Page 15 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

“Yeah, you rose alright,” Roman adds. “Rose right to the fucking bench.”

Barrett crosses his arms. “You’ve been telling us for months about your moves, your game?—”

“‘She just needs to see what she’s missing,’” Zach quotes.

“‘I’ll wear her down with charm,’” Luca adds.

“‘Watch me turn on the Malone magic,’” Brody continues.

“And then she sings one song and you forget how to skate?” Barrett’s voice is incredulous.

“Look—”

“Remember the Instagram model from last week?” Rodriguez interrupts. “‘Sweetheart, you’re about to see why they pay me millions.’”

“How’d that work out for you today?” Anderson grins.

“‘I’ll score one for you tonight,’” Roman mimics. “‘Front row seats to greatness.’”

“You scored alright,” Luca laughs. “Scored them eight fucking goals.”

“Their best player works at a medical supply warehouse,” Zach adds. “Drives a forklift!”

“And he made you look like a bantam league scrub,” Brody piles on.

“Months of ‘watch me work’ and ‘I never miss,’” Anderson lists off.

“You missed everything today,” Roman adds. “Including basic coordination.”

The guys are warming up now, getting into that rhythm where they feed off each other’s energy.

“‘Ladies love a winner,’” Rodriguez quotes. “‘And I always win.’”

“Real winner today,” Luca smirks.

“‘I’ll show her what a real man looks like,’” Anderson continues.

“Yeah, a real man having a breakdown over the national anthem,” Zach adds.

“‘I’ve got moves that’ll blow her mind,’” Brody joins in.

“Only thing that got blown was our lead,” Roman laughs.

I take it, because honestly, they’re not wrong. Every cocky line I’ve ever dropped is coming back to haunt me, and hearing them all repeated while fresh off getting destroyed by weekend warriors makes me sound like exactly the asshole I probably am.

“‘She’ll be begging for more,’” Rodriguez continues the hit parade.

“‘I’ll rock her world,’” Anderson adds.

“‘Trust me, I know how to handle women,’” Luca grins.

“Really handled this one,” Roman observes.

“Got her so hot and bothered she... sang a song,” Brody deadpans.

The room erupts in laughter.

“Maybe your game’s off,” Zach suggests. “Lost your touch.”

“‘I’m irresistible,’” Anderson quotes. “‘Women can’t say no to me.’”

“This one’s been saying no for months,” Roman points out.

“Maybe you need new material,” Rodriguez suggests. “Your old lines clearly aren’t working if you’re getting destroyed by?—”

“I bet she’s tight though,” Rodriguez continues with a grin. “You know how those soccer moms are. All wound up, looking for a real man to show them what they’ve been missing.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP.”

The words explode out of me before I can stop them. The room goes dead silent.

Rodriguez blinks. “Dude, what?—”

“Just shut up about her, okay?” My voice is rougher than I intended. “Talk shit about me all you want, but leave her out of it.”

“Since when do you care?” Roman asks, genuinely confused.

“Since always.”

“Bullshit,” Anderson says. “Two months ago you were rating that brunette’s performance in detail.”

“That was different.”

“How?” Brody asks.

I don’t have an answer that doesn’t make me sound insane.

“Look,” Barrett says carefully, “nobody’s trying to?—”

“She’s not some conquest,” I interrupt. “She’s not a MILF or a soccer mom or whatever fucking category you want to put her in. She’s just... she’s better than that. Better than this. Better than me.”

The silence stretches uncomfortably.

“Okay,” Luca says slowly. “Who are you and what did you do with Merry-Go-Round Malone?”

“Seriously,” Rodriguez adds, looking genuinely confused. “You’ve never given a shit about what we said about your women before.”

“She’s not my woman. That’s the point.” I slump onto the bench. “She won’t even have coffee with me.”

“And now you know why,” Roman observes.

“Thanks for that.”

The room stays quiet for a moment. Finally, Barrett claps his hands.

“Alright. We lost to firefighters. It’s embarrassing, but it’s over. Everyone shower, go home, pretend this never happened.”

As the guys start moving, Brody slides over to me.

“You know,” he says quietly, “Elliot might have some perspective on this whole situation.”

“Your wife doesn’t know me well enough to offer relationship advice.”

“She knows women. And she’s got opinions about guys who chase women they can’t figure out.” He pulls off his jersey. “Come over tonight. Bring wine. Let her tell you what you’re doing wrong.”

“I already know what I’m doing wrong.”

“Do you though?” Brody studies my face. “Because from where I’m sitting, you just realized you don’t know anything about women at all.”

He’s not wrong. Everything I thought I understood about attraction and pursuit and getting what I want just got destroyed by a hockey mom who sang the national anthem.

“Fine,” I say. “But I don’t see what good this will actually do.”

He ignores me before adding, “And bring decent wine this time if you actually want Elliot’s help.”

Brody’s house smells like the cookies Elliot stress-bakes when she’s pissed off. She answers the door with a wine glass already in hand, wearing leggings and an oversized Puckaneers hoodie.

“You look like shit,” she says, examining the bottle of wine I hand over. “This better be the good stuff, because I just watched you get humiliated on live television.”

“It’s a 2018 Caymus.”

“Smart. You’ll need it.” She turns and walks away, leaving me to follow. “Living room. Brody’s ordering food because apparently we’re having an intervention with a professional athlete who forgot how to skate.”

Their living room is all exposed brick and comfortable furniture that actually looks lived-in, unlike my sterile condo. Elliot drops into her chair like a queen holding court.

“So,” she says, taking a sip of wine, “you had a complete mental breakdown because a woman sang a song.”

“It’s more complicated than?—”

“Is it? It seems like you discovered that the hockey mom you’ve been chasing has actual talent, and it broke your tiny brain.”

“Elliot,” Brody warns as he appears with takeout bags. “Maybe go easy on him.”

“Go easy?” Elliot’s eyebrows shoot up. “Your team just lost to firefighters because this idiot can’t handle a woman being good at something. I’m not going easy on anyone.”

“It wasn’t just the singing,” I try to explain.

“Oh, what was it then? Did you realize she’s a real person with thoughts and feelings? Revolutionary concept.”

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Then again. And again.

“Jesus Christ,” Elliot mutters. “How many apps do you have on that thing?”

“It’s not that many.”

Buzz. Buzz.

“Hand it over.”

“What? No.”

“Give me your phone, Dex.” She holds out her hand like she’s talking to a toddler.

“Why?”

“Because you’re clearly too dense to see the problem. Phone. Now.”

Against my better judgment, I hand it over. Elliot starts scrolling, and her expression shifts from annoyed to disgusted.

“Oh my god. Listen to this masterpiece: ‘Daddy Dex, I saw you get benched today but you’re still my champion. Want me to make you feel like a winner again?’”

Brody chokes on his beer.

“It gets better,” Elliot continues with gleeful malice. “‘Your loss was so hot. I love a man who’s vulnerable. Let me come over and console you with my mouth.’”

“Can you please?—”

“Oh, I’m just getting started. This one’s special: ‘I know you’re probably feeling down after today, but my roommate and I think you need cheering up. We’re both very flexible and very discrete.’”

“They can’t even spell ‘discreet,’” Brody observes.

“Education clearly wasn’t the priority,” Elliot agrees, still scrolling. “Oh, here’s a gem: ‘Daddy, I just turned legal last month and you’re on my bucket list. My mom thinks I’m at college but I’m actually in a hotel room downtown waiting for you.’”

“She’s eighteen?” Brody sounds horrified.

“If she’s telling the truth, which is doubtful.” Elliot tosses my phone back at me like it’s contaminated. “This is what you’re used to. This cesspool of desperate women who see you as a walking fantasy.”

“I don’t respond to those messages?—”

“But you keep the apps. You read them. You let this garbage flood your phone every day.” She leans forward. “And then you wonder why a woman with actual standards won’t give you the time of day?”

“That’s not fair?—”

“Fair?” Elliot laughs, sharp and humorless. “You want to talk about fair? Let me tell you what’s not fair. That poor woman just sang beautifully at a charity event, and now she has to wonder if she somehow caused a professional athlete to have a public meltdown.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“Of course you didn’t. You’re not that smart.” Elliot drains her wine glass. “You’ve been so used to women throwing themselves at you that meeting someone who requires actual effort broke your brain.”

“Maybe we should—” Brody starts.

“No.” Elliot cuts him off. “The problem is that women have been too nice to him his entire life. They’ve coddled him, made excuses for him, told him he’s wonderful just the way he is. And look how that turned out.”

She gestures at me like I’m evidence of some failed experiment.

“If he wants someone with actual substance, he’s going to have to put in actual work. Not just smile pretty and expect her to fall over herself to impress him.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” I ask.

“Learn how to be a normal human being?” Elliot suggests with fake sweetness. “Figure out how to have a conversation that isn’t about you? Develop some actual personality beyond ‘rich hockey player with abs’?”

“Elliot,” Brody tries again. “Come on.”

“Come on what? He asked for help. I’m helping.” She refills her wine glass. “The first step is admitting that everything he thinks he knows about women is wrong.”

“Everything?”

“Pretty much. You’ve been operating in a world where your money and fame do all the talking. This woman doesn’t care about any of that.”

“Then what does she care about?”