Page 22 of Cold Shoulder, Hot Take (Seattle Puckaneers #2)

Another pause. Elliot is practically vibrating with suppressed glee.

“People,” Dex says finally. “Stories about people.”

“That’s very specific,” I observe dryly.

“Historical people,” he clarifies, then immediately looks like he regrets it. “And... contemporary people. All kinds of people, really.”

Brody finally takes mercy on him. “Maybe we should order some food. I’m starving.”

“Great idea,” Dex says with obvious relief.

But Elliot isn’t done. “Oh, before we order—Golda, what’s your favorite type of story to narrate? I’m sure Dex would love to hear about your... process.”

The way she says ‘process’ makes it sound vaguely scandalous.

“My process is pretty standard,” I say slowly, still trying to figure out why this feels like I’m being set up for something. “Read the script, understand the characters, bring them to life.”

“And the romantic scenes?” Elliot presses. “Those must require a special... technique.”

Dex chokes on his water.

“Are you okay?” I ask him.

“Fine,” he gasps. “Just... went down wrong.”

“He’s been having trouble with liquids lately,” Elliot observes. “Very strange.”

I’m definitely being punked. I just can’t figure out how or why.

“Anyway,” Brody says firmly, “let’s talk about something else. Like hockey. Safe topic.”

“Perfect,” Dex croaks out. “Hockey is great. Love hockey.”

“You should bring the kids to one of the home games,” Brody continues. “Maybe against Vancouver. Good matchup, and there’s a family section if you want to avoid the hardcore fans.”

“Oh, I don’t know?—”

“And I can show you where everything is,” Elliot offers, apparently back to being helpful instead of chaotic. “The family section is actually pretty relaxed. Good view, and it’s very kid-friendly.”

“What time do they start?” I hear myself ask, thinking about Tyson’s face when he talks about professional games.

“Three o’clock start,” Dex says, and his smile is different now—less practiced, more genuine. “But if you want, we could meet beforehand. Show the kids around the locker room area, let them see behind the scenes.”

“They’d love that,” I admit.

“Then it’s settled,” Elliot declares. “We’ll plan on the next Vancouver game.”

The conversation flows easily after that. Dex tells me about Tyson’s progress with genuine pride, and I find myself relaxing despite the earlier weirdness. Whatever that was about, it seems to be over.

My phone chimes with a school pickup reminder, and I realize how long we’ve been here.

“I have to go,” I say, gathering my things. “Kids expect me to actually show up for them.”

“The nerve,” Brody grins, already signaling for the check.

“Let me walk you out,” Dex offers, standing as I gather my bag. “It’s pouring.”

He’s right—Seattle’s perpetual drizzle has escalated to a proper downpour. Before I can protest, he’s somehow procured an umbrella from the hostess station.

We walk to the parking garage in comfortable silence, the umbrella creating a small bubble of dryness between us. At my car, I turn to thank him and find him closer than I expected, close enough to see the genuine warmth in his eyes.

“Golda,” he says, and my name sounds different in his voice than it did weeks ago. “I know I’ve asked before, but... would you like to have coffee sometime? Just the two of us?”

The question hangs between us. He’s not asking as the charming hockey player working his way through a challenge. He’s asking as someone who’s actually interested in getting to know me.

“Coffee,” I repeat, testing the word.

“Coffee. Or tea. Or hot chocolate. Whatever you drink when you’re not at hockey rinks or recording studios.”

I think about his world—the yacht photos, the magazine covers, the comments from women who see him as a fantasy. But I also think about the way he talked about Tyson today, the genuine respect in his voice, the fact that he remembered our son wanted to master backward crossovers.

“Okay,” I say, and the word surprises us both.

“Okay?”

“Yes. Coffee sounds nice.”

His smile could power the entire city. “When?”

“I’ll text you,” I say, then realize he doesn’t have my number.

“Here.” He hands me his phone, already open to a new contact screen.

I enter my information, thumb hovering over the keyboard as I decide what to put for my name. Finally, I just type “Golda” and hand it back.

He stares at the screen for a moment, then looks up with an expression I can’t quite read. “You know,” he says, voice dropping to something more intimate, “sometimes the simplest moments hold the most promise.”

I blink at him, then let out a surprised laugh. “What?”

His face goes red instantly. “Never mind. That was—that was dumb. I’ll text you.”

He practically shoves the phone back at me and steps away, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to erase whatever just happened.

“Drive safe,” he says, voice back to normal but his cheeks still flushed.

I get in my car, still smiling at his embarrassment, but as I pull out of the parking garage, his words echo in my head.

Sometimes the simplest moments hold the most promise .

That sounded exactly like a line from a romance novel—the kind of perfectly crafted dialogue that real people don’t actually say.

But why would Dex Malone be quoting romance novels?