the kid says seriously. “I feel bad for them. It’s not fair.”

Rodriguez chokes trying not to laugh. “Yeah, really not fair at all.”

“Coach Barrett looks mad,” Tyson observes, and he’s not wrong. Barrett is pacing behind the bench like a caged animal.

“He’s just... passionate,” I say.

“Is he mad at you specifically?” another kid asks with the brutal honesty of children everywhere.

“Why would he be mad at Coach Dex?” Tyson asks, defending me with touching loyalty. “He’s the best player on the team.”

The silence from my teammates is deafening.

“Usually,” Varga says finally.

“What do you mean usually?” Tyson’s getting that worried look kids get when adults start acting weird.

“Nothing, buddy,” I say quickly. “Captain Varga just means everyone has off days.”

“Is this an off day?”

“Very off,” Rodriguez mutters under his breath.

The final buzzer sounds on the most humiliating loss of my professional career.

8-2. To firefighters.

The locker room door closes and Barrett’s voice cuts through the stunned silence.

“Well. That was a fucking disaster.”

Before anyone can respond, the chirping starts.

“Eight goals!” Rodriguez throws his helmet. “To guys who drive ambulances and help old ladies with smoke detectors!”

“Their goalie works weekends at Home Depot,” Anderson adds.

“Captain’s biggest emergency this month was a stuck garage door,” Roman shakes his head.

Barrett’s stare could melt steel. “Malone. Explanations.”

“It wasn’t that bad?—”

“Wasn’t that BAD?” Luca explodes. “Remember last month? ‘Baby, watch me work. I’ll put on a show just for you.’”

“That model at the charity gala,” Brody grins. “‘Trust me, I always deliver in clutch moments.’”

“‘I never disappoint,’” Anderson mimics in a high voice. “‘I’m a professional.’”

“Real professional today,” Rodriguez laughs. “‘I always rise to the occasion.’”