Page 20 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

But considering my current strategy involves cold showers and romance novels, maybe dangerous is exactly what I need.

Tuesday night practice feels different. Maybe because I spent Sunday evening getting roasted by my best friend and his wife about my pathetic audiobook habit. Maybe because Elliot’s reconnaissance report is playing on repeat in my head: Her pulse jumped every time I mentioned your name.

Or maybe because I listened to “The Duke’s Desire” again last night and had to take another cold shower when Golda’s voice described the hero’s “skilled hands mapping the heroine’s trembling form.”

Christ. I need help.

The youth team is running passing drills, and I’m trying to focus on actual coaching instead of the fact that Golda is sitting in her usual spot in the stands, laptop balanced on her knees, completely unaware that her voice has been the soundtrack to my insomnia for two weeks.

“Coach Dex!” Tyson skates over during a water break. “Can you show me that wrist shot technique again?”

“Absolutely, buddy.” I demonstrate the motion, acutely aware that his mom is probably watching. “Remember, it’s all in the snap. Quick release.”

“Like this?” He tries it, sending the puck wide of the net.

“Close. Try keeping your bottom hand looser.” I adjust his grip, and in my peripheral vision, I see Golda look up from her laptop. “There you go. Much better.”

Tyson beams and skates back to the drill. I should follow him, keep coaching, act normal. Instead, I find myself skating toward the boards where Golda sits.

“Hey,” I say, stopping at the glass.

She looks up, surprised. “Oh. Hi.”

“How’s he doing? Tyson, I mean. At home. With the hockey stuff.”

“Good. He practices in the driveway constantly. I think our neighbors are getting tired of hearing pucks hit the garage door.”

I laugh, maybe a little too loudly. “That’s good. Dedication.”

“Definitely dedicated.” She closes her laptop slightly. “He talks about hockey constantly. And you. You’ve made quite an impression.”

The comment makes something warm spread in my chest, followed immediately by the memory of last night’s audiobook session and her voice saying, “He traced his fingers along her collarbone, memorizing the silk of her skin.”

Fuck. Focus.

“He’s a great kid,” I manage. “Really coachable. You should be proud.”

“I am.” There’s something soft in her expression that makes my chest tight. “Thank you for being so patient with him. It means a lot.”

“Of course. That’s... that’s what coaches do.”

She nods, and we fall into awkward silence. This is where I should skate away, get back to practice. Instead, I hear myself asking, “So, you mentioned voice-over work. That day at the coffee shop.”

“Voice-over work?” She tilts her head slightly.

“Yeah, you said you do... voices. For things.” Great. Already making this weird. “Commercials and... other things.”

“Right.” There’s something almost amused in her expression. “I do voice-over work.”

“That’s...” I scramble for something intelligent to say, remembering Elliot’s lecture about actually getting to know her. “That must be interesting. The... process.”

“The process?”

“Of doing voices. For different... projects.” Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? “Like, do you have to practice? The voices?”

“Practice?”

“I mean, not practice like hockey practice. Different kind of practice. Voice practice.” I’m definitely sweating inside my gear now. “For the... voice things.”

She’s definitely trying not to smile now. “The voice things.”

“Your work. I meant your work.” I grip my stick tighter. “Do you enjoy it? The work part?”

“Most of the time. It pays the bills.”

“Right. Bills. That’s... practical.” This is going terribly. Elliot made it sound so easy—just ask about her life, her work. She didn’t mention it would require actual conversation skills. “Do you work from home? For the voice work?”

“I have a home studio, yes.”

“A studio. That’s professional.” I nod like this is fascinating information instead of me desperately trying to think of follow-up questions. “With equipment and... studio things.”

“Studio things,” she repeats, and now she’s definitely fighting back laughter.

“Microphones,” I clarify, as if this helps. “And probably... other equipment. For recording the voices.”

“Yes, there are microphones involved.”

Another silence stretches between us, and I realize I’m just standing here like an idiot while practice continues behind me. Elliot’s advice echoes in my head: Show interest in her life, her work. Ask follow-up questions. Have actual conversations.

This is not what she meant.

“That’s really... cool,” I say finally, because apparently my vocabulary has been reduced to words a kindergartner would use. “The voice work thing. Very... skilled.”

“Thank you?”

“I should probably...” I gesture vaguely toward the ice where kids are running drills without their coach. “Hockey. Coaching. The thing I’m supposed to be doing.”

“Right. The thing you’re actually good at,” she says, and there’s genuine warmth in her voice that makes my chest tight.

“Debatable,” I mutter, thinking about how spectacularly I’m failing at simple human conversation.

As I skate away to deal with whatever chaos the kids have created in my absence, I catch her reopening her laptop, but not before I see what’s definitely a smile tugging at her lips.

I am so fucking bad at this.

Practice ends and I’m helping kids with gear when I notice Golda approaching the bench. Tyson’s struggling with his skate laces, and she kneels down to help him, her movements efficient and practiced.

“Need help?” I ask, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment.

“I’ve got it,” she says, but there’s no edge to it. “These laces are always impossible when they’re wet.”

“Tell me about it. I swear they design them to be as complicated as possible.”

She laughs—actually laughs—and the sound hits me like a physical blow. It’s the same laugh I heard in the coffee shop months ago, genuine and unguarded.

“There,” she says, finishing with Tyson’s skates. “All set, buddy.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Tyson gathers his gear. “Coach Dex, are you coming to practice Thursday?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I tell him, then look at Golda. “Unless you have any objections to my coaching methods.”

“None so far,” she says, shouldering Tyson’s gear bag. “He’s definitely improving.”

“Good to hear.” I pause, remembering Elliot’s advice about actually getting to know her. “How about you? How are you finding the hockey parent experience?”

“Expensive,” she says immediately, then looks embarrassed. “Sorry, that’s probably not what you meant.”

“No, that’s honest. I appreciate honest.” I lean against the boards. “It is expensive. Especially when you’re just starting out.”

“Tyson loves it though. That makes it worth it.”

“What about you? Do you enjoy watching?”

She considers this. “I’m still learning the rules. But seeing him confident on the ice... that’s pretty amazing.”

“He’s gained a lot of confidence since he started. You must be doing something right.”

“Just trying to keep up,” she says with a self-deprecating smile. “Single parenting doesn’t come with a manual.”

The admission feels significant somehow, like she’s letting me see something real.

“For what it’s worth,” I say carefully, “you seem to be doing a great job. Both kids are... they’re good kids. Happy kids.”

“Thank you.” Her voice is softer now. “That means more than you know.”

There’s a moment where we’re just looking at each other, and I feel like we’re on the verge of something. A real conversation, maybe. The kind Elliot said I should be having.

Then Tyson reappears at her elbow. “Mom, I’m starving. Can we get food?”

“Of course.” She turns back to me. “Have a good evening, Coach.”

“You too.”

I watch them walk toward the exit, Tyson chattering about practice while Golda listens with patient attention. When they reach the door, she glances back once, catches me watching, and gives a small wave.

It’s nothing. A polite goodbye between a coach and a parent.

So why does it feel like progress?

Later that night, I’m lying in bed with my laptop, staring at the audiobook library I’ve accumulated. Seventeen titles, all narrated by Golda Adler. All purchased in a moment of desperation after getting destroyed by firefighters.

I click on “A Lady’s Secret”—one I haven’t listened to yet—and her voice fills my bedroom.

“Lady Margaret had always prided herself on her composure, but as the mysterious stranger approached across the ballroom, she found her carefully constructed walls beginning to crumble...”

Fuck. Did she know? When she asked about audiobooks, there was something in her tone. Like she was testing me. Like maybe she figured out that I’m the idiot buying romance novels just to hear her voice.

“Romance is popular right now,” she’d said. And then that look, like she was amused by something.

Christ, what if she knows? What if she’s sitting at home right now thinking about the pathetic professional athlete who asked her about “historical fiction” like some kind of literary scholar?

I should probably delete these. All of them. Move on with my life like a normal person.

Instead, I close my eyes and let her voice wash over me, telling me about ballrooms and mysterious strangers and women whose walls are crumbling.

My phone buzzes. Text from Elliot.

Brody says you talked to her after practice. How’d that go?

Disaster. Think she might know about the audiobooks.

What?? How?

Asked too many questions about voice work. Sounded suspicious when she answered.

You’re being paranoid. She probably just thinks you’re interested in her career.

Pretty sure I sounded like a creep.

You always sound like a creep. That’s your baseline.

Thanks for the pep talk.

Did you learn anything about her as a person?

I think about it. Single parenting. Expensive equipment. Wanting Tyson to be confident.

She’s doing it alone. The whole parenting thing. Says it’s hard.

See? Progress. You learned something real.

I guess.

Trust me. Keep having actual conversations. Stop overthinking.

Easy for her to say. She’s not the one lying here listening to romance novels and wondering if she’s blown her cover.

On my laptop, Lady Margaret is discovering that the mysterious stranger has “eyes like midnight storms” and a “touch that promised both salvation and ruin.”

I reach for the volume button to turn it down, but Golda’s voice stops me.

“The Duke had become obsessed, though he would never admit it aloud. Each night, he found himself seeking out her letters, her poetry, anything that contained her words. He told himself it was merely curiosity, but deep in his heart, he knew the truth—he was collecting pieces of her voice like a man possessed.”

My hand freezes halfway to the laptop.

“His friends mocked him for his sudden interest in literature. ‘Since when do you read poetry, Ashworth?’ they would ask. But he could hardly explain that he cared nothing for the verses themselves. It was her voice that mattered, the way she breathed life into each word, made even the simplest phrases sound like secrets meant only for him.”

Oh no.

“He had become pathetic, really. A grown man reduced to desperate measures, purchasing every book she had ever touched simply to imagine her reading them aloud. His study was filled with volumes he would never open, bought for no other reason than knowing her hands had once turned their pages.”

Oh no no no.

“‘You’ve gone mad,’ his valet observed one evening, watching the Duke arrange yet another shipment of books. ‘Completely, utterly mad over a woman who doesn’t even know you exist.’”

I slam the laptop shut so hard I probably broke something.

I am the Duke.

I am the pathetic, obsessed Duke who buys books just to hear a woman’s voice. The Duke whose friends think he’s lost his mind. The Duke who’s “completely, utterly mad over a woman who doesn’t even know he exists.”

Golda Adler just narrated my entire life back to me.

I grab my phone and scroll through my audiobook library. Seventeen purchases. Seventeen romance novels bought for the sole purpose of hearing one woman’s voice. Just like the fictional Duke with his study full of unread poetry books.

The worst part? The absolute worst part?

The Duke probably gets the girl in the end.