Page 18 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)
I close the laptop again, but the damage is done.
The image of him on the ice—focused, powerful, completely in his element—is burned into my brain.
Along with the memory of how he looked at Tyson during that first lesson, the genuine interest when he listened to my kids’ elaborate theories about hockey.
The man in those videos isn’t the same as the one posing with models on yachts. Or maybe they’re both real, and that’s what makes this so dangerous.
I know I should delete my browser history and forget about all of this. Go back to being the practical single mom who has zero interest in complicated men with public dating lives.
But as I lie in the dark, trying to fall asleep, all I can think about is the way his hands moved on that hockey stick. And how much I want to know what that might feel like directed at me.
The next week passes in careful normalcy. Tyson has practice Tuesday and Thursday—regular coaching sessions with Mike, no sign of Dex anywhere. I drop him off, watch from the stands with my laptop, pick him up afterward. Simple. Safe. The way it should be.
No coffee invitations. No dinner suggestions. No breakfast propositions.
Nothing.
It’s exactly what I expected after looking at those photos, after seeing the kind of women he actually spends time with.
Whatever moment we had at the charity game—if we even had a moment—is clearly over.
He’s probably embarrassed about his performance, about how the whole thing played out in front of the other parents.
Or more likely, he’s forgotten about it entirely. Moved on to his next charity obligation or model girlfriend or whatever professional hockey players do when they’re not humiliating themselves against firefighters.
“Mom, you’re doing it again,” Blythe observes Friday night over dinner.
“Doing what?”
“That face. Like you’re thinking about something that makes you mad.”
“I’m not mad. Just tired.”
Tyson looks up from his chicken. “Is it because Coach Dex hasn’t been at practice this week?”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean?”
“He always comes by during our sessions. Even when he’s not coaching, he usually stops to watch or give tips.” Tyson shrugs. “Mike said he’s been busy with team stuff.”
“I’m sure that’s what it is,” I say carefully. “Professional players have lots of commitments.”
“Yeah, but he promised to help me with my slap shot,” Tyson continues. “Maybe he forgot.”
The disappointment in his voice makes my chest tight. I knew this would happen—Tyson getting attached to someone who was never going to stick around.
“I’m sure he didn’t forget, buddy. He’s just busy.”
But as I watch my son push food around his plate, clearly deflated by the absence of his hockey hero, I can’t help but feel like this is my fault somehow. Like my awkwardness, my obvious unsuitability for his world, has somehow affected his relationship with my son.
Saturday morning arrives gray and drizzly, perfect Seattle weather for wallowing in my own poor judgment. I drop Tyson off at the rink for practice, settle into my usual spot in the stands, and try to focus on the dental insurance script I need to finish by Monday.
“Excuse me, you’re Golda, right?”
I look up to find a woman I recognize but can’t quite place—dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, expensive athletic wear that somehow looks effortless.
“Yes?” I close my laptop, trying to figure out where I know her from.
“I’m Elliot. Brody Carter’s wife.” She gestures vaguely toward the ice. “I was at the charity game last week. That was you who sang the anthem, wasn’t it?”
“Oh. Yes, that was me.” My cheeks warm with the memory. “You’re married to one of the players?”
“Unfortunately,” she says with a grin that takes the sting out of it. “Can I sit? I was pretending to be very interested in youth hockey development over there, but I think I used the word ‘stick-handling’ wrong and now everyone’s looking at me funny.”
I gesture to the empty space beside me, immediately liking her honesty.
“That was incredible, by the way,” she continues, settling in with her coffee. “The anthem. I’ve heard a lot of people butcher that song at sporting events, but you actually made it sound like music instead of a patriotic obligation.”
“Thank you. I was terrified.”
“Really? You looked completely in control out there. Very professional.” Elliot watches the kids run drills for a moment. “So you’re obviously musically trained. Do you perform professionally? Not that I’m prying. I mean, I am prying, but in a friendly way. Brody says I have no filter.”
“Voice-over work, mostly. Commercials, some audiobooks. Nothing as exciting as singing at hockey games.”
“That’s so cool! Very specialized skill set.” She nods enthusiastically.
“Which one’s yours?” she asks, abruptly changing topics while looking intensely at the ice like she’s studying for a test.
“Tyson. Dark hair, number twelve.”
“Right! The one Brody mentioned. Says he’s really improved lately.” She pauses, then adds with obviously forced casualness, “Dex thinks so too, apparently.”
My pulse jumps slightly at his name, which she definitely notices because her eyes sharpen with interest.
“He’s been very encouraging,” I manage.
“Has he? That’s great. Really great.” Elliot nods like I’ve just revealed the secret to world peace.
“He’s so good with kids. Very patient. Especially lately.
Brody says he’s been showing up to practices even when he’s not scheduled.
Just to help out. Which is weird for him. Not weird bad! Just... different.”
She’s talking faster now, like she’s nervous.
“Different how?”
“Oh, you know. Dex usually has a pretty busy social calendar. Lots of...” She waves her hand vaguely. “Things. But lately he’s been turning stuff down to focus on coaching. Brody can’t figure out why.”
“Maybe he just enjoys working with the kids.”
“Maybe!” Elliot’s agreement is a little too loud. “Or maybe something happened that made him want to be around the rink more. Something inspiring. Or someone inspiring. Not that I’m suggesting anything specific happened. Just making conversation about... inspiration.”
I stare at her. “Are you okay?”
“Me? I’m great! Totally normal. Just making friendly hockey mom chat.” She takes a large gulp of coffee. “So anyway, that charity game. What a disaster, right? Did you stick around to watch?”
“We had to—Tyson was on the bench with the youth team.”
“Right, of course! So you saw the whole... performance.” She’s leaning forward now, clearly invested in my answer. “Did you notice anything weird? About the team? About how they played?”
“I don’t really know enough about hockey to judge.”
“Not the hockey part. Just... general weirdness. Like, did anyone seem distracted? Unfocused? Like maybe something had affected their concentration?”
“I really wouldn’t know?—“
“Because Brody said it was the worst game he’d ever played,” Elliot interrupts, her attempt at casual completely abandoned. “Like someone had scrambled their brains. Especially Dex. He couldn’t make a pass to save his life.”
I think about how he looked after I finished singing. The confusion in his expression.
“Maybe they were just having an off night?” I suggest.
“Maybe. Or maybe something specific happened right before the game that threw them off.” She’s watching my face intently now. “Something beautiful and unexpected that completely changed the energy in the building.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A really incredible performance of the national anthem, maybe?”
The way she says it makes it clear this isn’t a casual observation.
“You think my singing affected how they played hockey?” I ask, incredulous.
“I think,” Elliot says carefully, “that sometimes when something takes your breath away, it’s hard to get your focus back.”
We stare at each other for a moment. She’s clearly fishing for something, and I’m clearly not giving her what she wants, and we both know it.
“Anyway,” she says finally, standing as practice winds down, “this was fun. Very enlightening. I should probably go find Brody before he starts wondering why I’m interrogating the voice-over lady.”
“Were you interrogating me?”
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
“Probably not.”
“Then yes, but for good reasons.” She grins, and despite her obvious agenda, I find myself smiling back.
“It was really nice meeting you, Golda. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
As she walks away, I realize I genuinely liked her despite feeling like I just participated in the world’s least subtle intelligence gathering operation. There’s something refreshingly honest about her complete inability to be sneaky. Though I still have no idea what she was really after.